Adventures in Granada.

Mention the Spanish city of Granada, and no doubt two things will come to mind: the Alhambra, and Flamenco. I’m all for historical monuments, but it’s music that grabs my soul.

Here for a few days, I dared to venture into local territory to uncover a Flamenco bar that only the locals would know. I found it at the Tacon Flamenco bar, just a short 5-minute walk from Plaza Nueva.

There were no costumes here. And no tables, chairs, or cameras. Just an attentive crowd and a couple of musicians, ready to get their Flamenco on.

As the musicians entered the bar, the chattering crowd fell silent, and I instantly recognised a face.

It was him.

I heard about David Heredia, aka “el Marques”, from my local friend. Something of a legend in this part of town, he looked a lot like that other noted guitarist, Slash, from Guns N’ Roses – only about a foot shorter, and with a little more meat on him.

Occupying a position at the bar, I order a beer, and lean back as el Marques picks up his guitar as if ready for battle. He takes a seat under a glowing lamp; his singer beside him. Her dark-hair contrasting against her crimson dress.

The crowd is mostly Spanish, with not a foreign tongue to be heard. That is, except for my Australian accented Spanish.

And then a sound is made.

As the warm tones of plucked nylon reflect off the red-brick walls and fill the room, we find ourselves gently sinking into a Flamenco-induced trance; the occasional “ole” and rhythmic clapping from the crowd the only signs of consciousness.

I split my attention equally between el Marques’ maneuvering hands, the sultry dark-haired beauty, and the room itself – soaking it all in. Colourful castanets, in reds, greens, and oranges, are suspended from the ceiling with fishing wire. They look a lot like ladybugs, floating on clouds of sound perhaps.

I turn back to the stage as the dark-haired beauty begins to sing. A haunting melancholia billows out of her small frame, taking me a little by surprise. Her feet remain perfectly still and planted to the ground, as if drawing strength from the earth. Yet her hands gesticulate, and her face contorts in wild movements.

I wish I knew what she was singing about, I think to myself.

Then the others begin to clap -– in perfect sync.

I’m convinced the Spanish are born with music in their blood. It’s as if they hear something inaudible to my ears. A rhythm that is just so alien to me, in an environment that could not be more local.