Seven, eight, nine, and ten. One, two… and so on up to twelve beats are those that make up the amalgamation measure of the flamencoThe Jerez dancer Joaquín El Grilo He purred as he pleased with the sound, hiding in the silences or calling them, breaking the measures at will, entering and exiting with a singsong through the corners and twists of the jondoHe enjoyed himself like a pig in a puddle, making the respectable of the sun-drenched Peña Flamenca Torres Macarena from Seville would end up hoarse from cheering him on and saying ole like never before in a unique and memorable recital that will mark the history of dance in the temple of flamenco Sevillian.
If he was dedicated and fun, the public welcomed him with the warmth of fans who know what's good. Here you know how to distinguish. peña It was packed. El Grilo is a master. He is different and inimitable, captivatingly flamenco and he joked. He played at the joy of dancing for the sake of dancing. Its structure and choreography were improvisation. Only those who can do that can do it. He came to dance without the constraints of a spectacle, without needing to prove anything. And it happened that he crowned himself as no one had done so far on the stage of pleasures. He formed the taco. That was an improvised revelry on the timbers of the peña. A big mess, an orgasmic ritual for those who like a joke dance. A choking of pellizcos. A gush of age. Period.
Francis Gomez He added a sweet touch to the guitar, accompanying the artist to enhance the Jerez native's performance even further. The chords were just right, the falsetas in their place, the musicality required, four transitional tones, two strums here and there, a few tremolos where they fit, and a creative solo with a resounding touch and original composition on the bass string in D to open the recital. And plenty of rhythm.
"This way, it's more enjoyable. The change to bulerías for dessert turned out to be absolutely absurd. It was breathtaking. An eternal thunder of applause ensued, one that wouldn't let him say goodbye. At your feet, maestro, at your feet."
El Galli He took a bite out of the allergy, putting his heart above his faculties. And he gave it his all, through his mouth, at Joaquín's feet. Tremendous. He threw his weight around, leaving his skin in the shadow of the inspiration of dance with a capital D. Manuel Moneo It thundered with solemnity, rancid, paying tribute to the lineage from which it comes. Carmen Grilo He wanted to give his all, despite his particular way of approaching the cante, with rounded, deep beats of voice, sounding like a coplera (without meaning anything pejorative, let's understand). They rounded off a recital for the ages: we ended up prostrate at El Grilo's heels with perpetual veneration for what happened that night. My flesh still tingles and my skin crawls when I relive it. It won't be easy to erase it from my memory.
The fandangos served as a prelude to a masterful silence of soleá por bulería that Joaquín pulled out of his hams, where grace dripped from. Transition to the tangos. Then he went to the tientos and returned to the same, looking at himself in the Titi from Triana o Pepa La CalzonaThe swaying is also manly, the sensuality, the waist, the toes, the postures with his butt… Joaquín was intoxicated by art. His feet, his hands, his gestures, even the tips of his bangs were intoxicated by the beat, if not the beat itself. He distilled the drunken dance into a high of sympathetic depth. From heel to wrist, he drew reinvented beats, accompanied them with his arms, and they shook his body, leaving it sometimes slack, sometimes strong, powerful, and firmly planted, creating flourishes uniquely his own, twisting, shuddering with the lust of the rhythm, and signaling the accent at will in the most unexpected moments when it came to collecting himself. Unpredictable, overflowing with resources, spontaneous, natural, without ojana… he was quite a spectacle.
The second part began with El Galli with a taste for taranta, followed by Moneo with that of Ferdinand of TrianaCarmen closed the round with the Cartagena de Indias Chacon. El Grilo got back on stage to melt us with joy. He danced to cante, he sang with his guitar skills, he spoke without a peep, he kept quiet, ordering the audience, warning them of the coming attack… And I handed over the spoon. I felt like throwing myself at his boots and hugging his feet, biting him hard, grabbing his cheeks and kissing him. Joaquín danced like only he knows how. A display of mischief and wisdom, of mockery and good dancing. He acted like he was falling, he limped like mad – I understand in homage to Henry the Lame– and, ultimately, he won the audience over to end up bullfighting with his jacket, turning elegantly and punctuating the performance with replantes with his palate, garnering a wave of oles, ripped from the roots by the unparalleled artistry of the one who possesses the duro, the euro, and the entire jurdó, in addition to the humorous yet serious sensitivity at the same time. It's more enjoyable in short. The change to bulerías for dessert turned out to be truly absurd. To die for. An eternal thunder of applause arose that wouldn't let him say goodbye. At your feet, maestro, at your feet.
Credits
Dance recital by Joaquín El Grilo
Peña Flamenca Torres Macarena, Seville
May 30th 2025
Dance: Joaquín El Grilo
Cante: David El Galli, Manuel Moneo and Carmen Grilo
Guitar: Francis Gomez
