Archived under: Humor, The Business | Musicians & musicianship, Stories
The Most Insane and Crazy Carmen Story Ever – Part II
A bullfight during the opera “Carmen” – the saga continues.
In Part I, I gave background to my ultimate Crazy Gig Story. In short, a production of Bizet’s Carmen staged in stadiums in Mexico put on an actual bullfight during the opera.
After the gruesome “bloody shoes” incident, I thought the worst was over. It turned out that the cosmic chain of misfortune was just getting its heavenly juices warmed up.
*Apologies to Carmen Electra, Carmen Gia (of The Producers), Carmen Miranda and the Carmengia (of Volkswagon).
Back to the big city
After a week or so off, the show recommenced in Mexico City in the largest bullring in all of Mexico – a seating capacity of 50,000. While a good third of the seating was taken over by a large platform constructed for the opera stage and orchestra platform, estimates were still around 15,000 to 20,000 spectators per night.
The shows in Mexico City started off more or less as business as usual: we get to the third act, the opera stops, a bull dies, then Carmen dies. The audience applauds and we go home.
Lather, rinse and repeat.
By the third night though, a large group of animal rights protesters had organized a major protest rally at the gates of the stadium. They had gotten wind of our performance-enhanced Carmen and alerted their troops. They were very angry and were ready for a confrontation.
Television cameras and lights and reporters were everywhere. The protesters had even enlisted the help of some famous television personalities – a team of luchadores.
Lucha Libre
Forget Spiderman and Batman - phfft…those wimps aren’t real. In Mexico the real superheroes are flesh and bone, like “The Saint” and the “Blue Demon!”
The Lucha Libre in Mexico is the predecessor to the current wrestling entertainment phenomena in the United States. Young people worship these guys like superheros – they dawn colorful masks and execute acrobatic, high-flying technical moves.
Their long history has been a huge influence on the American wrestling genre, which owes much of its existence I believe, to Lucha Libre.
For 50 years one famous luchador, El Santo (his son is pictured at left), was a huge star who also made television shows and movies, appeared in comic books and made public appearances in support of various charitable causes.
Over his long, illustrious career he came to represent the struggles of the common man rising above diversity. The mask heightened the mystique and he was viewed as a real-life folk hero to many.
As I exit the subway terminal on my way to the Carmen show, the gigantic stadium looms in sight. I notice a huge crowd. As I get closer, I see a real-life luchador in full costume roped up to a huge, wooden cross that is fastened to the gate near the musicians entrance.
Huh…what is going on?
Protesters
With powerful megaphones, the protesters are broadcasting their animal rights slogans and are leading group chants. They are also passing out slick publicity materials and the assembled crowd seems very interested in their spectacle.
I stop to check it out.
The crucified luchador doesn’t have much to say really. He remains in character and is dedicated to his performance art piece, looking pained yet heroic.
The protesters are passing out buttons and pamphlets by the handful. The pamphlet – “Dirty Game” (seen at right) – is chocked-full of interesting information on how the bull is primped and gimped for the show. The look of desperation on the bull’s face captures my attention, so I take one.
Inside, a serene, still-life drawing of a young child with bulls in a pastoral setting illustrates that in their natural habitat, bulls are passive and calm.*
*A side note:
I had tested this theory years earlier in a remote cow pasture. I pulled out my French horn and emulated loud, “mooey” sounds at some cows about 50-60 yards away. Since the French horn is inherently pastoral and mooey in its character this was not a terribly difficult thing to accomplish.
The cows perked up; their big brown cow eyes focused on me intently. They looked genuinely curious.
A big bull got very interested, snorted and charged. I ran away to the nearest fence, fleeing like a little schoolgirl, squealing with her arms flailing in the air.
Back to the story…
Whether the information in this pamphlet is accurate, or if the “cards are stacked” and all these things are done at once I am not sure, but here are some highlights of how they say the bull is handicapped before the show:
- Wet paper crammed into its ears
- The horns are dulled
- Cotton stuffed in its nose
- Vaseline smeared in its eyes
An irritant put on its hooves (to keep the animal moving)- Laxatives**Presumable to evacuate its bowels prior to the show reducing the extra, unpleasant show of bowel evacuation when it dies in the arena.
It is no wonder t
hen that these bulls are so angry. My big sister once tricked me into eating a handful of chocolate laxatives when I was a kid - Bruuu-cie! Mmmm yummy caaan-dy! I ran around like a bull on fire for hours.
If interested about this pamphlet, check out this 652K PDF scan, or click on the thumbnail image above right.
At the protest rally, I also pick up a large, lapel button. Pictured on it is a silhouetted cartoon bull with swords in its back. It is bleeding out its back and puking blood. A bold caption reads “No es Arte, No es Cultura, ES NEGOCIO!” (It’s not an Art, it’s not a Culture, it’s a Business!)
