Interview with Pierre Lefranc, researcher:

"In flamenco research there's already way too much academic discourse, too often evidence is carefully selected to fit the desired conclusion"

Silvia Calado Olivo. Madrid-Nice, April 2002

An e-mail address is enough to connect Madrid with Nice. At one end of the cable, someone asking the questions; at the other end, Pierre Lefranc (París, 1927), author of the book 'El cante jondo', which pretends to be a bible of this intense, authentic traditional Andalusian singing. The researcher, whose academic career has taken him to Universities in France, Morocco, Senegal and Canada, reflects on his almost accidental immersion in the Seville-Jerez-Cadiz triangle of 'cante' in the sixties, coinciding with Antonio Mairena's campaign to recoup singing styles. A rejection of the term "flamenco", which he considers nothing more than a commercial brand name; the gulf between the cante of public performance and that which can be heard behind closed doors; and the need for researchers to "open doors", are some of the conclusions he draws from his work. As well as a call to all who dip into this field to "treat with respect and earnestness... one of the most splendid spontaneous artforms that exists in the world".

Pierre Lefranc

'El Cante Jondo' is the result of a field study carried out in the sixties in various focal points of flamenco in Andalusia. What inspired you to undertake this project?

Opportunity, I mean, a lucky break. For several years we'd been going to see artists such as Perico del Lunar, Rafael Romero, Juan Varea, Manolo Vargas, Pericón de Cádiz, Pepe Culata, and Roque Jarrito Montoya in Madrid and Paris, all artists who performed at Zambra, a 'tablao' or flamenco club in Madrid. Thanks to some gypsy friends from La Línea, and above all to Anzunini del Puerto, we (my wife and I) were offered the chance to be taken to those hotbeds of 'cante' and gypsy families in Chiclana, Utrera, Rota, Jerez, El Puerto, Cadiz, Dos Hermanas... We took a tape recorder with us in the car, the first time one had been seen in gypsy circles. The term 'field study' overestimates how methodical this was, there was plenty of improvisation. I was an English teacher then, at the University of Rabat, and it was easy to travel to Andalusia on vacation. One important aspect is that since we were introduced as "cousins" from France, no-one ever charged us to hear them sing, with one understandable exception. In fact, on one occasion when I'd played alongside la Fernanda among others, accompanying her during a gathering at the house of a farmer from Utrera, the man slipped me the fee. Evidently since I was the owner of the big car l was also the businessman. (And before you ask, yes - I turned the fee over to our cousins from Utrera!)

And before too long I realised that we had to do something with all that stuff. From time to time we even toyed with the idea of writing a book about those experiences, whose title could have been 'The gypsy years'. There was another phenomenon, too, that deserves a mention. Cante came to be associated exclusively with 'tablao' clubs, so by considering it a cultural heritage in its own right, we saved a facet of the artform whose existence we never even suspected, and which must never be forgotten. They're two different things, not opposed to one another but different: behind what is presented to the public lies (theoretically) a culture. The privilege of gaining access to that culture forced me to describe it for others.

Did you meet with rejection for not being Spanish? And do you think that same distance gives you an edge in flamenco research?

No rejection at all. Being "cousins" from France, we were part of the family. Besides, we had a pretty broad knowledge of 'cantes' which surprised people. Distance never seemed to be a problem over the following years. With my tapes, the records, the vivid memories of what we saw and our experiences of cante in its natural habitat, I had enough material to feed my reflection wherever I was, at the North Pole, in Andalusia or on the moon. We'd also captured cante in a social, family environment which sooner or later changed or disappeared: the past that we'd come to know was rapidly slipping away. The distance sheltered me from evolutionary phenomena which weren't related to my subject matter. But our experience was so unique, so personal, that you can't really make generalisations from it.

How did those experiences feel, and what challenges did you face when you sat down to analyse them?

The experiences were intense, fascinating, very happy, sometimes very tiring, unforgettable. They can't be summarised in a few words. Afterwards, as I explain in the book, I stopped all work for fifteen years (1972-1987) for two reasons. On the one hand, I was really busy professionally (I retired in 1987). And on the other hand, the "field work" coincided with the early years of Mairena's campaign to recoup singing styles, where he alone, as sole witness, revived one style or another. We had to look for other witnesses. In fact, we had to wait until Mairena's work was complete for the release of other home recordings of families, or recordings made in villages. Apart from that, which was a simple precaution, there weren't really any hurdles. The central theme running through the book is of cultural heritage and that's something I've experience of working with professionally in various contexts. Luis and Ramón Soler's book on Mairena confirmed my findings and allowed me to make some refinements when I was at the finishing stages.

What does this book offer that hasn't been included in previous books on this theme?

It offers new and significant perspectives on the origins of cante, as the CD indicates. Essentially, it's a body of work clearly situated socially and geographically. A glossary of cantes for future studies, even for musicologists. And it's based not only on the existing discography, but also on our perception of the styles and the cultural aspirations back then. Furthermore, the detailed description of each type of cante in its context, with a selected list of examples, allows novices access to a complex specialist area.

In the text there seems to be a dividing line between family tradition and the music industry. What has the first lost in favour of the second?

The dividing line exists and can be seen on two levels. With a few notable exceptions, such as Terremoto or Fernanda, a delivery can't be the same in public or in the recording studio as it is in an intimate gathering. Except with your eyes closed and totally absorbed in what you're doing, it's impossible to wail into a microphone or in front of an anonymous, almost invisible audience, and do it from the heart. Anyway, what reaches the public is only a part of what's out there, and only a part of the artist's repertoire, who naturally tends to be protective over his material. There were cantes -those of Manuel Cagancho and el Nitri- that Pastora Pavón knew but never recorded. The taboo on singing alboreás in public is based on the idea that it forms an integral part of the enclosed culture, the culture which defines the social group. What gets sold is what can be sold without any risk, what's valuable is kept guarded. If you sell what's yours you lose it, it isn't yours anymore, and all for a little cash... which in turn will soon disappear. What's valuable is looked after until it's given away because, in these circles, giving is sharing. There are two worlds which don't mix, one is earning a living, the other giving your all in performance. Quite often after singing on stage we've heard 'cantaores' come out with a phrase like "Now we're going to such-and-such a place, to sing".

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