Image by Matteo Delred: From the collection Lost Campitos I

What are Bulerías?

Imagine a dance that is wild, joyous but entangled with all the complexities of the human condition. Not only that, but a dance that requires a huge amount of discipline and skill. These are how I would describe Bulerías.

Bulerías are a style of flamenco that hooked me in from the beginning, and are quite possibly the sole reason I quit my life in London to live in a traditional town in the South of Spain. There are over fifty other types of flamenco, or palos (sticks), as they call them in Castilian Spanish, but Bulerías are a real characteristic of Jerez de la Frontera. Bulerías were born for dancing, but just as important is the accompaniment of the singer, guitarist and the rapid clapping known as “compás”. It is so mind-bendingly complex that this article will barely scratch the surface. And I am far from an expert.

To get a basic sense of what Bulerías are, here is a short film I made with a dear friend a few years ago. Nuria Mercedes was a woman from Madrid who moved to Jerez, like me, giving up everything, job security, a sense of self even, to study the art of flamenco. Mercedes, as she was known by her friends in Jerez (Nuria by her friends from Northern Spain) studied for twenty years in Jerez, and dedicated herself mostly to the cante (flamenco song). Mercedes was an artist with “gracia”. Gracia is the word they use in Andalusia for a person who is graceful but also funny—a kind of devilish cheekyness.

Bulerías, part 1, with Nuria Mercedes

Mercedes passed away last year. The loss of her was painful, but her friends were comforted by the fact that she had been living the life she always dreamed of in Jerez.

(Subscribe to En Casa de Mercedes if you’d like to see the rest of the films, which I am currently re-working).

Jerez is, in my opinion, the best place to learn Bulerías. The intrigue and frustration is that if you learn Bulerías anywhere else, you will get little respect from a person in Jerez that has grown up dancing them since they were able to walk. Even if you have studied a minimum of ten years with teachers from the old flamenco dynasties of Jerez, you may just about elicit an eyebrow raise of approval from the local aficionados. Let me also say that the approval of the Jerezano Bulerías aficionados doesn’t discriminate — you could be an international flamenco star with sold-out shows around the world, or a foreign nomad with nothing — but if you have not grown up dancing it in the flamenco barrios of Jerez, you will never truly know it (so they say).

There are, of course, exceptions, and any person brave enough to step up to dance the Fiesta por Bulerías at the end of a “juerga” (flamenco party) will be cheered on — so long as they maintain the rhythm. I myself have only felt brave enough to do a few classes in the past year just as we began to move out of the pandemic. I therefore have a very rudimentary grasp of the rhythm and know only a few steps. One factor in my favour is that I have only ever known Jerez Bulerías. I am unspoilt by any outside influences or what would be seen as “bad habits”.

My teacher validated this by telling me, kindly, that I dance like a Jerezana. My teacher is from Japan and is one of the few well-regarded “outsiders” in the Jerez flamenco community, who dances Bulerías with a real art, an understated elegance. Take into account that a flamenco “outsider” could be anyone a few hundred kilometers north of Jerez. So you may forgive me if 1) I have been incredibly cautious about learning Bulerías myself and 2) I’m incredibly nervous about writing this article, anxious I’ll make some mistake or indiscretion about this coveted art.

I first came to Jerez seven years ago whilst doing a practical residency with my art college. We were sent to Jerez to make a theatre project, though we weren’t entirely sure why. Before going, I knew little of flamenco and nothing of Jerez, but it turned out to be fortuitous (and perhaps also ruinous) trip for me. When I saw my first Bulerías dance, that was it. My old life melted away from me and I could not rest until I understood how it worked. My body jerked as if possessed, wanting to join in, at the very least with the clapping, but I couldn’t conceive how I could recreate the complex 12-part rhythm. In the world of flamenco, outside of Andalusia (known as the crib of flamenco), the 12-beat compás (rhythm) is clapped on-beat, fast and with accents, but generally maintains the monotonal tack-a-tack-tack throughout.

In Jerez, Bulerías are instinctively (though after years of practice) clapped out in layers of on-beat and off-beat counter-rhythms. As the dancer and singer warm-up, accelerating the tempo and energy, members of the audience call out the “jaleo”. These are sporadic, short expressions shouted out to encourage the artists. It is improvised, but highly-skilled, and there are strict frameworks in place to make it appear effortless, off-the-cuff. The “palmas” (clapping) is an art in itself, as is the jaleo. The combination of these create the “soniquete” (groove/ sound) that Jerez Bulerías are famous for. It is a soniquete that, as Mercedes says, is “diabolic” in its rapidity, though imbued with a polished finesse.

