Now listen — there are certain conversations you should simply avoid in life.
Religion at Christmas dinner. Politics at a wedding. And jazz theory with a flamenco guitarist over coffee.
But I didn’t know that yet.
This was about six months after we’d settled here, my wife and I, still glowing from our great escape from the grey drizzle of Surrey. Cádiz was starting to feel like home: the market stallholders knew my name (or at least a version of it), I could order coffee without causing confusion, and my Spanish was almost passable — until you needed me to conjugate anything.
That morning, at the local café near Plaza San Juan de Dios, I met Antonio. Mid-40s, slick hair, intense eyes, fingers like coiled springs. We got chatting. He played flamenco; I was a retired music teacher with a lifetime of jazz behind me. The seed was planted.
“You play improvisation, too?” he asked, lighting his third cigarette in ten minutes.
“Of course,” I replied, swelling slightly with pride. “Bebop mostly. Parker, Dizzy, Monk. You know.”
Antonio nodded like he did. I don’t think he did.
So I made my first mistake. I tried to explain.
“See, bebop’s all about the changes — chord substitutions, altered dominants. Parker would take a simple progression and just — woosh — fly over it. Chromatic passing tones, enclosures, superimposed arpeggios.”
Antonio stared at me. Then he strummed something incomprehensibly fast, throwing in a rasgueado flourish for good measure.
“Like this?”
Not remotely. But sure.
“Kind of!” I lied.
I pressed on, drawing squiggles on a napkin to illustrate ii-V-I progressions. I even attempted to hum a Charlie Parker line — which, in hindsight, was deeply embarrassing for everyone within earshot.
Antonio countered by explaining compás and palmas and duende, launching into a spontaneous bulería while drumming the table. The café owner frowned but wisely stayed out of it.
We talked at each other for nearly an hour. Two entirely different languages. Two entirely different worlds. Improvisation, yes — but filtered through completely opposite philosophies. I was chasing substitutions; he was chasing alma — the soul.
In the end, we both laughed. He bought me another cortado, patted my shoulder, and declared:
“Jazz is like… flamenco for Americans.”
Fair enough.
Since that day, I’ve stopped trying to explain bebop to flamenco guitarists. But I have sat in on a few jam sessions, and let me tell you — you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a 5/4 Miles Davis vamp trying to coexist with a soleá rhythm. Chaos. Beautiful chaos.
Retirement in Spain was meant to be about slowing down. I never realised it would mean stepping straight into musical diplomatic relations.
