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‘On Camarón. The legend of the solitary cantaor’

A flamenco western

Carlos Lencero. Extract from ‘Sobre Camarón. La leyenda del cantaor solitario’

Camarón de la Isla. Picture from the book 'Sobre Camarón. La leyenda del cantaor solitario' by Carlos Lencero

BUT LET'S DWELL ON the special relationship that existed right from the start between Caracol and Camarón. In an extended article he wrote after José's death, Félix Grande recounts an anecdote of something I think he said he didn't witness personally, but that was told him by a trusted source.
The anecdote, told with liberal use of artistic license, could be said to open the way for a new movie genre: the flamenco western.
It was a dark night. No sign of the moon. A country inn, far from the city. A few cacti. A beautiful Andalusian horse tethered up outside. A voice and a guitar drift out from inside the inn. A sparkling Harley Davidson, nickel-plated and silent as death, stops out front. The driver thinks only Manolo Caracol could be doing cante like this.
Sitting with his back to the door, one elbow on the table, a shot of cazalla liquor in one hand, while the other draws shapes in the air, Caracol sings a fandango. It's easy to recognize the tone of the guitar: capoed on the fourth fret. The capo at four corresponded with the natural tone of Camarón's voice, and on the guitar it gave a C sharp modal.
The swing doors of the inn open and a young man enters the scene, dressed in black leather with nickel pins on his jacket, black Jerez-style riding boots, black sunglasses and fair hair. He steps forward a few paces and takes a seat behind the artists, between Caracol and the guitarist. When Caracol rounds off his fandango, the young man asks the guitarist to move his capo onto the fifth fret. Caracol turns his head a little, looks at him and recognizes him instantly:

"How's it going, Camarón?"
"Fine, maestro. I was passing by here, I heard you and I had to stop. And the truth is I felt like singing a while too."

Camarón sang with the capo at five and a deep silence fell over those present. Caracol finished off his liquor. And ordered another. While they were serving it he said: "Capo on the sixth, kid." The guitarist looked nervous. Camarón smiled. Caracol burst into song, and carried the tune through to the final 'remate' passage, with his fists clenched. And then he said:

"You want to drink something, José?"
"Thanks, maestro. But no. And you, put it at the top of the seventh."

Caracol loosened the floral print neckerchief he wore. While José sang, he closed his eyes. He saw the fair-haired boy, frail, pallid, insignificant. And he saw himself, an aged, drunken king. And he listened.

The silence could now be cut with a knife. Caracol rose to his feet, clenched his fists and with the capo at seven took up the challenge:

And he fell back in his chair, exhausted. The veins in his neck and on his brow bulged like huge blue strings of spaghetti. Breathless, almost lifeless, he raised the glass of cazalla with the greatness and mystery of one who is defeated. And then, in his customary fashion, he finished off the shot in a single gulp.
Before he had time to put the glass on the table, Camarón said:

"Now I'm going to sing a fandango that I dedicate to you, sir... Put the capo on the eighth fret, man. And the sounds of Huelva echoed through the room.

María Picardo was crying in a corner of the kitchen. She didn't want to see it. Hearing it alone made her cry. She and Juan Vargas knew, from the moment they saw Camarón appear, that the blood of music would be running down the walls of the inn forever.

Camarón laid a hand on Caracol's shoulder and squeezed it gently. Then slowly, very slowly, the man dressed in black disappeared just as he had come.

Taken from the book ‘Sobre Camarón. La leyenda del cantaor solitario’ by Carlos Lencero (© Carlos Lencero 2004 / © Alba Editorial, s.l.u.)

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