Concha Buika

The only thing I can compare it to is the feeling of being in love, that new feeling of being devoured by emotion, of not wanting to see anyone else or be anywhere else but with that one particular person.

That is how I felt after the Buika concert.

The concert ended way too early, too prematurely to be considered a full experience. I could have sat there all night, watching her, listening to her handclaps and watching her mix a flamenco soul and sensibility with what we in the states would consider an R&B/soul, with a little bit of hip grinding. She – along with Meshell Ndegeocello – has inspired me to write PAGES. If Meshell is my spiritual wife, and trust me when I say that I have no doubt that she is, then Buika is my new mistress, having crept up to me in the middle of my life and whispered in my ear.

Yes, folks, she was all that.

She is a woman I have spent many nights with, would love to spend just one night with,  woman with whom I would love to collaborate, a woman who makes me come back to my hotel room so scribble down this nonsense when I should be out dancing and enjoying
Castellon.

She has drained me.

I wrote poetry at Meshell’s feet what seems like a decade ago, but Buika will give me sweet dreams.

I hope I get to see her in the states. This setting here was much too subdued and restrained for my tastes. I spent the whole night with my hands locked together fighting the motion that wanted to flee from them.

It was a great concert, a lovely experience. Thanks, Buika.

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