Where and when does a gig begin? This one began in the rain. We zipped up our coats and headed out into the cold December night in search of live music and rock and roll. We’d intended to buy tickets in advance but didn’t get round to it. As I walked over the wet cobbled stones of Seville, I felt the same anticipation I get before going to watch a live football match. I’d been looking forward to it all day, and could feel my heart tick just that little bit harder as we twisted and turned corners, heading for the Sala Malandar next to the River Guadalquivir.
It was shut. No music. No sign on the door with any info. No hot dog man outside, preparing to serve mashed up pig’s bollocks for drunken punters at 4 a.m. ‘Shit!’ we thought. Fortunately enough, I had Dani’s number in my phone book and my Dad had credit; we made a quick phone call to find out the new venue, somewhere in the ‘Fifth Cunt’ of Seville. That means a long way away. Our coats zipped up that little bit tighter, we turned round and facing the rain marched towards El Polígono Calonge, an industrial estate on the outskirts of north Seville.
We got about half way and counted out our money between us; we calculated we could afford at least one taxi ride. We were soon huddled in the warm vehicle, and chatted with the driver who was as intrigued as we were to find this unusual venue. After peering out into the dark rainy night for several minutes, we found the right street. Nothing there. A hotel chain lay behind us, a tyre repair warehouse and a few strip clubs but no music bar. We turned the corner again which led down a narrow street flanked by large garages; at the end we could see a tall bloke who seemed to be hanging around. We’d found it.
You could smell the spit, salt and beer well before we entered the garage door. Fucking fantastic. A large beaten up caravan was parked outside, presumably belonging to the band or a friend of theirs which had been used to transport the gear. Small groups of people were huddling around, smoking cigarettes and talking privately. We smoked a pre-rolled joint and headed in.
Five Euros later and we were inside a large converted warehouse or garage, equipped with a little bar and a small but well organised stage. The amps and instruments lay in waiting, their red ‘on’ lights burnt clearly through the dark, guitars and violin placed carefully on their stands. We got a drink and waited. A couple of people we knew passed by, said ‘Hello,’ everyone just glad to get out of the rain and finally make it to the gig. We were standing towards the back of the room, meandering through the sounds of the PA and the gathering throng of people.
Crack. HMMMM. Yes! The band were on stage, first chords, first cymbals, first keys, first strings struck with human flesh. The huddled crowd grew in anticipation, and gave out a loud loud cheer when Dani Mata came up onto the stage. Ever so slightly out of the spotlight, he took to the microphone and began to sing. The band, who were as tight as a nun’s arsehole, responded in magnificent fashion, and the stage was set for a brilliant night of music.
I won’t tell you everything about what I heard and saw that night. All I can tell you is that the gig was unforgettable, every note a soulful scream, a cry and shout to the gods of rock and roll to say that, ‘Yes!!!! We are here!!!! And we are alive!!!!!!!!’ Even now I can feel my arms tingle with the memory, that electricity of the band, the front man, the spit, the sweat, the songs, the joy, the pain turned into creativity and let free to run and cry as it pleases. I shall never ever forget dancing to one song, my feet lost in the rhythm, utterly unconscious of anything in the world, the universe, nothing but the rhythm and the guitar and the voices calling ‘Don’t cry BAH BAH BAH!!!’, and I remember turning and spinning and laughing and crying and moving through space with and within everything.
That moment, and that moment only, is all you need to know about to love music.
We walked home in the rain.
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