Stomping on cats in a smoke-filled room

I'm no expert in the finer nuances of flamenco, but that's what it sounded like to me!

For tourists in Spain, flamenco means frilly frocks, cracking castanets and lace fans flapping about. The stereotypes come out in full force during the 'dinner and a show' spectacles that pack folks in by the coachloads.

It's a surprisingly popular outing given that flamenco is not native to Madrid, but rather comes from the far south of Spain, where the combined Arabic/Jewish/Gypsy influences lingered in the region of Andalucia because of the Moorish occupation.

Even with my limited exposure to flamenco I can see how easily the art form could be bastardised in a cabaret setting, so I was deadset against the 'dinner, drink and a floorshow' concept and not just because of the €30+ price tag.

So instead we hunted down the backstreet dive where flamenco enthusiasts gather for late night impromptu performances, often involving the stars of the tourist shows who are wanting to sing to real admirers.

La Solea hides behind a heavy wrought iron barricade in the buzzing La Latina district, though compared to the other establishments that spill out onto the street, La Solea looked more like a private club. The joint didn't even look open come 10pm and when we did work up the courage to heave open the door, we half expected to be asked for a password.

Instead we had a friendly welcome from the barmaid. I'll mention now that one thing we couldn't find in Madrid was decent beer. The beer on tap is invariably a sweet lager served in tiny thimble-sized glasses called cañas. Topped with lots of foam, it takes about a half dozen of these to get the party started. The only difference at La Solea is that there is table service which saves trips to the bar, which is just as well because it's a small place that fills quickly.

Thimbles of beer in hand, we followed the sound of a guitar into one of the low-ceilinged back rooms. Something else we didn't like about Madrid's nightlife is the cigarette smoke that fills most establishments and La Solea was the same, if not worse because the small rooms have no ceiling fans or air conditioning.

Benches lined the tile walls with small marble-topped tables following the perimeter, at one of which was a young guitar player plucking meandering tunes. Around midnight a crush of people arrived, the room filled and a gent stormed in to take the last table. He pulled this into the middle of the room, but sat facing the guitarist, his back to most in the room. He took a cigarette out of his mouth and gruffly barked instructions to a waiter who brought him a bottle of water. After only a brief word to the guitar player and with no introduction he launched into song.

He sang to the guitarist, not his audience, his hands demonstrating when he wanted his accompanist to play louder, faster or with more emotion. To keep rhythm he pounded the table and stomped on the tiled floor. His voice was rough and raspy, sometimes yelping and keening in an Arabic style. The words to the songs seemed improvised at times, with stretches of nonsense phrases as well that reminded me of scat singing. This attracted approving noises from the crowd as they stomped and clapped along, though never really in time with the beat, which is all to do with the complex 12-beat rhythm delivered in a way different from all other Western music.

As for the words, from what I could understand he was complaining about 'bad love' and 'dead flowers' so no, these aren't tunes you'll hear anytime soon in the Top 40. Flamenco is all about expressing raw emotion, but unfortunately in a room full of chain smokers it leads to sore throats and red eyes for all the wrong reasons.

So despite the fascinating nature of the whole experience, we could only stomach about an hour before slipping out between numbers, eyes stinging and our lungs full of cancer dust. Apparently the most legendary of these impromptu sessions can last till 11 the next morning, by which time we would have asphyxiated.

We cooled our throats with ice creams on the way back to the hotel. Dessert at 2am?? No wonder we fell in love with Madrid. Click back soon!