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As with many stage-adapted group traditions, Peru Negro requires some educated guessing what is intrinsic and what adapted from Afro-Peruvian dance traditions. Program notes indicate Cuban drums and the flute are additions. The violin was present, apparently comparatively soon after African slaves reached Peru in the mid sixteenth century, though free African soldiers had been present earlier.

The ten dancers, evenly divided by gender, were young, engaging, extraordinarily adept in torso and hip undulations, a steady vibrato hurricane in both departments throughout their nine dances. Maritza Gueler, Editor-Publisher of the Spanish language Web Site Danza Hoy, remarked couple dancing was a distinct product of Spanish influence, with costume influence added. These were both handsome and intriguing, full-skirted dresses with white petticoats for the girls and capri length trousers, mostly white, on the men. Bare feet were the rule. One dance, Son de los Diablos, was performed in tomato red masks and bright striped costumes of yellow, green, orange and blue, each layer terminating in triangle shapes which fluttered and shimmied as the men cavorted, hesitated, object instruction in syncopated foot work.

Another dance, a delicious take off on Spanish colonial pretensions had the men white stockinged, everyone in low-heeled black shoes with buckles, the girls’ necks encased with white, upper arms in puffed sleeves, their skirts overlaid with different shades of brilliant velvet. They minced with savor, managing to inflect undulation and suggestion. Angene Feves, Renaissance-Baroque dance historian, had mentioned to me the sarabande had its origins in Peru, traveling to Spain where its suggestiveness had it banned by the Church. Between that interdict and this number, I could well see why.
 

Another stellar dance number was Zapateo II where the men in green blouses and white trousers strummed wooden boxes in the opening, alternately expert hands with their equally adept feet before abandoning boxes for a rousing display of brilliant syncopated, percussive footwork. The men, all on the small side, very lithe with shaved heads, displayed minute personal inflections in unison movement, unique to each physique, practiced and perfected to a fare the well.

Vocalist Monica Duenas Avalos and her support singer Yolanda Olivia Tello Ortega, dressed in white with ruffles at neck and feet, echoed the wonderful musicians wearing white trousers and full-sleeved shirts. They swayed equally to their music, although Duenas’ exuberant skirt manipulation might have been cooled a trifle. Duenas and Oscar Jose Brunce Solano collaborated in a lively audience-participation number in the second half which visibly as well as vocally engaged at least the orchestra if not the entire auditorium.

Noche Flamenco drew sold out houses to their austere format, almost ghostly lighting for the simple set: chairs changing places and quantity according to the piece. Initially drawn by the bearded guitarist whose haunting exposition of melismatic sound beckoned me into the ambiance, promising something very special, I was surprised both floor and vocalists were miked, making me curious at their performing power minus amplified sound. . Perhaps it was that which left me admiring but outside of total engagement. I appreciated the fact that the women were conservatively dressed, the usual feminine apparatus of combs, floppy flowers, extravagantly ruffled dresses with trains absent. The program included notes on the difference dance forms of flamenco.

The strength of Noche Flamenco lies in the very sobriety of its presentation; artistic director Martin Santangelo was present through most of the numbers, sitting, sharing in the jaleo, but not performing. I found myself watching his responses to the dances as much as the performers.

Some of the solos were like monographs: slowly building, particularly with Antonio Rodriguez Jimenez and Juan Ogalla; punctuated with frequent pauses, each stalked his territory, measuring space with mood before erupting into a frenzied display of taconeo, supported by jaleo, song and calls of encouragement from Santangelo. Each, dressed in street suits, ultimately shed the jacket to be retrieved ceremoniously as the ballerin left the stage. The attire chosen contributed to the sub-text that flamenco is an habit, not removed from daily life, but practiced where there are devotees, expertise and duende.
 

Rodriguez Jimenez dances with his hands in frequent fists, and a noticeable stiffness of torso, noticeably in his turns, both suggesting an accident or birth problem transcended by monumental concentration, laced with shyness and an introspection which provides a lava cascade of taconeo, a display of appealing blank verse. Juan Ogalla comes off as the no nonsense bouncer in a night club when he commences his solo, his stage stalking irritability and impatience, ruminating over some unforgotten encounter with a guy he’d cheerfully cream. When he is sufficiently warmed to his task, his taconeo is bewitching. The two together danced an all too brief Martinete before Soledad Barrio appeared in the Segyuiria

Barrio is small, square, a totally compact figure on stage. You might see her anywhere on the street in Spain: marketing, escorting children, talking with other housewives, Mrs. Hispana personified. This lent strength to her unadorned segyuiria, from the center before the guitarists, gathering force and intensity until its close downstage right, backed by three men, a haunted figure of loss grieving over the body of the dead beloved.

The audience was totally appreciative, many in the orchestra standing.