Jerónimo
Maya en el Queen Elizabeth Hall, Londres Guest artists: Paco del Pozo, Leo de Aurora
December 7th, 2003
Jerónimo Maya comes with more credentials than
you need to enter the Oval Office unescorted. While the President
is on the phone to Kofi Annan. In his pajamas.
Son of guitarist Felipe Maya, nephew of singer Ricardo Losada
‘El Yunque’ with family ties to the legendary
don Ramón Montoya, he was a prodigy before the age
of 10. He has shared the bill with Camarón de la Isla
and Paco de Lucía. Classically trained at the Madrid
Conservatory, he has recorded with Enrique Morente.
A monster of a curriculum vitae, yet he is relatively unknown
outside of Spain, or even in Spain for that matter. He has
just released a CD, “Vestido De Luces” and has been
favourably compared to Paco de Lucía himself. Rumour
has it that the master said of Jerónimo: “I couldn't
play that well when I was his age”.
The playing is flawless, the sound
and precision are right on the nail.
On Sunday, December 7th, we were looking forward to his concert
at the Queen Elizabeth Hall in London. Upon arriving there
were no programmes and the usher warned me it was 90 minutes,
straight through with no intermission. I wasn't complaining.
Jerónimo seated, two other empty chairs and a couple
of mikes indicate a minimal set. Clearly, this is a very solo
guitarist. Alone under one or two high, yellowish spots but
not a trace of nerves. The audience sits stacked up behind
each other, filling half the average-sized venue. We face
the stage like a bunch of undergraduates, except that we are
awake.
When
I first saw Jerónimo, it was at a pre-concert “audience”
for aficionados. My recollection was that of a handsome, large
man, striking in his gypsy looks. Tonight he reminds me of
a young Hemmingway or Orson Welles and a small goatee adds
to the effect. He is wearing a curious outfit of grey flannel,
a single-breasted, collarless suit buttoned to the neck.
After an introduction, the second piece is soleares. I notice
that he seems to steady his 3rd finger under the 1st string
for picado. The soleares is formulaic and immediately recognisable;
'de rigueur' cante jondo compatible, except there is no cante,
a very lonely “solea”.
Paco del Pozo has a fantastic
voice, great
rubbing hands and a lovely squished up face…
One sign of a great guitarist is in the execution of the
rasgueos, a flurry of strumming fingers characteristically
described with metaphors of automatic weaponry. Jerónimo's
are not at all ballistic, but consistent, not too fast, soft
without degrading, owing more to waterfalls than warfare.
I can honestly say that I felt like crying, knowing that I
will never, ever, play like that.
His choice of guitar is a negra, rosewood back and sides.
Favoured by solo guitarists, they sustain a little longer
than the blanca, when there is no singing to interfere with.
I can't tell the make or model but the sound is superb.
The soleares moves into a buleria. Nowadays palos can be
tricky to identify without the clues provided by palmas, jaleos,
cajón and of course cante. Jerónimo had none
of these, though some in the audience bravely inserted the
odd “ole” to make up for it. Formal flamenco can
be hard to take when it’s staged like a university lecture
with professor Jerónimo benignly smiling down on us.
Then, at last, the singer arrives. Paco del Pozo takes a
seat and begins to rub his hands together slowly. Jerónimo
fastens a capo behind the 6th fret and begins the soulful
tientos. Paco has a fantastic voice, great rubbing hands and
a lovely squished up face as he squeezes out the moans from
deep down, plaintive cries for justice, love…
The transition is sublime…as
familiar as a drive
home, but you can't remember the journey.
Jerónimo
has a flamenco thumb, the single most important digit. Given
just a thumb, a good guitarist can play pretty much all that
he needs to entertain. This is perfect, as close as it gets.
The tientos turns to tangos and the familiar swing starts
heads nodding, as if we’d had our cervical vertebrae
replaced with marbles while we weren't looking. The transition
is sublime, so subtle you have forgotten how we got here –
as familiar as a drive home, but you can't remember the journey.
This is looking good.
Another guitarist appears. Leo de Aurora is Jerónimo's
brother but looks nothing like him. Jerónimo has the
hair your mother would expect of gypsy if he came around to
pick up your sister. Long, black, curly and tied into a ponytail.
Leo's is black but cut like a medieval page. It gives him
a trendy and studious air. A student has joined the young
professor.
Paco has now finished singing and provides muted jaleo in
support of a rather sweet piece – the trouble is that
I detect some improvisation here, and we’re closing
in on rumba beat. My antennae start twitching. This could
be a slide into the dreaded flamenco-jazz-fusion-jam. Worse,
Paco del Pozo leaves, and for me, the flamenco leaves with
him.
The playing is flawless, the sound and precision are right
on the nail. Leo's picado is a little rushed sometimes and
maybe it doesn’t always quite end on the intended note,
but it’s very subtle. We are about one third through
the repertoire and we are still jamming. Jerónimo goes
into an Arabic, one finger rasgueo/picado thing but then back
into a jazz rumba thing. Dare I say that we might be showing
off a tad?
I detect some improvisation here,
and we’re closing
in on a rumba beat. My antennae start twitching…
This is a disappointment. Two dueling guitars with no cante,
dance, cajón, palmas or jaleos is lacking so many ingredients
one might as well make a curry with only the chicken. The
two brothers look to one another, one waiting for the other
to pass over the lead – a couple of kids having some fun.
This belies Jerónimo's enormous skill. Whilst Leo strains
to reach an imagined chord in his head and transmit it down
his left arm, Jerónimo beats the compás on the
soundboard with a complex of thumb, knuckle and nail.
I sense that some in the audience are also losing the plot,
but my attention wanders to a woman in front of me and she's
merrily clapping along. But that's the thing with flamenco;
it's not supposed to be easy to clap along. Only the daft
or the experienced would attempt to do so. But this is 4/4
and it has been so for thirty minutes. More Latin jazz than
Andalusian essence.
Jerónimo thanks us for coming, mentions his new CD
and that Django Reinhardt is his hero. The young man has bags
of talent; he is not an aggressive, in-your-face guitarist
– such a sweet tone and rhythmic technique. A near-perfect
accompanist to a wonderful singer but I don't like jazz, so
I couldn't enjoy one-half of the show. I hope he goes back
to what he knows, and he knows it like Hemingway knew Spain.
