Kings and Kings

Went off to “the historic” El Rey theater last night to see the Gipsy Kings.  (I won’t claim to have actually heard them.)

I’m aware of the claim that rumba-flamenca is merely flamenco-lite, and I don’t care.   I like me that Afro-Peruvian-Aragonese-Andalucian-Havana-Provençal sound, so sue me.

So I went to The King (El Rey) to hear a band composed mainly of the Reyes (King) family, called the Kings.  If I were better able at the moment to access the more mischievous parts of my gray matter, I would be able to make a joke of that.  As it is, I leave it to you.

The concert really sucked.

First, El Rey oversold the venue.  They had the decency to send emails ahead of time explaining that not everyone would find a seat, though they still weren’t offering refunds.  Even though we came early, no seats were to be had.  Kathy is recovering from knee surgery, and I complement the theater staff for digging a chair out of storage for her, and it was pure luck that I found one for myself.  I would have surrendered it if any handicapped people turned up, but none made it up the stairs to the mezzanine.

Since most of the seats in the El Rey are simple folding chairs, I don’t know why the theater couldn’t have rented more of them.  There are places that do that!

I never did catch the name of the opening group, since the announcement was garbled, but they were an instrumental group that played jazz fusion or jazz-rock or were maybe even just a jam band, but their sound was so horribly distorted that I couldn’t make much of it whatever they were.

Then the headliners came out, and I experienced the worst sound quality I’ve ever heard in any professional venue, ever.  El Rey is basically a shoebox-shaped movie palace dating (I’m guessing) from the 1940s, and its acoustics have always sucked, but this reached beyond awful and into the eighth circle of Hell.  The sound was so distorted that I couldn’t make out a single lyric, and the rhythm section sounded like someone was repeatedly dropping dumpsters atop one another in the alley behind the theater.

Sometimes, behind the horrific wall of distortion, I could sort of understand what it was supposed to sound like.  But often not.

I think there was a great show going on somewhere.  But I didn’t hear it.

I consoled myself afterwards with some snacks from one of the taco trucks that Donald Trump is supposed to protect us from, but it was small, sad consolation for $125 spent on tickets.