It’s zambomba month in Jerez
Under the ancient, gargantuan fig tree in the plaza 100 yards from our front door a festive crowd is going off to Zambomba. Zambomba is Christmas flamenco for the masses, in that anyone can join in and not risk being kicked in the fork by one of the performers. It gets its name from the distinctive drum they use. A long cane stick is attached perpendicular to the drum skin, with the sound being made by sliding one's hand(s) up and down the shaft – typically with a few drops of water as a lubricant – thereby creating a vibration that causes a low moaning sound.
Yes, it's kind of obscene, but no one seems to have noticed.
Chairs are arranged in a semicircle around the performers, up from which random old ladies spontaneously jump and dance in the middle of the circle, seemingly until they're out of breath. Which is great – until the crowd reaches a critical mass that means if you're in the farther rows you can't see a scroot unless you're very tall or stand on a box. In itself this isn't important because it's enough to settle back and bask in the party sounds, but it makes capturing a photo rather difficult.
Obviously the lyrics were hard for us to follow but it was clear that everyone in the crowd has grown up knowing each and every one of the songs. One we could follow a little has a chorus along the lines of 'walking walking walking in the good night'.
Another fan favourite (I looked up the lyrics) is about a lady named Mycaela, who is unwell and requests a visit from the doctor. The doctor examines Mycaela, first by placing his hand on her face, then in her mouth, then on her knee, then on her chest, then on her groin, interestingly to the increasing encouragement of the patient herself and with no professional repercussions on the doctor's part.
For reasons of decency, here's a brief clip of the one about walking in the good night.
Zambomba season runs from late November to Christmas eve, though the larger gatherings are weekends only. Dozens of pubs run indoor events, while the outdoor squares are packed with yahoo-istas clapping and singing along to a never-ending stream of performers.
The party scene in Spain is rather homogenous, age wise, but the mix is never so apparent than during zambomba. Kids and granparents all sharing the same space. Babies being wheeled through throngs of high-density, high-volume singers, for some reason not screaming in terror at the sight of so many giants looming above, some of them with flashing lights in their hats. It's presumably a form of social innoculation and explains the high tolerance for reduced personal space and booming vocalisation exhibited by the Spaniard population as a whole. They grow up with it.
During zambomba in Jerez, the trick is to roam around the maze-like streets and soak up the atmosphere and as much oloroso as you can handle. There's something different around every corner, and a lot of it isn't even obscene. This isn't Sydney Harbour on New Year's eve or a music festival. Rather it's a bunch of citizens being citizens all together, albeit off the leash. By far the majority of attendees live nearby and can walk here, so there's little risk of drink-driving and no need to queue for a train home.
And they do it five weekends in a row, returning to relatively normal life during the week.
That last point becomes painfully apparent as the die-hards who've been partying all day finally decide to go home – 'home' in a vast number of cases lying in a direction that takes them past our bedroom window. There's nothing quite like tipsy clapping and singing in an echo-y street to lull you to sleep at 3 am on a Sunday.
Oh, the obscene bit. I couldn't get close enough to the circle to get a good video of the drumming, so here's a popular vid from a couple of years ago. Watch the old lady go to town on the drum about 16 seconds in.
