Diamanda
Galás Darkens the Night
This article
was originally published in EL PAIS: LA CRÓNICA
by LUIS HIDALGO 13/03/2007
The lady of darkness
starred in a splendid and exciting recital. A photographer spoke
by phone with his boss and asked him, "Do you know what this
lady does?" This question was not gratuitous. This professional,
possibly cultured in all sorts of events, had never seen a congregation
of people in public like those that were gathered Sunday in the
Auditori. Strange that the bills announced Diamanda Galás.
It was not curious that the public had a common esthetic, but with
the assistants the disparity was absolute: from post-punk children
to sinister skeptics passing for executives to individuals that
might turn up with a condor on the shoulder. That said, almost everyone
used black as a color of distinction. The setting was also black.
More than just black, shadow ruled all the same; to the extreme
that the artist’s exit was heard before seen.
Passing ten minutes
after 20.00h, the sound of heels announced the entrance, to the
stage, of the solitary Diamanda, dressed of course, darkly. An instant
later her figure was seated under the haze of light that engulfed
the piano and the applause intensified. Her face, except for the
people situated in the first row, was not seen, being that the light
blurred contours and on the contrary, this esthetic motive fused
her and her grand piano. A concert intended for 70 minutes, it was
extended because Diamanda felt so flattered by the applause that
followed her--they fell amongst the surprise that the diva would
not give more than her music. Diamanda Galás is a queen of
darkness; whose figure, attitude and personality could very well
be the mixture between Lucifer and Vlad the Impaler. Always on the
dark side of music, and gifted with a voice of strong operatic register,
she has the capacity to rise beyond three octaves and the expertise
in twisting melodies to become black holes that absorb the surrounding
melodies and cause them to mourn, Diamanda would disturb the very
Darth Vader, whose respiratory death rattle would recall an innocent
nursemaid in comparison. That could be suggested by witnessing just
her aspect, her pale face surrounded by black makeup, as to the
most superficial questions relating to her music. Given her personality
and predicament for seeking more than formal beauty understood without
angulations and edges, the environment in the Auditori was suddenly
one of exceptional occasion.
It was exceptional
that the photographers were prohibited to work in the first rows.
They had to remain behind everyone, and before the audience that
was bothered by the noise of the cameras; they should have shot
as the snipers of the enemy to the doors: when she rose the tone
they pressed their trigger more lightly to suppress the noise. It
was also exceptional to see how the sound technician seemed to act
as another instrumentalist, carrying the rhythm and arching over
the table to accompany Diamanda’s extraordinary vocal exhibitions.
Later, one of the demands of the artist was to prohibit reentry
to the room to anyone whom abandoned it after the fifth song; this
was verified by those who desired to urinate but chose to continue
to watch the concert. Especially if they were not notified in advance,
of the curious measure.
In reality, one must
concede that Diamanda delivered an extraordinary concert. It was
phenomenal to leave intimidated by that voice that breaks in digressions
and extreme tone while entering the ears as an unhealthy buzz. The
shouts, the impossible sustains that were prolonged like the howl
of an injured and dangerous animal; those telluric laments that,
more than fear, evoked a feeling of ghostly intimidation; the phonetic
play and the virulence of Diamanda’s attacks to the songs left everyone
stunned, puzzled, impressed, astonished and dazed. Nearly everyone
who stayed was carried away in raw emotion. That voice, to which
the sound technician applied direct effect, extended in fourteen
themes that will form part of Guilty, Guilty, Guilty, Galás’s
upcoming disc. All unrecognizable (or almost), Diamanda’s versions
are an unknown theme heard in the voice of Sinatra, of Holiday,
or of Brel. Galás’s versions, accentuated by the gloomy notes
of the piano, are new songs that seem written by her, a disturbing
woman in the best sense of the term.