Your Spanish Lullaby

BEING SPANISH - PART EIGHT (MUSIC)

"Well, I'm looking forward to some really good Spanish music."

Amongst the wish-lists brandished about by expectant EasyJet embarkers, attached to Leona Lewis via an MP3 player at Luton Airport, sun and crates of Saint Mick would loom large at number one and two spots, but music - Spanish music - would not even enter the top ten, pop-pickers. Earlier in this series, I listed - rather foolishly - music as an element which goes to forge an impression of being Spanish. So having done so, I challenge myself to come up with a good reason why I did list it ...

No. I'm struggling.

There are certain popular cultural images that the holidaymaker may hold prior to jetting off: Premier League football, Coronation Street and a full English - oh, hang on, what am I saying? - that should be sangria, sombreros and straw donkeys. But music, except in the smooth and swivel of the Iglesias family, would register as strongly as curling up with Dostoevsky on a Saturday evening rather than watching "X Factor", i.e. it wouldn't. At least with Julio and Enrique there are two acts, which is one more than when it used only to be Los Bravos. Some might argue the case for Sylvia ("Y Viva España") except, of course, she was in fact Swedish. There is Spanish music, but for the most part - and quite understandably - most holidaymakers would rather not subject themselves to the miserabilist caterwauling of classical flamenco singing. What they're likely to get served up, and X Factor is not irrelevant in this respect, is the Spanish equivalent wannabe-ing, factotum-impersonation everyone's a star, or not, but with a swarthy look (the males) and a sultry demeanour (the females). What it isn't, except by association through Iglesias (Enrique, normally) and some Latino beat, is particularly Spanish. What it is, and the same applies to X Factor, is lowest common denominator nothing music. Formulaic and non-descript. Oh, there is always some folk singing of a local sort, the type to which the visitor applauds politely and then heads off to the nearest hotel or show bar in search of a tribute act. Alternatively, there is always the wonder of the Spanish guitar. But put, albeit that this would be unlikely, Paco de Lucia on the stage at your typical 3-star, and the reps would be inundated with complaints.

The best of Spanish music - de Lucia, the contemporary cross-overs from flamenco, the chill of Café del Mar, the genuine salsa style and its expression in current-day dance - is largely ignored. And it's ignored because, unless one goes to a club that plays it, it is unlikely to be heard, while it is also as unlikely to have ever appeared on that pre-flight wish-list.

Music should be a raw ingredient of a summer holiday. Well, it is. It is just that it lacks almost any Spanish context. It is Abba and the modern musical and X Factor-styled, boys and girls, so-called family entertainment of an almost universally average standard. The desire to be entertained is on that wish-list. It has become a pre-requisite for many. Yet, what is served up is generally something you wouldn't otherwise leave home for. You'd watch X Factor instead: just as average but with more cynicism, viciousness and mobile-based revenue for the producers. In truth, it falls into the something-to-do category, a way of filling an evening. It is Polyfilla for the mind in the same way as flopping in front of whatever happens to be on the TV binds the cracks of vacant inter-aural space. And like TV, it helps to avoid the need for overly much interpersonal communication or the creation of one's own entertainment. Them were the days, when we'd gather round the piano and sing together. But, you know, Spanish it may not be necessarily be (indeed rarely or ever), and much as it may attract the opprobrium of some, karaoke is the making of entertainment. Spanish music, no. Just make your own, whatever it is and whether you're any good or not. Oh, and if you want Spanish music at Christmas, bear in mind what I mentioned yesterday - a Felipe Spector Navidad.


Twelve Days of a Mallorcan Christmas

By way of an explanation for yesterday's "song":

God forbid there were twelve: Leapy Lee is the island's leading one-hit wonder celebrity, and his leaping did seem to fit in with the original. Eleven million: about the annual number of tourists to the island. Ten Elvis Presleys: the number of Elvis impersonators one can find of a summer's evening (actually, I've made the number up, but Elvises are ubiquitous). Nine mayors, in fact four mayors and five ex-mayors were implicated in another "scandal"; they were let off in this case. The eight Catalan winds of the Mediterranean, the Tramuntana, Mestral etc.; sometimes they all seem to be blowing at once. Seven knocking-shops: the number of "relax" houses in Alcúdia. Six dogs: could be any number in truth. Five euros a pint: yep, you can pay this. Four scratch cards: you only need one, but four and you really have been suckered into the holiday club clutches. Three tex-mexs: the number of Dakota restaurants in Puerto Pollensa - for now. Two parking spots: the number needed by Mallorcans in order to park one car in car parks. And a processionary caterpillar: the thing that destroys pines and can fall on you and sting if you're unlucky.


QUIZ
Today's title - Spanish made as pop, and who better to have done this than a part-Italian American. It's a line from?

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