Manuela Carrasco, the goddess of dance from Olympus flamenco

Sitting on the banks of the Guadalquivir, Manuela placidly awaits the moment to begin this interview. From Triana, in the background, there is a beautiful view of Seville. Her mind flies to the other side with her gaze lost in the river, searching for memories or, perhaps, taking stock of a life of effort, work, sacrifice and success, many successes. Manuela Carrasco She managed to reach the Olympus of flamenco dancers, of flamenco dancers by nature. Her career is marked by awards, prizes, recognitions and tributes that attest to this. The latest tribute was at the VI Festival Flamenco Gypsy Valley, as much as the Peña Torres Macarena was turning 50 years old.

She was born in Triana with the gift of dance and the appearance of a gypsy goddess. It is her face, her jet black hair, her eyes, that gaze that enchants and transports you to infinite places. A well of wisdom and many years of tireless work. Manuela sways between the nostalgia of pain and the joy of what she has experienced. A goddess as a dancer and a “warrior” as a woman in this difficult task of carrying on a life, an art, a profession and a family.

We are in Flamenco, Calle Castilla, Seville, her friend Blanca's place, where she rehearses as if she were in her own home.

 

– You are an artist who is born with art inside. Does what you have learned come from your father, your uncles or your own inspiration?

– I was born into a family of artists, my uncles danced, my father danced, but I think I was born with it. I have it inside me, I have always felt it inside me. My uncle was concerned about correcting my positioning, he told me how important the positioning of my arms and of my whole body was, and I did what he advised me and I spent hours rehearsing.

– How do you realize that you want to be a professional artist? At home, with your people, you would have moments to dance, at weddings, baptisms, family gatherings.

– I was born in Triana, you know. In 1962, 1963, they kicked us out, the gypsies and the non-gypsies too. I was only four years old when we went to live in San Juan de Aznalfarache. It was a neighbourhood of artists, because all the boys and girls sang and danced. Angelita Vargas, who was the oldest of us, took us to the Seville Fair, we made a circle and there we began to sing and dance and then we passed the plate or the hand and they gave us whatever money they wanted to give us. I, as I was the youngest, was not bad at all, I carried a pocketbook and in it we put all the money we took. Although I was very clever and I noticed that some of them hid the bills in their hair.

– Is it possible that your family’s humility pushed you towards the stage?

– Yes, that’s right. We went to youth galas and to the Teatro San Fernando, and what I wanted was to dance. I was born into a very humble family, I was the eldest of six siblings. One day I saw my mother crying because she only had a tomato and a sausage to feed her three children. I was nine years old then and I swore to myself that there would never be any more hunger in my house. And from there we went to Malaga, because my grandfather lived there, he worked in the hotels. And my mother asked him to find her a job because with so many children it was impossible to live. My mother started working in the hotel restaurant, my father was put to work making abstract paintings on cardboard for the tourists. And I was in the restaurant washing dishes.

– How do you escape from a job that didn’t let you dance, which was really what you wanted to do?

– There was the Tablao de Mariquilla, and as I passed by, I saw that she was in a very large photograph on the door of the tablao. I stood looking at her and started to strike poses. I always carried my dancing shoes with me. They were lace-up and I wore them here (touches shoulder). During the breaks I would put my shoes on and start dancing, right there on the sidewalk, and everyone would say to me: “Oh, look how funny you are!” Then, María calls me and says: “Come here, do you dance?” I do. “And why do you dance?” And I said to her: for all, although I only knew tangos and bulerías. And Juan, Morenito de Íllora’s father-in-law, who was there, said to me: “Girl, is your father José el Sordo? You look just like your family. Do you want to dance? I’ll sing a little for you.” And I said yes and danced a little bulerías and that was it.

 

«Yes, I have announced my farewell to the stage. I am doing a tour that will last two years and I think it is necessary to do it. The day has not yet come, but I will know when it will be time to leave, and it will be because I cannot give my audience everything I want»

 

 

– You used to play dancing in the street. How did your mother find out?

