GROWL

I had to scold one of my human anatomy classes for being too chatty during lecture this week, and it brought to mind a story that is very, very dear to me:

Antonio Vargas, who played the gypsy father in the Australian film “Strictly Ballroom” and who has travelled the world sharing his rich version of flamenco with the communities who always fall in love with him, is a close friend. I am simultaneously proud and humbled to say that I have shared the stage with him twice. But the first of those times was not as glamorous as it sounds. This is the story of that time.

I was hosting a workshop with Antonio in Milwaukee, and it was the second-to-last day. I received a phone call from some frantic person desperately begging me to agree to a last minute request for a performance; I had been recommended by a friend of his who had hired my dance company for a very lovely show at the Villa Terrace Decorative Arts Museum, http://www.villaterracemuseum.org/. Happy about such a glowing referral, I asked for more details.

The show would be the very next day, at a time that would be right after the workshop ended, for a grand opening of a bank in town. He had a decent budget to offer and wanted four performers. I told him I would get back to him after speaking with my dance partner and guitarist – and Antonio. If we were all very, very lucky, the Great One might agree to perform at a greatly reduced rate.

Everyone was available, and Antonio said he didn’t want me to lose a gig: he would do the show for the same amount as everyone else.

We rehearsed that evening. It was an easy rehearsal, as we all knew each other well and the show would be brief. Antonio wanted to perform a Siguiriya; I could barely keep up with palmas to accompany him.

There would be no costume changes, so we brought one costume each to the workshop the next day. The men changed at the studio, but I decided to wait until we arrived at the bank – I planned on wearing a bata de cola, and that was not going to fly in the car ride over.

When we pulled into the parking lot, I doubled-checked the address several times. Instead of the gleaming bank tower that I was expecting, we faced a local, run-down supermarket. As I searched for my contact’s phone number, said contact appeared, waving us in from the front doors.

I entered into my own personal Twilight Zone episode: the “bank” was two teller windows cut out of the far wall of this mom-and-pop place, with some “special” linoleum freshly laid to separate the bank from the rest of the dingy, outdated store. That linoleum had been cleared of a huge stand filled with lemons, just for us. And between our “stage” and the front doors stood the check out lanes.

My faithful guitarist, the venerable Peter Baime, was already busy setting up his equipment, and I turned to Antonio with every intention of telling him he could wait in the car til we were done. But he just smiled broadly, put on his flamenco boots, and began warming up.

Our now-beaming contact led me to the employee bathroom to change. “Dark” and “creepy” are nice words to describe the behind-the-scenes area of this place, complete with leering employees lingering in the shadows.

The bathroom itself had no hook to hang my costume on, but plenty of soggy lettuce on the floor to ruin my shoes on. I changed as quickly as possible, never allowing any bit of costume or street clothing to touch any surface, and saving my flamenco shoes for the luxurious linoleum.

I ran past the instant soup and toilet paper and cereal to our stage. The guys were ready to begin, and, frankly, I was ready to just get it all over with.

My dance partner, John "El Polaco," and I opened with Sevillanas. Simple enough. Until I realized I was hearing the “beep-beep” of the cashiers ringing up items. A few customers were watching us, but the rest were… checking out their groceries!

The beeps continued through John’s Farruca as well as our Caracoles duet. Some little boy banged his mother’s cart into the lemon stand at one point. A few lemons rolled onto the floor. I remember thinking how relieved I was that only a small handful of the workshop students were able to actually make it to this dismal affair.

And then it was time for Antonio’s solo.

Well… the Great One danced with a fury and a focus worthy of a command performance for a queen on the finest stage on earth. I could barely keep up with the palmas again, except for my excitement over his sheer presence.

There was no “beeping” from the cashiers. The world had stopped to watch the man dance.

I changed out of my bata de cola in the car with the guys guarding the windows – there was no way I was going back to that bathroom again -- and then we went out for much-needed drinks. It was at the restaurant that Antonio explained:

“It’s shows like those that make you into a tigress. Once you can reach every person in a place like that, you can reach the person in the back corner of a huge, beautiful theatre. It’s all the same. It’s all about being a tigress.”

Rrrrrroar!

     Antonio and me after watching a show in Chicago

 

   In "regular" life, Antonio is such a sweet man -- a pussycat. My (then-future) husband caught this end-of-the-evening moment. Many thanks to him for finding these photos.