If you want to geek out on the structure of the compás, I have provided a screenshot below from an amazingly helpful website, which includes the different types of Bulerías compás you can hear in each region/ area. This is an example of how it is done in Jerez, and if you go to the website you can hear audios of the compás, as well asthe guitarand cante.

From the website of Anna Colom Tadeo

For the music readers out there, here is an example of how it looks in note form, from this also very helpful website (also in Castilian Spanish).

From Flamencopolis

Fiesta por Bulerías (Party Bulerías!)

Fiesta por Bulerías are the culmination of a show, or a juerga, where all the tension built from the players and viewers comes to a head. It explodes from the dancer, agitated by the singer, guitarrist, palmeros (professional compás-clappers) and audience. The dance is abandonment and elation, but highly skilled.

Below is an example of what a Fiesta por Bulerías might look like, although it is played to the audience here, far from the familial-style of juerga that Bulerías originate from. The dancer, Manuela Carpio, is from one of the “gitano” flamenco dynasties of Jerez (gitano is the word that Spanish Romani use to identify themselves). Manuela is also a skilled teacher, judging by the glowing reports of friends lucky enough to study under her.

Fiesta por Bulerías de Jerez with the dance of Manuela Carpio

As I’ve mentioned, the best kinds of Fiesta por Bulerías are the ones you see in an intimate setting, if you’re lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. My first juergita (baby-juerga) was at a friend’s house in the barrio (area) of San Miguel. They lived in a kind of quarters that had been repurposed from an old bakery. The courtyard was large, crumbling and open to the sky. In the courtyard were the remains of a huge, round, old bakery oven, which was even big enough for you to sit inside.

This is where I first met Mercedes. She sang for most of the night, and her voice, although not as powerful as the bellow of the cantaor (flamenco singer) often heard in flamenco, sounded as if it were from another era. It had this nostalgic quality — like the artful crackle of high-quality vintage records, yet authentically present. International people, who had come from all over the world to learn flamenco in Jerez, danced and played guitar through the night. As the bonfire sparked from an old oil drum, I looked at the stars above, wondering if I was dreaming.

I have also had the privilege of encountering spontanous juergas after concerts in flamenco peñas. Peñas are beautiful old buildings preserved by the members of the community, where you can see flamenco concerts for free. The concerts are well attended and you are likely to spy local flamenco aficionados, who, moved by the spirit of the duende (literally translated as “the goblin”) dance their own brand of Bulerías at the end of the show.

In my early, eager days I used to film these on my phone, posting them on Instagram. For example, this fragment of a spontaneous juerga in the Peña Flamenca La Bulería in late 2018, with the cantaora Coral de Los Reyes. Another memorable moment was an elderly woman in the Peña Tio José de Paula, who, despite needing aid to mount the stage, triumpantly danced her Bulerías por fiestas to an adoring public at the end of a concert.

And herein lies what I love about Bulerías in particular, that it is a dance for anybody, regardless of bodily capacity or shape, and that it changes in spirit and character with every person who performs it. I once saw a man who, beginning to dance Bulerías, stopped elegantly, his hands in position. He then stood for a duration of around two minutes, stock still but in perfect compás. The tension was at a frenzy when he finally went to dance the final part, a cheeky little flounce off an imaginary stage. Now that’s what you call “gracia”.

What is Gracia?

To explain the concept fully, I’d rather call on the expertise of Jerez-born flamenco artist, Pepe el Zorri. In the video he tells my friend Ana about what “gracia” is. This was recorded on a visit seven years ago when my Spanish was particularly basic (as were my camera skills).

Ana speaks to Pepe el Zorri about gracia

In the video Pepe mentions El Bo, a local “festero” from a famous gitano flamenco family in Santiago, who sadly passed away in the years since this was filmed. A festero is someone who — rather like my friend Mercedes — can do a little bit of everything, and is the kind of animated person you need to liven up a juerga. Here is a little snapshot of El Bo and his “gracioso” style.

Pepe el Zorri is from a family of fishmongers in La Plazuela, another barrio in Jerez famous for its gitano flamenco families. After his wife died, he seemed to do the impossible, and in his 70s made what was once a hobby into a career. He is now an international touring flamenco dancer.

Pepe el Zorri has the fortune of being related to La Pacquera de Jerez, one of the most respected and greatest cantaoras of the last century. Indeed, her statue marks the entrance to the barrio of La Plazuela, where she was born. Although she died many years before I discovered Jerez, she haunts the barrio of San Miguel. When I moved to Jerez, I lived right next door to the house that La Paquera was born in, for a year and a half. I fell in love with her powerful voice, which seemed to blast every feeling of woe and grief from my body. That is her style, and indeed it this is what the soniquete of La Plazuela, or the barrio of San Miguel, is known for.