– The next day my mother said to me: come on, we’re going to the restaurant. And I said, I’m not going, and I threw myself on the floor crying. I wasn’t going to do any more washing up, I wanted to be a dancer and I wasn’t going to do any more. The next day, my mother, poor thing, went all over Malaga, with just enough for the bus, looking for Mariquilla. At night she knocked on the door of Maribella’s house, Mariquilla’s sister-in-law. She asked her: “Little girl, do you know where Mariquilla lives?” “I do, ma’am, what’s wrong with her?” My mother explained that she had a little girl who just wanted to dance. “I’ll take her to Mariquilla’s right now.” In short, my mother, crying, told her that she had many children and that the girl didn’t want to do any more washing up, that all she wanted was to dance. Then Mariquilla told her, “Take her to the tablao tonight,” which was called El Jaleo.

– How was that first day as a tablao dancer?

– The only thing I had on was my shoes, my aunt’s very red lips, which she painted on for me, with very big tails for the eyes, and a bra of hers that they stuffed with cotton. When I got to the tablao, Mariquilla started saying “this girl is very tall, my clothes don’t fit her, come on, let’s go find her some clothes.” And between Rocío and Maribella they gave me three dance dresses. And I started dancing there, when I was nine years old, and I stayed there for three months in the summer. My mother had bought me a pencil and a lipstick. But, of course, I wanted to wear my makeup like Rocío, who was beautiful, fuchsia lips, gorgeous eyes with eyeliner. My mother complained that she didn’t earn enough to buy eyeliner, because I spent the day putting on and taking off my makeup.

– How much did you earn?

– I earned 300 pesetas per day.

– How many passes per day?

– Two or three passes. A lot of money at that time.

– Did the tablao serve as a showcase for you? What were your next performances?

– Pulpón took me to the parties and then I first got into La Cochera, then I was in Los Gallos. From there I went to the show with Curro Vélez, where I stayed for two months. There was a tribute to Caracol at Potaje de Utrera and, well, they saw me there and at first Caracol called me to go to the Hotel Lux, in Madrid, with my mother, but she was very strange and didn’t want me to go to Madrid at that time. Two or three years later, I was already thirteen or fourteen years old, I went to the tribute they did for him after Caracol died and they saw me dance a little bulerías. Angelita Vargas and I danced the bulería at the end of the party. They hired me then and I went to Los Canasteros.

 

«I never value myself nor have I valued myself, because I think that what I do is because I have it inside and because I feel it and that's it. I have never set a goal for myself like people do, no matter what the cost. I have to get there and for that I have danced and I have broken my back and I have broken my legs»

 

 

– How was your experience at Los Canasteros, that legendary tablao?

– That place was beautiful, there was Chana, Güito, the biggest ones back then, but the room was never full, there were three or four tables full every night. I arrived and after a month there was no room. You know that the gypsy antique dealers spent a lot of money. All on bottles of whiskey.

– Who accompanied you to the cante?

– Juan Villar. He had grown up with my uncles, he loved my father very much and he is like a brother to me, he always has been and until I die. Afterwards, I took him out of the picture and he remained exclusively for Güito and me, as an attraction, and then I started taking him to the festivals. And then all the tablaos wanted to hire me and I left the Canasteros and went to Torres Bermejas for two months, and from there I came here to Seville and I started with my festivals, my galas, my televisions…

– Have you ever stopped working?

– No, never, ever. Since I was a child I earned money for my home. I wanted everything to be there in my home.

– Were the conditions you had in the tablaos like those now?

