The flamenco flop.

Last night The Mister, my friend Claire and I went to a flamenco show at the cool old theater in town, the one Antonio Banderas sometimes makes a showing in.  It wasn't one of those touristy polka-dotted-skirts kind of flamenco shows, but the good authentic kind. The dancers were local and the three of us were rather conspicuous as the only non-Spaniards in the place (a good sign).

The theater was beautiful for the occasion, all lit up like a Christmas tree, and everyone was prepared in their fancy clothes. 

Lights dimmed, curtain went up.

As soon as the first note sounded, it was obvious that something had gone badly awry. The singers sounded like - I hate to use this cliché, but there's no way around it - they sounded like a pack of wild cats. Yowling and screechy and sharp as cheddar cheese.  The sound mixer guy must have been drunk during rehearsal (or perhaps there wasn't a rehearsal?) and the sound volume was cranked so high that everyone's voices blended together in one unbearably shrill howl.

I started giggling. I couldn't help it. It sounded so awful. I put my hand over my mouth. I tried to ignore The Mister's elbow digging in my side because I knew if I made eye contact I'd go over the edge.

At the end of the first song, the audience sighed in relief. Old people were shaking their heads and muttering. The man to my left looked like he'd just eaten a whole lemon.

In the silence between the tepid applause and the start of the next song, a man in our aisle yelled "Baja el sonido!" which means "turn down the sound!"  It was like the first raindrop of a downpour. Every old person in the house suddenly started yelling some version of LOWER THE MOTHERLOVING VOLUME POR FAVOR. 

I slid down in my seat and gulped air, trying to hold myself together. Why are things so much funnier when you're not supposed to laugh?

The music started blaring again and the singers resumed their screaming, blithely unaware of the audience's pain. They probably thought that everyone was yelling compliments. Everyone groaned.  The woman next to me scowled at the stage and brought both hands up to cover her ears.

And that's when I lost it.

At the end, Claire was worried that I would think the fifteen euro ticket fee was a waste since the show was decidedly sub-par.

No way, I told her. I would pay fifteen euros for a belly laugh any day.

I would and I did.