Special feature. Historical report: Los Flamencos (from ‘Alrededor del mundo’, 1901)

LOS FLAMENCOS
Celebrated bailaoras, cantaoras and cantaores

Flamenco-world.com, August 2008
Translation: Gary Cook

Translation of a literal transcipt from Madrid-based magazine ‘Alrededor del mundo’. Special report written by Roberto de Palacio and published on 21st November 1901

The entire flamenco genre, with very few exceptions, is from Andalucía. Malaga, Cadiz, Seville and Granada have been and still are the best and most prolific sources. It's unimaginable that someone not born in that land can sing flamenco.

Just as it's unimaginable to have an Andalusian party sipping beer or 'black wine', as folks down there call the wine from up here.

For a true Andalusian juerga to get into full swing, flamenco song and dance need an appropriate context: the back room of a bodega, the trays full of glasses of Manzanilla wine, or Sherry, or Moriles. And also the classic pescao fish fry, the oysters, or the cañaílla sea snails.

All the attraction and wonder of the aroma of the Manzanilla, of the Sherry and of the Montilla - which no matter how much you breathe never brings sensations of disgust - can never match the harsh, sour odor of the aniline liqueurs, the vulgar red wine and the evil concoction the owner of Madrid's flamenco establishments likes to call coffee.

But both here and in the heartland of flamenco, the artform has come a long way down in the world.

Those whose names are pronounced with respect by current artists and whose glories they sing are no longer with us - some because they have died, and others because they have retired from the stage. You have to hear them speak of the great Silverio, of Silverio Franconetti, an Italian raised in Morón de la Frontera - who according to some was the king of flamenco artists - of Juan Breva el Canario, of Dolores the famous Parrala, la Trini, the bolero Bermúdez, who died not long ago in Seville, Enrique Cortés, el Jorobao from Linares, who aroused so much passion dancing at the Teatro de Novedades, Mercedes la Sarneta, the tocaor maestro Patiño, whose guitarwork was the pride of the flamenco arts in Cadiz, Antonio Chacón from Seville, the comical Antúnez, who delighted so many with his singing and dance, el Troni, an excellent cantaor from Cadiz, Fosforito from Seville, and one of the finest, la Maya, Enrique el Mellizo, Juana la Torda, Antonio Revuelta and many others that I don't recall at this time.

Of those old-timers a few remain who either give classes for a living or make phonograph recordings, or live on the memory of past glory... and the juergas that come up in the backrooms, to go and sing, dance or play for the señoritos - the wealthy landowners who pay to watch them.

Competition, in this and everything else, has played a large part in the decline of the artform.

A good cantaor or cantaora previously earned eight, ten or twelve pesetas an evening; stars such as Silverio, Juan Breva, etc. a lot more, because they were the ones who were asked for by name. Today if you earn five pesetas you can think yourself lucky.

Phonographs have proved to be a friend as well as an enemy of cante flamenco: a friend because it provides what we need from artists, and an enemy because audiences can go without performances. It's a lot more pleasant to listen to the artist you desire at home than it is to go to a foul-smelling establishment with a rowdy audience, like the vast majority of flamenco venues.

One of the artists who's pressed the most phonograph cylinders - in spite of him not liking to do so, as with almost every flamenco artist - is el Mochuelo, a cantaor who is still very young, and who since the beginning of his career sang with Silverio and Juan Breva. He carved out a niche for himself, and every aficionado went to hear him sing malagueñas, “las malagueñas del Mochuelo”.

According to the cantaor Antonio Pozo, his voice is perfect for this, it's the voice the phonograph picks up best, and without a doubt this is why he's already pressed more than thirty thousand cylinders!

He still sings in public occasionally, but the cylinders are what take up almost all his time.

I'll never forget that voice, so fresh and vibrant, when he sang at the Café del Imparcial. One of his favorite verses was:

“En el campo, entre las flores, (In the field among the flowers)
te busqué y no te encontraba; (I searched and did not find you)
cantaron los ruiseñores, (the mockingbirds sang)
y creí que me llamabas... (and I thought you were calling me)
¡Qué grandes son mis dolores!” (So great is my suffering!)

I said above that the flamenco arts have come down in the world; but it's fair to add that there are still a few good standard-bearers of this genre.

None of them come close to Juan Breva. Because he was out of the ordinary. What purity of style; what verve, incomparable to anyone else. And such a masculine voice and such clear vocalization, when he sang:

“Ni el canario más sonoro, (Not the most sonorous canary)
ni la fuente más risueña, (nor the most cheerful fountain)
ni la tórtola en su breña, (nor the turtledove in the brambles)
pueden llorar lo que lloro; (can cry as I cry)
¡Gotas de sangre por ella!” (Tears of blood over her!)

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