– No, no, I earned good money. Fifteen or twenty thousand pesetas a day. Because Juanito Villar taught me how to ask for money. He is a great person and a wonderful singer. He was my singer at Los Canasteros and you will see what happened to me, a thing of art. I went in for two shows and a performance. And anyway, since I had formed what I had formed at the tablao, Arturo and Caracol’s son called me and said: “My daughter, you are not going to be in the show anymore.” I had taken my children, my father and my mother, everyone with me. We were on Infanta Street, next to the street where Los Canasteros was, in the Bariberi boarding house. And it turns out that Juan Villar called me and said: “Come here, Jililea.” After fifteen or twenty days of being there I was earning seventeen hundred pesetas. And I said, what’s going on? “Listen to me, you’re going to ask for four thousand pesetas.” And I said to him: What are you saying, shorty? That they are going to throw me out. I am not asking for four thousand pesetas. “Don’t you realize how the room is, that everyone comes to see you and the huge amounts of money they spend? Ask for four thousand pesetas.” I said, stay still, I am not asking for that money, that they are going to throw me out, that I have all my children here, my parents. “Ask for it!” he said to me. Anyway, I said to him: look at you, Arturo, with this money I cannot pay for school, nor can I pay for board, eat, I have my whole family here, if you don’t pay for my school and pay my board and four thousand pesetas, I cannot stay. “Of course, daughter, done. Right now,” he answered me. Two or three months later, because I was there eight months, Juan Villar said to me: “Ask for fifteen thousand pesetas.” I said, here comes this shorty again with his tirade. “Ask for fifteen thousand pesetas.” And they gave me the fifteen thousand pesetas.

– At what point did you feel like you were a consecrated dancer? Have you felt that leap in your evolution?

– Look, I'll explain something to you. I've felt like an artist since the first day I set foot on stage, but I've never believed it. I've never said that I'm now consecrated, because I went through so much trouble to support my family… [a sad expression appears on her face].

 

«I married a man who never valued himself. Joaquín Amador was one of the best guitarists of his time. He didn't want to go with anyone and lived for me. He never cared about being behind me because he said that if he continued with his career I had to continue with mine, so he didn't want to lose me. He was in love with me and lived only for me.»

 

 

– I always thought that your performance at the Puebla festivals in 1973 and 1974 marked a before and after in your career. Is that so?

– Yes, I did. I went to the Meeting of Cante Jondo of those years. There was a man who was a doctor who came a lot to the Canasteros, a very tall man, a friend of Fernanda Roy, who came a lot to see me at the Tablao. He spoke to those who organized the festival so that I would be on the bill. And Francisco Moreno Galván told him that under his responsibility. And there I went in 1973. On stage one of my shoes came off, I took off the other one and danced barefoot for alegrías, and I became the greatest.

– You know well how difficult the world of art is, and especially dance.

– I was there in the 70s, which was the golden age of FlamencoIf I didn't do that thing of breaking my legs and kidneys, they wouldn't hire me the following year and I had to be up to the task. I have worked to support my family, my grandmother, my aunt, my uncle, whoever has come to ask me, all my life. And I have not minded doing it, because I am a warrior and I don't know how to say no.

– How did you get away from your parents’ house?

– I left with my husband, I had to leave. They asked me to marry, but my mother didn't want me to marry and that broke down. After five or six months my husband, who was from Ali, came back.canteAnd he asked me: What do you think? Whatever you think, I said. And I ran away with him, only with the little dress I was wearing. After having bought the biggest trousseau. After having supported everyone and bought a chalet and a house and everything, which has never weighed on me because I did everything for my brothers, for my mother and for my father. And I started my life again, all over again. So every job I got was for something we needed, this one for a sofa, this one for curtains. And little by little, with a lot of effort, I started again. I bought a little flat in San Juan de Aznalfarache, but my husband and I weren't happy there because it wasn't our life. Then I sold it and bought the flat in República Argentina. When I came back from my tour in America, I came back with the money and finished paying for it.

My parents were very strict. I had become the goose that laid the golden eggs. I was lucky enough to meet a great man, I got married and I freed myself, because before I was like that. He was a man who lived for me and for his daughters and for his house. Losing him is very hard. Now I am getting over it, but it is costing me a lot, because I have my girls, but when I am alone I cry a lot [her eyes fill with tears that do not come out].

– You became pregnant early on. How did that change your lifestyle?

