Pitingo, cantaor flamenco. Interview

“I’d have loved to take the seguiriya
off the album as a single”

Silvia Calado. Madrid, July 2006

Even though he was born at the mouth of the Guadiana, his cante comes from the other bank of the Guadalquivir. The Jerez families of Los Carpio and Los Valencia, plus Juanito Mojama converge in the flamenco genetics of Antonio Pitingo. And the journey goes on to Granada, where the cantaor has found Los Habichuela as the sponsors of his début album. And there are still other ingredients, since his voice is seasoned with the flavors of gospel and soul. And though he is aware that he isn’t going to change flamenco, he does want to give it new color. They say that ‘soulería’ is “performing, putting your soul into it, specific marvels with your voice, adjusting at all times to flamenco rhythm”. With Pitingo, flamenco-soul is born.

Pitingo (Photo: Daniel Muñoz)

Cante runs in your family. Introduce yourself, Pitingo.

I was born in Ayamonte, Huelva. On my mother’s side I belong to Los Carpio and Los Valencia. My grandmother is Carpio Valencia, the niece of Juanito Mojama and I’ve heard cante at home since I was a little boy because my grandmother used to sing, my Uncle José used to sing and dance, my cousins... Except for my mother, the poor thing, who draws really well, but doesn’t sing. I also used to listen to my Uncle Diego a lot, who was our patriarch, and he used to sing and dance really well.

More Jerez cante than Huelva cante...

A lot of people ask me why I haven’t done Huelva fandangos on the album. And I always say that on my mother’s side, they’re all from Sanlúcar, from Cádiz, from Jerez. You already met my cousin Fernando at the studio in Jerez. I like the Huelva fandango and I know it, but I’m more caracolero; I like the fandango by Manolo Caracol more. I grew up more with the cante from Cádiz than that of Huelva. And I’ve been singing since I was a little boy. When I was eight or nine I used to sing the typical stuff, a bit por bulerías, fandangos, por rumba, but once I came to Madrid was when I started to sing a wider variety of cantes: malagueñas, granaína, taranta...

And did you come to Madrid to make your way as a cantaor?

No, I came to Madrid to work. I started working at the airport handling luggage. And afterwards I’d go to the señoritos’ parties I was invited to at night. Then I got into a tablao while I went on working at the airport.

Did you say “señoritos”?

Yeah, señoritos. I’m going to one tonight.

Doesn’t it have a negative connotation anymore?

Not so much anymore. Now they’re enthusiasts who are respectful. Before, well, it depends, you might get called up, you sang your lungs out and nobody paid any attention to you; they just used to do it to have a couple of flamencos there. And the only thing you were waiting for was to get paid and leave. But now it’s different.

Getting back to your story. The next step was the tablaos, wasn’t it?

I started working at El Café de Chinitas, Torres Bermejas, Casa Patas..., singing for bailaores like Mari Paz Lucena, El Toleo and a lot of other people.

Pitingo

People always say you have to go to that school. What did you learn at the tablaos?

I learned to sing more unhurriedly. Sometimes there are people who move ahead and others take a step back; there are people who begin to sing more unhurriedly and others who speed things up too much. I learned to sing more unhurriedly and to get up on stage calmer, more measured-out. You can tell a cantaor who’s accompanied baile by how he measures the time, the rhythm.

And in the flamenco nights of Madrid you met producers, cantaores...

One night I went to El Mago - a flamenco gathering held every week in Madrid – and I met José Manuel Gamboa, Ricardo Pachón... And despite the good comments, in the end I disappeared for a year, because I didn’t want to devote myself to singing yet; I didn’t feel ready to be a full-fledged cantaor. I was going to leave to sing at a tablao in Barcelona, but I didn’t go in the end. I continued doing my stuff until after a year, I showed up at El Mago again. Then Gamboa told me that Ricardo Pachón wanted to listen to me. Nothing happened with him, but I signed up with a manager. At first I was scared stiff, since he suddenly had me fighting fierce bulls. Now I look at myself two years ago and I’d rather not look. I recognize it. I used to come out on stages with my head hanging down. The first gala was in Chicago with Gerardo Núñez. Imagine that. I had a glass of water on the floor, next to my chair, and I didn’t manage to bring it to my mouth in the whole concert because I was shaking so hard.

	Pitingo (Photo: Daniel Muñoz)

But that must have made you feel much more confident...

Of course it’s good. Though I still shake a little.

You manage to drink now, don’t you?

Yeah, yeah. I turn around a little and drink. But I’ll never get rid of the butterflies in my stomach; I’m a really nervous person.

And after revving up your engines live, now comes the album...

It was a result of the song ‘Los quereles’, which I recorded on the collective album ‘El búho real’ by Emi. They began to play it a lot on Radiolé because they liked it. Universal heard it, they came to see me last year at Flamenco pa’ Tos and that’s how everything started. We talked and they let me choose a producer, among them, Javier Limón. But I thought that it had to be Gamboa for my album, because to me as a producer, he’s the person who knows the most about flamenco and he was the one who could guide me and who I trusted. Though there are modern things, I wanted a flamenco album. Another producer might take you elsewhere and then to get back, you’d have a heck of a time of it.

next >>