They are artists...

Photo Credit: Alison Morrow

Try to remember the most violent tantrum of a two year old you have ever seen: brows furrowed in indignant concentration, hands thrusting through the air, feet stamping forcefully into the ground. Now multiply it by a hundred and you might have a fraction of the energy exhibited by the flamenco dancers.

But no, the dancers aren't two year-olds throwing fits. They are artists.

Their feet moving so fast that you can barely distinguish between taps; the crimson skirts, sporting layers upon layers of fabric, swishing and whipping every which way; their feet slamming into the ground with such unbelievable force--I'll tell you what: those are some high heels in which I would never want to be on the wrong end. My goodness.

I'm still mesmerized by the seemingly contradictory movements of their bodies. While their lower halves were in a frenzy, feet and legs moving so rapidly that if you blink, you will miss a stomp, their upper halves took on smoother movements, hips swinging and swaying to the singer's raspy chants, hands revolving in the most suave of moments. All interrupted by rapid finger snaps and quick clicks of the castanets.

And the sound; I can still feel el ritmo reverberating throughout my body. Almost everything staccato. Clicks. Clacks. Rattles. Taps. Quick. Snaps. Short. Raps.

The drums: heavy thuds. The castanets: sharp clicks. The claps: quick raps. The snaps: rapid clacks. The symbol: a coppery tin-tin. All staccato.

All staccato except for the elongated chants, the singers oscillating up and down the musical scale with their throaty voices. Wrapping around every ear in the flamenco restaurant, the voices provided the ear a relief from the short raps, taps, rattles and clacks.

Needless to say, I was enthralled. But above all, I still can't forget the sound. ...

....Days later and I can still feel el ritmo reverberating throughout my body.