As we entered the Wells' auditorium before Monday's performance, there was Eva Yerbabuena already on stage, white-clad and seated in a white armchair of unappealing design. Was she having what Nanny would call "a nice sit down?" Had we caught her unawares? Or could this be a prelude to the programme's threat of "exploring the emotions, and the growth of the female psyche"? Whatever - the succeeding show was called Five Women (more precisely and vulgarly, "5 Women 5"), and was a nonsense. It involved La Yerbabuena (the star, and thus having more flounces on her skirt than her companions) and four other ladies, and later four chaps, wearing those rather sulky expressions that come with tight trousers and Cuban heels.
What this carry-on signified I knew not, until eventually Yerbabuena performed two solos. Splendid these were, but the surrounding activities were bizarre. Should we care that "love, ambition, solitude and madness" involve a woman "who carries and confronts her shadow-selves"? There was tricky lighting, and a gurgling baby (are there no convenient hillsides on which it could be exposed?) and a soprano who sang intermittently and acted as chair-attendant to Our Heroine.
Yerbabuena's companions rattled about the stage performing flamenco steps, whirling and stamping in unison and looking agreeable, while she indulged in anguish by numbers, like some provincial Phèdre. (I was reminded of Beatrice Lillie's celebrated couplet: "Wind round my heart: we should never have dined à la carte".)
The affair was redeemed by Yerbabuena's solos. First in white, later in black, she clears the stage, and allows song, guitars and flamenco itself to take hold. Her bravura control of rhythm, its changing shapes and inflections; the purr and rattle of her feet; the intoxicating curves and sudden twists of her torso; the hand-claps and finger clicks and the sudden flash of a foot: all are part of the battery of virtuosity she can produce. Suddenly the evening is worthwhile, and we forgive the encircling claptrap.
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