Al-Ahram Weekly 4 - 10 November 1999 Issue No. 454
Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875

Emilio Hernandez     Armadillo with a walking stick By David Blake

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The Nueva Danza, Emilio Hernandez, Main Hall Cairo Opera House, 27 October

He could also be Brazilian but he happens to be Spanish and is a mystery with the exceptional gift, possessed by Greek Gods and the more improbable animals, of metamorphosis.

His body is long, tall and wavy, like a liana hanging from a high tree and swaying above the jungle. The legs seem to move independent of the body, not from the socket of the hips but freely waving like the arms. The head rears, then strikes with the speed of a tree snake - like a whip. Is it a head? Is it a human being?

He turns out gradually, as his movements progress, to be human, an exceptionally tall and handsome one with the gift of moving into other states of being. He is all torso, naked at the top, trousers below, with a wisp of a waistcoat on the middle body. He is in black and so is the show, almost, though it bursts out into explosions of bright, brash colour now and then.

His dance movements are ataxic, quite irregular, then limp like a tramp in torpor. He folds himself like a sectionalised ball of body muscle and rolls on the floor like an armadillo. Armadillos are delicious eating, they say and this audience, which loves and enjoys him to death, could probably do so. He is the reason for the whole enterprise and totally worth it.

Nueva Danza -- lines of handsome people doing chorus line stuff in wonderful, banal Spanish-type clothes to loud Spanish-type music. Is this all there is to the Nueva Danza?

Then the interval after which comes the real thing. Flamenco is the most adored of dances and the oldest. It came from the Orient to flavour the more pallid dance of the west. The world knows the beat, the power, the pistol shot rat-a-tat-tat of the heel and toe complexities. The Flamenco exudes an air of mystery and passion.

First act, no. Second act, yes. It was the new dance set right back to Flamenco's beginnings.

The caverns of Escurial, the deep darks and the earthy sounds, all appeared. The singing was hoarse, fruity, low and shamelessly sharp, high and piercing like blade flashes in the dark. Yet in the pools of light we saw everything.

Squatting on the ground two guitar players, Antonio Sanchez and Aleix Sabater, one percussion and four clappers. The music -- soft, quiet, mostly pastel coloured -- permitted the singer to breathe out the notes. The entire space of the opera house was empty of visual things except the message. And it was there, right down-stage right on a chair, huddled into a ball, no head visible. Tight strung for action when it comes. This is Emilio Hernandez, the armadillo man.

He slips down to the floor from the chair, a ball still tightly knit together, then the action comes. It is not explosive at the moment. The armadillo takes up a cane, swivels himself upright and we are subject to the gradual growth of a strange apparitional ghost of the dance. It is quite spine-chilling. The body stretches itself fully to its maximum height, slowly. Feet neat, sharp pointed in what at the start looks like soft-shoe. The splendid legs gently unfold to their extremity. The head, far up and above, is poised for action. With a crack, because the feet are working the Flamenco stamp, he turns to the left, and with another crack to the right. It is almost quicker than sight. He stops, melts and so begins a show, solo, of quite original dancing, the likes of which we have not seen since another metamorphic wonder, Antonio, astounded the Flamenco scene.

There are no words for Emilio. The body, like a shining scythe, lashes and slices the air. He rivets. He astounds, the concentration is demonic. The audience tension galvanises everything. He has the gift of contact. He is for the audience.

Cairo's crowds are cool but not tonight. They are tied to his every movement. He never relinquishes his hold on them. The dance he seems to invent as it goes along. The cane is not for security. He uses it as a third foot and aggressive weapon. It stamps and trills and fires off shots that ring through the air of the opera house. This is what opera houses are made for.

From the dark he has lit up the entire place. He sweats like liquid diamond, gleaming and shining, soaking the rag he wears around his middle and shoulders. It courses down his back, a rivulet of power. Just what can the human body do? Of what is the human body capable? And yet he is still dancing.

On and on goes the strange dance of this man, rearing up before us, timeless, ageless, swaying and swooping, making all that we call reality unimportant. Dance has this divine power. It inebriates everyone.

Would it ever stop? He seemed to finish but the audience will not leave. The rhythms darken. He must collapse, he or the opera house. The audience seems to be joining him. He is no star, he is the energy force itself. The reviewer had to leave. The audience not. The thud and pistol shots echoed along the passages and down the stairways.

Great artists of the theatre are apt to think, 'After my performance let the place burn down.' Hopefully Emilio and the Cairo Opera House are still there. Maybe they carried him off stage.

Cairo Symphony Orchestra, Ian Fountain (Solo Piano), Ahmed El Saedi (Conductor), Brahms Piano Concerto No. 2 op.83 in B flat Major, Schumann Symphony No.3 in E flat Major 'Rheinische', Cairo Opera House Main Hall, 30 October

If your musical antennae have their adjustment turned towards the piano then the two piano concertos of Brahms are the terminal point of your voyages. They hang there in space like a capricious pair of wild animals waiting for the next move. Attack or retreat, in either case they have the advantage. Muscle, soul and energy which few can fathom.

Their sheer clout makes any day. What will the player make of No.1? How cope with the acres of treacherous ground covered by No.2? Is there enough sheer energy in store to be released during the voyage because Brahms is an Oceanide - son of the sea goddess, Thalassa, and he himself a Neptunal figure. Brahms surrounded himself with an atmospheric disturbance, all that colouring like a north wind which blows from the south without explanation.

Brahms gave none, gives none, he took all his mystery with him to the grave, leaving the question marks, the music, to those left behind. If you cannot come to terms with this 'colour', avoid Brahms. He can sink everyone but he did not sink either El Saedi or his soloist Ian Fountain. On the contrary they reveled in the circumspection and caprice of the music.

Ian Fountain has many trophies - performances at the Wigmore Hall, London, and the special attention of Colin Davis. So he moves in the Palaces of the Piano as a true resident.

It was exciting, his interpretation, and with the El Saedi's blessing and co-operation a new Brahms was brought to view. The composer was immovable but at least he was seen from a different angle. No false 'big deal' Brahms, the huge climaxes were left to take care of themselves while they concentrated on giving a 'whole' view. We had an experience of something happening out of touch, out of mind, a sudden wind from somewhere - certainly of the present. There was almost no time to stop and think.

The whole concerto was a conversation, often contumacious, between piano and orchestra. They drove out despair and substituted it with humour, with what Henry James gave as a survival armour, 'planez, planez mes chéries'. We positively floated into a port of joy.

After this emotional buffeting the conductor and orchestra gave the Schumann Symphony No.3 in E flat Major, Rheinische.

With Brahms we had classics on the move, with Schumann we had the dear lovable old lump stranded in a dead age. Schumann in all his piano music, songs and smaller things, is no lump. Variety and likeness is his ethos. The symphonies are a drag. They seem stuck to old forms of which he cannot rid himself.

The Rheinische should have been lighter: E flat major is a herbaceous key but it was left to Mahler to work the Germanic songs and lŠndler not Schumann. Fresh and sweet - what more do you expect? After Brahms we expect plenty.

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