OHHH KAAAY… I think it’s time to go to work now.
I leave the spectacle outside, to join the spectacle inside.
Mucho Machismo
From my biased gringo perspective, the bullfight bravado in a nutshell is all about machismo – an extreme display of masculinity. It’s not enough to dress up in a fancy costume with tight, high-waisted pants highlighting your manly parts. Oh no dear reader, you have to prove it and face Death in its big brown eyes.
And if you are Man enough, you might even conquer Death itself. Yes, the fancy cape moves are a part of that magical process, but there are a few other moves and flourishes that play into this supernatural ability.
There is the “back-turn” and “sashay” move. After a few passes with the cape, the matador backs away with his head high and one hand raised in the air and – slowly mind you – turns his back to the bull. The crowd goes nuts.
Sometimes, there is the “get-down-on-your-knees-and-pose move.” Again, after many passes with the cape, the matador struts away from the bull and drops to one or both knees. Add a hand on the waist and the other flicked into the air as a final touch. This is a huge crowd pleaser. Do this with your back turned and the crowd goes wild.
The show goes on
Carmen begins without a hitch. Bizet would be proud; we have been playing it for a weeks now and so it is going swimmingly (ha – love that word). After the second act is done, we take an intermission.
All of us are gossiping about the protest outside and how weird that is. A few wonder if any of those weirdos outside are going to get inside and try to create a scene.
“Oh well, who cares – it’ll be something fun to watch” is the general sentiment. Chortles and chuckles.
Act III. Everything is going just fine – swimmingly in fact. We get to Carmen’s death scene and stop. The bullfight begins.
It starts with the usual pageantry and fanfare – a highly ritualized drama. I am an Ancient Rome history buff and am fascinated by this bizarre, gladiatorial spectacle. By the time the matador makes his entrance, a good 2o minutes has passed. Finally el matador makes his arrival and the crowd goes wild. In these Mexico City performances some of the biggest stars in the bullfight arena are here, and this guy is apparently one of the biggest.
After the cheers, applause and cowbells die down, he begins the deadly dance of manly manliness.
O solo mio
Olé! cheers the giant crowd of thousands upon thousands to his cape flourishes. Many have noise makers – trumpets, cowbells and whistles – and they are making a huge ruckus.
Olé! Olé! Olé!
The matador takes a dramatic pause. He begins that slow, magical sashay in the direction of the orchestra. Suddenly, a viola player – a viola player! – stands up and begins shouting insults at the matador. He raises his fist and is yelling at the top of his lungs about how this demonstration proves nothing about being a Man, and it is nothing but a public execution.
The orchestra platform is just that – an exposed platform. We are in plain sight situated about 20 feet below the main stage. Our angry violist (we’ll call him Hans) is standing and yelling loudly so that everyone in the arena can see and hear him. The arena layout is a classic, steeply-angled and compact Roman coliseum design. I hear his voice loudly bouncing off the walls and so I assume that everyone – all 15 to 20 thousand – hear and see him.
Hans is just going on and on and on and on.
We are all in shock just looking at this guy and he won’t stop, and my mouth is wide open and he is shaking his fist and his face is turning red, and I turn and look to my amigos and we are all AGHAST and FROZEN with fear in our seats and holy crap did he just call the matador a maricon? and when is this guy going to stop I am dieing of embarrassment and did I just break wind or did I crap my pants ahhhh what do we do (?!) Hans is in a tirade and the matador is just standing there in front of the orchestra with his head cocked sideways like a confused puppy looking at Hans like…whaaaaaaa?!?!
Brain freeze
My heart is pounding and my eyes are about to pop out of my skull. Somewhere in the parking lot outside of the arena, a lonely cricket chirps – swimmingly. The crowd meanwhile is absolutely silent. They are all as shocked and transfixed as we are. Even the bull senses the terse energy in the air. He is mesmerized and frozen in place.
Finally, the angst-ridden Hans runs out of steam and stops yelling. Oh man o man o man o man… The matador looks up, pauses and finally says something. He responds, “WELL, if you are such a MAN, why don’t you come down here and prove it?” Not missing a beat, Hans rips off his tails coat, throws it aside and storms his way down towards the edge of the platform.
Ack, this guy is gonna go down there?! Holy crap! Hans, what the hell man, get a grip!
Suddenly from the wings, two very large and well-dressed security men dash in and make a beeline for Hans. The orchestra explodes into action and a unison “NOOOOO!” erupts.
Everything goes into into slow motion…
The crowd breaks their stone silence and goes wild. With anger.
The roar is deafening. Boos and hollers and whistles encircle us in crashing waves as we struggle to keep these brutes and their mitts off of our beloved Hans. Agree or disagree with his tirade, he is one of us and we will protect him.