Me and La Paquera, La Plazuela, Jerez de la Frontera, 2018

Bulerías of San Miguel and Santiago

A 20 minute walk from San Miguel is the barrio of Santiago, also famous for its flamenco. Though it may seem absurd, there is even a divergence between the Plazuela-style of Bulerías and those you might observe in Santiago. The Plazuela style is considered, “jondo” (profound, sorrowful), and Santiago as more “fiesta”, related to the juerga gitana. El Bo, a Santiago stalwart, is an example of this particular style.

I have lived in the barrio of Santiago for the past year and a half, and as if by magic, I feel as if I am soaking up the sound. I find that these days I’d rather listen to the gracioso-fiesta type of Bulerías than the profundity of the soniquete that had previously gripped me in Plazuela. But I cannot forget my introduction to flamenco via La Plazuela, where many close friends lived, including Mercedes.

I gift you a small introduction of La Paquera singing Bulerías, transforming this intimate juerga with her powerful cante:

Over the last four centuries, gitano families settled in Jerez to work as blacksmiths, fishmongers and basket-weavers, amongst other crafts. The barrios of Santiago and San Miguel traditionally had the highest population of gitano families, where flamenco was passed down from hand to hand, from mouth to mouth. Flamenco is known primarily as an art pertaining to the gitanos, although there are also a great deal of non-gitanos who have contributed to the legacy. Many modern-day flamenco artists in Jerez are from a mix of gitano and non-gitano families. La Paquera, the queen of flamenco, was herself of mixed heritage.

But what are they singing?

Many Bulerías “letras” (lyrics) deal with hardships. Each cantaor has an infinite store of these, which are like little limericks or ditties that have been recycled, passed down, and written anew.

In the letras sung by Mercedes in the very first video, she repeats:

¡Que tengo frío y no tengo leña!

I’m cold and I have no firewood!

Other letras are more absurd and humourous. I will share another snippet of Pepe el Zorri to give you an idea. This is an example of him teaching Bulerías letras to Ana:

Pepe el Zorri sings Bulerías letras

One part of my own personal story I haven’t yet shared are the two months I spent learning cante with the wonderful Carmen Tundidor Neira in 2015. She was a flamenco artist with a young daughter, a pregnant wife and many, many dogs. Her house was full of music and joy, but also the pinch of trying to make a living as an artist in Jerez. It was good fun, but also challenging for the both of us, since my Spanish was so basic as was my knowledge of flamenco and compás.

Carmen taught me a good deal, with openness and warmth. I remember going through a particularly rough moment and having a panic attack; her rushing to get her wife, who promptly popped a pill in my mouth. I’m not sure what it was but it instantly calmed me down. She told me that she grew up on the streets of La Plazuela playing the cajón, a wooden box they play to keep the time of the compás, and that she played in juergas with the great Paquera.

These are some of the characteristically gracioso letras she taught me, well-known by many Jerez cantaores:

Te lo dije una broma

Tan en serio lo has tomado

Que por mi puerta

No asomas

I told you a joke

You took it so seriously

That you no longer show up at my door

I can relate quite strongly to that one.

Another one (although I think she slightly and rather saucily changed the words):

Coge una silletita

y siéntate enfrente

Aunque no seas mi novia

a mí me gusta verte

Grab a chair

and sit opposite

Even though you’re not my girlfriend

I like to look at you

I will wrap up here, acknowledging that we’ve barely scratched the surface of the world of Bulerías, much less the world of flamenco and all its artists.

Here is a link to the Those Who Were Dancing Youtube playlist to hear some more of the locals and greats of Jerez performing Bulerías.

Art to Mock the Rich?

The term Bulerías is said to come from “burlería” (mockery) or “bolero” (deceiver). I was once told that it was called that because the gitanos danced for the rich whilst mocking them, and I love this idea, although it’s not the party line in Jerez. It is said that Bulerías originated in Jerez, but it is also said they originated in Cádiz (a seaside town in the same province as Jerez). As you can probably tell, flamenco is an art riddled with contradictions and a great deal of folklore. It was in the latter part of the 20th century that Bulerías became important, and apparently it wasn’t even really considered flamenco or particurarly jondo before then, but more of a little warm-up to the more serious palos.

If legend has it, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if Bulerías were truly crystallised in Jerez. Trust the Jerezanos to make an art out of the fiesta, and to find the profundity in humour.