– Yes, I got pregnant with Zamara three months later. I was dancing until I was seven months old, because the mortgage was there and I had to fight to pay it. I married a man who never valued himself. Joaquín (Amador) was one of the best guitarists of his time. He didn’t want to go with anyone and he lived for me and he never cared about being behind me because he said that if he continued with his career I had to continue with mine, so he didn’t want to lose me. He was in love with me and lived only for me.

– Working together for so long would give you a great deal of mutual knowledge on a professional level, wouldn’t it?

– Of course. He had been putting out my music for five or six months. I would come to him and say: I don’t like that part. And he would rebel against me, put down the guitar, leave, have a coffee, come back and say: what part don’t you like, ma’am? And he would do what I said. On the one hand I understood him very well, but sometimes I didn’t understand what he was doing.

 

«I was only four years old when we went to live in San Juan de Aznalfarache. It was a neighbourhood of artists, because all the boys and girls sang and danced. Angelita Vargas, who was the oldest of us, took us to the Seville Fair, we made a circle and there we began to sing and dance and then we passed the plate or the hand and they gave us whatever money they wanted to give us»

 

 

– You feel great admiration for your husband, Joaquín Amador.

– He never valued himself because he was my guitarist, one of the best. He never cared that I was better than him. And I argued a lot with him, because he could have gone very far. And he was also a composer. He composed his own music, which is even more difficult, and he knew the guitar, which almost nobody knows today. He had a very special taste, and you can't learn that. He did it all on his own.

– He was a contemporary of great guitarists. Did they ask him to compose for them?

– Paco de Lucía told him that he had the best thumb in Spain. All the guitarists were waiting for him to come up with something new so they could take it.
Riqueni, until a year and a half ago, would stand under my door at eight in the morning. “Maestro, I’m down here, play the seguiriya for me.” “Riqueni, my dear, at eight in the morning? Can’t you come at another time?” My husband was wonderful. Riqueni doesn’t have and won’t have Joaquín’s rhythm. It made me very angry, not because I played it for him, it made me very sad because he would spend seven or eight hours taking out his music so that someone else could take it. Since Joaquín couldn’t record, someone else did it. It’s just that he didn’t want to record. So much has been lost when he left. One day Paco de Lucía came, because Tomatito was going to record an album, and he said to my husband: “From the way it’s made I know it’s yours, I’m coming to tell you so you know.” I have saved a lot of his stuff and others that can be recovered, because they recorded it, we would have to recover everything.

– Does guitarist Joaquín Amador deserve recognition?

– Of course I will. I am going to make a CD with his music. I am going to recover everything. And also a proper tribute as he deserves. When he was at the wake, if there weren't around 100 guitarists, there weren't any. He was a guitarist admired by everyone.

– You are the mother of artists and a teacher?

– Both. I would do anything for my daughters. Zamara is a singer and dancer, and Manuela is a dancer, they are two amazing artists. I am very hard on them, I don’t let them get away with anything, because I know how much it costs to be on stage and to maintain their careers. I know that sometimes I am very demanding, but it has to be that way and they know it.

 

"If I didn't do that thing of breaking my legs and kidneys, they wouldn't hire me the following year and I had to be up to the task. I have worked to support my family, my grandmother, my aunt, my uncle, whoever has come to ask me, all my life. And I have not minded doing it, because I am a warrior and I don't know how to say no."

 

 

– You have announced to the media that you are leaving the stage. Isn’t it too soon for Manuela Carrasco to deprive us of her dancing?

– Yes, I have announced it. I am doing a tour that will last two years and I think it is necessary to do it. The day has not yet come, but I will know when it will be time to leave, and it will be because I cannot give my public everything I want.

– Finally, how would you describe your life in dance?

– I have danced out of exhaustion. My life has been exhaustion to earn money. I never value myself nor have I valued myself, because I think that what I do is because I have it inside and because I feel it and that's it. I have never set a goal for myself like people do, whatever the cost. I have to get there and for that I have danced and I have broken my kidneys and I have broken my legs.