Sadler’s Wells, London
February 22, 2018
Charlotte Kasner
Several elements combine to produce a person who becomes a legend in their own lifetime. Extraordinary ability in their chosen field is a given, but there is more. A sense of mystery helps. They also require recognition from peers and others. A rags to riches background can be the icing on the cake.
Such is Antonia Santiago Amador – La Chana – a self-taught Catalan gitano or gypsy, born in 1946 and thus into the Franco regime. Spain under Franco was deeply patriarchal and conservative. Gitanos were always outsiders. La Chana endured an abusing husband who stifled her burgeoning Hollywood career, and just as cheap package holidays brought flamenco good and bad to the attention of the masses.
La Chana did not emerge from her enforced retirement until 1977, but soon she had danced all over the world and achieved global acclaim as the popularity of flamenco spread from London to Japan.
For the fifteenth Sadler’s Wells Flamenco Festival, La Chana was joined by three other renowned pure dancers Antonio Canales, El Farru and Gema Moneo. Paco Iglesias and Juan Campallo completed the line-up, surely some of the best guitarists around. Unlike neuvo which has made concessions to theatre, this gala evening, ably directed by Ángel Rojas, got the priorities right: first comes cante (song), then toque (guitar) and lastly baile (dance). The evening opened with stark jaleos (vocal encouragement, rightly described as extremeños) followed by alegrias, bambera, soleá, vocals, soleás por buleria, seguiriya and finally, the whole company in tangos.
This was flamenco that was so traditionally pure it could have been distilled five times. No semi-pirouettes but perfect flamenco corkscrew turns. Phrases ending in mid-air without returning to the tonic. Toque that was utterly exquisite. Cante so hondo that one almost drowned in the depth.
Duende, duende, deunde – ole!
La Chana herself, infirm but certainly not frail, made sedentary flamenco an art form all of its own. Gunshot-sharp zapateado and a body so in tune with the form that she sometimes appeared not to be seated at all. Described as the goddess of compas, she seemed to have swallowed a metronome. It is quite something that, in the company of artists who could sell out an arena tour on their own, she dominates the stage with her mighty personality.
If there was any criticism of the night it was the usual problems: Victor Tome’s sound was so loud that it distorted what should have been delicate fingering from the guitarists. The scrape of shoe nails on the stage, although used to dramatic effect, is not much better than fingernails down a blackboard and deprives the atmosphere of some of its mystery.
Louis Perdigeuro’s lighting was superb but the sets were extraneous. Hiding the guitarists behind gauze denigrated their status and the giant projections of frets and fingers were ugly and distracting. Similarly, the row of ‘chairs’ on the backcloth and the mask-like face. The omni-present fog was annoying although it did remind me of the smoke-filled room that was the London peña when I was obliged to throw away a brand new top because I couldn’t remove the stink of stale cigarettes and when a visit required washing of the hair thrice for the same reason.
I longed to see this in a private, intimate setting, but that being impossible, thank you from the bottom of London’s heart for a truly magical evening of flamenco greats.