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SPECIAL FEATURE. 'Tres Mil'
festival falls on deaf ears.
Chronicle of a neophyte in 'Cut the Paranoia'
Candela Olivo. Seville, 15th November 2001
Photos: Elisa Arroyo y Miguel Ángel León (c) copyright Maestranza
Films
Translation: Gary Cook
The neophyte opted for disobedience. The theme of the concert cut no ice
for him. So paranoid and taking refuge behind the defensive wall of his companions,
he was bundled into a taxi (own car? No chance) to be dropped off around nine
at night outside the gates of 'Sevilla Tres Mil' football ground, ready to transmute
into a curious onlooker and extra in the filming of the festival chosen for one
of the scenes of 'Polígono Sur', Dominique Abel's film dedicated to Flamenco
life in this notorious Seville housing project.
The first observation the neophyte made is that there were some more paranoid
than him: the Japanese tourists had given the festival a wide berth. I mean, a
native audience. Once the gates were opened and the crowd scattered across the
balding turf, the neophyte took stock of the situation, and before even noticing
the stage caught a glimpse of the red veneer bar at the foot of the stands to
the left. Cold as hell. And something had to be done about that, to restore the
smile wiped off the neophyte's face by the disillusionment on not finding the
place littered with bonfires. "This place is full of them every night, but
today they cleared them all away because the Mayor was coming." The Mayor?
What Mayor? (By the way, as if by magic, the next day in a local paper the neophyte
swore he'd seen the caption of a photo which read 'The Mayor of Seville attended
the Tres Mil concert last night' ?!?). The only non-human source of heat was the
gas-fired flame-grill browning the steaks. The Flamenco? Pre-recorded, for the
moment. 'Tauromagia' over and over again.
Among the grown-ups of dubious professions, lads and lasses of reproductive
age, mothers (of huge families) and respectable heads of family, those who were
supposed to be in charge didn't stand a chance. Number one: clambering onto the
bar were those who'd brought their own drinks but then politely asked the waiters
for ice. And that wasn't the only thing: one guy triumphantly displayed his 'hunting'
trophy in the form of a two-litre bottle of Coke, another squirted mouthfuls of
water, celebrating each spray with bellowing laughter, another was burning a plastic
bag, another set off a string of fireworks likely to provoke paranoia, another
puffed out his chest and asked a guy twice his height for his address, to send
him a photo he'd taken of his brother posing as a footballer... Out of this world.
Martín Revuelo
And the concert hadn't even begun yet, even though scooters, bikes, pushchairs
and almost any form of personal transport clamoured around the stage. "Look
how many assholes there are here today and you'll see how alone we're gonna find
ourselves at the protest rally we've organised for tomorrow to appeal for neighbourhood
security measures". The analysis supplied by a militant resident who accosted
the neophyte and proceeded, in two or three sentences, to confirm the motives
for the generalised paranoia, the same motives that the event organisers had insisted
on branding a "black legend". Well, and also to point out that not all
of that is down to the Tres Mil housing projects, that the real Tres Mil is Barriada
Murillo, that the worst is Las Seiscientas or Los Verdes or the little square
in the backstreets there... that if there was a raid... and the guns... And the
rabble carried on knocking back the cheap 'Magno' brandies. And Manolo Sanlúcar
over the loudspeakers. And from his smiling mouth came smoke merging with the
steaming breath.
An hour and a half later, 'Tauromagia' stops playing and a voice bids us good
evening (the neophyte is still unaware if there was a hint of irony). "Please
give a warm welcome for Ricardo Pachón". And blah blah blah the barrio
"thrives on the gypsies who were thrown out of Triana", blah blah blah
"Andalusians living side-by-side with people from neighbouring Extremadura"...
And Dominique Abel, as cold as the night was, who did nothing more than apologise
and to say that "in Tres Mil there's a lot of artistic talent, may that continue
and may that be passed on". At which point the neophyte thought fit to leave
his lookout post at the bar and slip into the throng. El Churri was first up on
stage, pouncing on the piano with Latin flavoured Flamenco touches which, looking
back, was maybe the most Flamenco of all the acts. Martín Revuelo, wrapped
up in a raincoat guitar at the ready, launches into a Rumba and at last the crowd
start to sway. Phew, it's a good job - the neophyte had started to fear the worst
(collective hypothermia, or something like that). And, while Ramón Quilate
was begging the Mayor for help for the barrio, how about a swift tour of the VIP
lounge?
An Indian! There inside the white marquee, wrapped up next to one of those
heaters they use in pavement cafés in Germany, there was an Indian with
a spear and a machete. And the place was overrun with kids and the kids were making
trouble and the organisers were starting to lose their cool and the ones who put
up the cash wanted to eat them (not the kids, oh no - they wouldn't even be edible).
And the camera pans round, following a lady in a dressing-gown from right to left,
with a huge Canal+ TV truck in the background.
In the parallel universe where a concert was taking place, Tere and Noemi were
striking up a rumba, and a little girl named Josefi was missing. Suddenly screams...
women's screams. El Chipi took the stage with a tango. "¡Guapo!"
was the cry from the crowd, and the Tres Mil has its very own Chayanne. And then
a little old man climbed up on stage, grabbed the mike and said that his six-year-old
granddaughter Josefi had disappeared. During the ensuing seconds when everyone
seemed to show solidarity, Martín Chico, guitarist and son of Juana from
Revuelo, and the voice of the Flamenco cantaora María Vizárraga
carried on the party.
And the neophyte decides to return to the VIP lounge. "We can't call the
Police 'cause they'll start a fight with them" (with the police, you know).
And there was the 'palmero', the Flamenco artist who supplies the handclaps, in
a tracksuit. And the Indian scanning the horizon. And "Will Israel Hernández
please make his way to the car, where his father is waiting for him". The
concert continues in an incurable tango style, with Los Mocitos (the lads... "and
lasses!"). Tikitikitikitiki..., imitating Tomasito. But the kids out of control
in the marquee were more promising, in spite of the choreographic support on stage.
And that's not to mention the back room, where were gathered the patient Flamenco
people, the annoyed Flamenco people, the offensive Flamenco people, the hardened
foreign tourists and a trio of goggle-eyed journalists.
Unless his ears were deceiving him, the neophyte could swear he heard one of
the men who put up the cash saying that everything was running perfectly. And
the kids... the police... the Indian... the long faces... the chaos... the director
mumbling the same thing Kenny from South Park does after a hot potato has been
transplanted for his heart. And bearing in mind that at two in the morning and
one degree Centigrade, neither Susi, nor Juana from Revuelo (who didn't understand
why she had to sing in the end, the lace border of her apron sticking out from
under her leopard-skin coat), nor El Cigala had sung, the highlight of the evening,
without a doubt, had been 'Tauromagia'.
The neophyte had had his fill. He got out of there without knowing or caring
about the Grand Finale. He'll end up seeing 'Polígono Sur', Dominique Abel's
film which won't show the moment when the taxi driver came across a junkie with
5000 pesetas in his hand to give him a lift (and who the taxi driver threatened
to run over - no paranoia there, he'd never even consider it). Nor the moment
where the taxis pass through the barrio's surroundings with their lights out.
Nor the moment when the council cleaned up the zone for the Mayor's (flying) visit.
Nor the moment when behind the wall of the football ground the bonfires started
to paint Caravaggios. It was the taxi driver's sixty-second birthday. The neophyte
and his defensive wall were the first to wish him a Happy Birthday.
magazine@flamenco-world.com
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