In Spain and particularly on the island of Mallorca, if you want a good local fun, don't go to the tourist traps, neon lighted discos or "star performing now" kind of event.
No, enter the back gates away from City's center and look for an old tavern with no fancy tablecloth and less fancy illuminating works and an old man performing.
There you will have an evening that will scrub away your soul of the callouses that the modern world put there.

The atmosphere was subdued,
and all the lights, and the talk,
like the bodega was a church
with spider's webs, wine and corks.

A naked bulb over a solitary chair
illuminating a musician's spot,
we, sitting with two glasses of wine
on a naked table without a cloth.

Someone whispered, "he's coming!"
and we saw the approach, a man, old,
a gnarled hand holding the instrument,
he sat, eyes with many a story untold.

Old fingers caressing the strings,
pulling quasi inaudible softly accords,
crying, laughing, then Manuel de Falla's
Fire Dance of a Bewitched Love.

The tavern was silent, like a church,
after the last echoes of the guitar's voice,
eyes blurred by fiery shadows of pain,
wine going down like tears of the soul.

Nobody said nothing as the old man went,
applause will no be heard, we was in church,
with a piece of bread and a glass of wine
a music mass was done, in that Spanish soil.