The sensuous poetry of Esta Noche No Es Mi Día arises from darkness. In the lead-in to Amanecer (Dawn), we cannot see the singers, but we hear them clapping, stamping, calling to one another as they proceed onto the little stage. This dramatic opening in the dark stirs the heart.
And then we see them--black-clad Manuel Gago, Emilio Florido and Miguel Rosendo beneath a faint, warm glow of light. One after another, they take up the cry, stretching and slanting the notes and telling their truths. The rhythm moves with an insistent if stately roll, holding both resilient dignity and the weight of the painful history of Andalucia. Santangelo has put gitano song front and center--and weaves the singers throughout the program's action--to remind us of the human cry as the fundamental channel of flamenco's soul.
Barrio enters, dressed in tomato-red satin ruffles and flanked by her guys--Juan Ogalla and Antonio Jiménez. Right away, you understand that this woman is in charge, all about business, no phony baloney. The intimacy of the Cherry Lane's low-rising, unadorned stage, with its red brick walls, fits the increasingly charismatic Barrio to a T.
This season, her performing reveals more maturity, dramatic range and emotional openness than she has ever shown. Dancing the Alegrías (her choreography) with Ogalla, she alternately leans against him and tries to lock eyes with him, pouring meaning and chemistry through her facial expressions as if to try to pull this frequent high-flyer down to earth. Ogalla, whose Farruca is one exception to the program's tight pacing, tends to rely on slick, cock-of-the-walk showiness even in excess of flamenco norms. Dancing beside Barrio, he vacillates between light flicks of attention to her and a clearly more comfortable focus on how good his technique is looking. In Farruca, freed of Barrio's presence, he indulges this tendency--which is not to say that it doesn't work for a less critical audience, because the man can genuinely dance like a demon and shimmy like your sister Kate.
I much prefer the dark odd-duckery of Antonio Jiménez. His dancing feels like it comes from a place of deep thought, jarring conflict, haunting memories. His Solea por Bulerias seems to say, "My world is spinning out of control." His pacing and overall execution are quirky, eccentrically truthful. They have nothing to do with how he looks in the moment or who's looking at him.
I much prefer the dark odd-duckery of Antonio Jiménez. His dancing feels like it comes from a place of deep thought, jarring conflict, haunting memories. His Solea por Bulerias seems to say, "My world is spinning out of control." His pacing and overall execution are quirky, eccentrically truthful. They have nothing to do with how he looks in the moment or who's looking at him.
Barrio dances with abandon in Siguiriya, and I have never seen her dance like this--her face tranformed, her whole body wrenched as if suffering the greatest pain, her attention fixed on a world we cannot see, simply gone. At the end of this intense, shocking solo, Barrio faces into a beam of light and appears to gather it to her like a splash of water to cleanse her head. The fever breaks. This solo is followed by the ensemble performance, Esta Noche No Es Mi Día, for which the evening is named. With roses in their hands, all of the performers offer tribute to their colleague Antonio Vizarriaga who died earlier this year.
Though I have not yet mentioned Noche Flamenca's esteemed, veteran guitarists, Eugenio Iglesias and Salva de María, both men coax honey and shimmering gold from their strings. The company's designers--S. Benjamin Farrar and Christopher Thielking--use atmospheric and tenebristic lighting with painterly magic. My companion was reminded of John Singer Sargent's El Jaleo.
If you have seen Noche Flamenca's past shows, go now: This might be Santangelo's best presentation ever, and Barrio gives her crowning performance. If you have never seen this troupe, what's keeping you? Go now, and hold onto your heart.
Ticketing
Ticketing
Tuesdays: 7 pm
Wednesdays – Fridays: 8 pm
Saturdays: 2 pm, 8 pm
Sundays: 3 pm
Wednesdays – Fridays: 8 pm
Saturdays: 2 pm, 8 pm
Sundays: 3 pm
38 Commerce Street, Manhattan
(west of 7th Avenue, south of Bleecker Street; map)
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