I saw flamenco—steps and music—performed last night in a warehouse in NE Minneapolis. For free. Last night was a Wednesday, by the way.
The warehouse was cozier than a warehouse has any right to be—excepting the warehouse ceiling and cement construction, the room was closed in by a half-wall painted burnt orange, had tall mirrors on the walls, and was lit by tucked-away lamps and candles on the tables, scattered chairs, and stools.
The friend who had brought us—let’s call him “P”—plied us with Trader Joe’s three-buck chuck in Cabernet, Merlot, and Shiraz flavors. He had cases of the stuff in the back of the room. This was a rehearsal space for him and his band. He had actually got his three-buck chuck for a $1.50 a bottle, somehow, maybe by the same new math that gets you a free flamenco show on a Wednesday night.
At the height of the flamenco, there were five guitarists, two good dancers, one extraordinary singer, and a smattering of box-drummers and hand-clappers. In between, there was a bit of a flamenco class, that some of us were invited to join (not me—the flamenco people glanced at me and knew, accurately, that I had the rhythm of a woodpecker with a head cold).
P said: “This is better than a bar, don’t you think? Live music, laid back, none of the bar-hassles.”
I said: “Like paying for my drinks. I agree!”
Later, P said: “What are other people doing right now? In Minneapolis? Snoozing. Watching a little TV. They may see live music once a year, and hope none of the members of their band die.”
I agreed whole-heartedly. Then went home to snooze, but I kept the TV off.