They’re right in what they say about flamenco singing. What we get today is adulterated like any other goods from a store. Sugar with ground limestone and coffee with chicory, that’s what these ever so fashionable creations are, actual salads that no one can digest. They even have their wee bit of recitation, greener than green leaves of mint.
The fervent duel between classical and contemporary flamenco was in full swing. That term "adulterated" can still be heard from older generations during our late Paco era. Then there was that "little bit of recitation" that was so fashionable—could it have been Pepe Marchena? El Pinto? I don't think so, they would have been named. The aggressive review continues:
Perhaps the "experts" know. We young people are not responsible for such monstrosities. At the very least, we like cante jondo for its seriousness, for its Spanish essence. Sometimes, when the spirits of flamenco breathe life into it, we get goosebumps. Comparing what we have now with what came before...where are we headed?
Seven decades later, and we haven’t stopped, rather, we’ve accelerated, or better said, transformed. But only the most uncompromising followers speak of adulterated flamenco, while the use of the word "purity" seems almost comical.
From the same article and author, we read these phrases alluding to the figure of guitarist Diego del Gastor from Morón, before he became an idol among foreigners, particularly Americans. Barbarita was his mother:
A gypsy girl was born, Barbarita. Her head round as a marble and the hills of Cristóbal. Her son, the boy from El Gastor, an unusual guitarist, a gypsy with fingers like grape vine, skinnier than a wire and with the finest manners. He plays the music of Tárrega in addition to his own profound sort, zambras with the scent of oriental rituals, with the aroma of Asian kingdoms, of abandon and ancestral hatred of Tamerlane the Invader.
This dream-filled gypsy who knows so much about flamenco singing, but is no friend of staged performance, divides his time between the mountains and the countryside, without feathers, like the famous rooster of Morón he worships, searching for the clear horizons of the Cádiz mountain range seasoned with rosemary and thyme.
The article ends with the following prophetic words:
One day, on the rim of the Tajo del Algarín when Diego was sitting on the roof of an Iberian dolmen nostalgically looking out at the Guadaira mountain range, clutching his guitar, he complained “why don’t they put a University of flamenco singing in Spain?”