Arguments break out between the musicians and the brutes. After a few minutes, they finally give up and step aside.
Score: musicians 1, brutes 0.
Needless to say we are extremely disheveled, and the while the audience has stopped booing and whistling by this point, there is still a loud murmur in the air. Our conductor – who is also one of the producers – is looking at us as if he ate a rotten egg and washed it down with sour milk.
As we settle back into our seats, the din gets quieter, but then some provocateurs in the audience get brave and start shouting demands.
“KILL THE BULL!” one of them shouts. A section of the audience erupts into applause and cheers. The general noise level and murmur rises.
Some wise guy yells “KILL THE SOPRANO!!” Everyone laughs and giggles while a smaller number applaud in support. I joined in the laughter – it helps to relieve some tension.
Whew – I feel a little better now.
“KILL THE MUSICIANS!!!” Immediate applause and laughter from a majority; cheers and whistles.
Yikes – where is that exit door?
The matador retreats backstage. The bull looks lost and confused and wanders around. The applause continues for a while.
Uh-oh.
The jeers and murmurings and rabble-rabble go on for a while. My heart is still pounding – space and time are nothing but a confused Jackson Pollack abstraction at this point. Looking back, I cannot even guess at how long this goes on and on.
Finally everyone settles down. After a few more minutes pass, the matador re-enters. Everyone cheers, much to the dismay of the orchestra. Our concertmaster – a cheery fellow – abruptly stands up and turns his back in protest to the bullring below.
We all dutifully do the same. For the entire bullfight, start to finish.
The fat lady sings and a Maestro cries foul
The bullfight ends and the show continues. The opera is mercifully over shortly thereafter and the audience politely applauds in appreciation. The chorus and singers proceed to take their final bows. When this is over, the soloists join hands, line up and march to the front of the stage. More polite applause. Large bouquets of flowers arrive carried by adorably small children.
When the soloist performing as Carmen gestures to the orchestra to acknowledge us, we stand. The applause trickles away and the jeers begin: whistling, booing and yelling. The applause fades away completely.
An angry, open debate begins over the incident with Hans. Back and forth it goes, comments are yelled and mini-speeches are made. Some are supported with applause and cheers, while others are booed and hissed at.
As the debate rises to a fever pitch, one single voice rises above them all. The crowd goes silent and listens. (!) I crane my neck out to see who it is. Standing at the edge of the arena far away from the orchestra is an impeccably well-dressed man shaking his finger at the crowd.
“Shame on you people!” he yells. “Shame! Shame!! SHAME!!!”
He is chastising the crowd!
“What is wrong with you all!’” he bellows. I stand up to get a better look at who it is. I’ll hand it to him, the guy has got some huevos.
“I demand that you show some respect to these musicians!” It is none other than Enrique Bátiz, an enormously popular conductor in Latin America who is also rather infamous for his many personal quirks and antics.
Maestro Bátiz holds some major political power; his dynamic personality attracts it like a magnet. For a short while, the mayor of Mexico City even appointed him as an honorary Chief of Police. When an oboist in his orchestra tried to take an audition for a different orchestra, Bátiz had the oboist arrested and thrown in jail so he would miss the audition.
In another life, he would have been a superb matador.
By the time that Bátiz starts his chastisements, my head was kind of spinning – so today I don’t recall much about what he said exactly in his long speech. But when he is done after several minutes, the crowd settles down. Whatever he said, it diffuses the ticking time bomb successfully and our worries with the angry mob appear to be over.
They head for the exits. Bátiz saved us.
March of the Penguins
A few musicians who pack up early and leave, come back to the orchestra platform and report that a security detail is waiting for Hans by the exit. The thugs tell a few musicians that when Hans comes out, they are going to beat the living crap out of him.
We hold a quick conference and decide to all leave together in one large pack, with Hans protected in the middle. If the security thugs want trouble, they are going to have to carve their way through all us. Looking like penguins huddled together on an Arctic quest, we walk out – past security and out the front gate.
Score: musicians 2, brutes 0.
We safely escort Hans all the way to his car. The evening was truly and finally over.
Epilogue
The next morning I get an early call from the contractor.
The remainder of the opera – another two weeks – is canceled. The producers quickly pack their bags and go back to South America where they were never heard from again.
Oh yeah…. and we never got paid. Not a single peso. At the time I was pretty upset, but as I write this I hold no grudges. I learned incredibly important lessons from this drama: of humor in the face of diversity; dedication to one’s art; and most importantly, solidarity to one’s comrades – even if their opinions sharply contrast your own.
Yes, I never got paid for over five weeks of work but these lessons learned are something that money simply can’t buy.
And, they hold great relevance and value to me to this day.
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