Pepe Marchena's worn tapes – The things (XIII)

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There are some lucky ones! Is it fate? You know, God squeezes but does not drown. So, as heaven willed, as soon as I returned to Madrid, after almost ten years of bohemian life in Vienna, I met the great Enrique MorenteIt was probably in October 1989 (I finished university in September of that year) and I found it in the Plaza de Santa Ana, in the legendary restaurant Vineyard P. Taking a  beer with my friend the Mallorcan pianist Andreu Riera, I recognized at the other end of the bar the brilliant singer from Granada who was having a snack with a friend. I remember the shiver that ran through my body. I admired Enrique since I got the cassette of Cantes ancients of the flamenco with the guitar of Nino Ricardo, a gem that I cherish with care. In Vienna that tape was constantly playing, at home, on the Walkman or in my brother's apartment. Maurice Sotelo in Hollandstrasse (who sent me the photo at the top of this article for Kings' Day) and together we cried with emotion listening to the great malagueña of Chacon -That I loved you madly– which contains that great album from 1969.

I didn't hesitate for a moment, I approached him and said: Good afternoon, are you Enrique Morente? And he answered: Yes, and who are you? Faustino Núñez, a musicologist. He had recently obtained his Viennese degree and was as proud as a sackcloth, and he used to boast wherever he could about having managed to complete his degree in Musikwissenschaft (musicology), in German, with honours in the Austrian capital. As if to not boast, for a Galician from Vigo who had just turned 28, it was a challenge to have completed that degree. Enrique's companion turned out to be a priest, the Father Riso, a very priest flamenco friend of the singer. I called Andreu and the four of us chatted for an hour until Enrique told me: “We are going to the Zambra stage on Velázquez Street, where my brothers-in-law work,” and off we went in a taxi. I was delighted; I had been in Madrid for a few weeks wondering what was going to become of me. I had saved up a little money from classes at Gertraud’s academy in Baden, where I earned a thousand shillings a week accompanying some sevillana classes. Instead of paying me weekly, she paid me the money into an account during the course and when I finished my degree I had a sum saved (that’s what it means to be Galician), which helped me when I landed in Spain, until I went to Cuba for a whole year (1990/91, special period, first phase, I’ll tell you about the “things” of that year).

That unforgettable night I met Antonio y Pepe Carbonell, brothers of Aurora The Ball, the maestro's wife. I confess that it was my first time in a tablao, and I enjoyed the experience. From there we went, of course, to Miguel's Candle, which I didn't know either. We had the light of day listening to the birds that Miguel played on the megaphone while he exclaimed: It was very nice! Nothing lasts forever! Imagine! We said goodbye and exchanged phone numbers. What a night that day was! I was not yet aware of the importance of that meeting. It would mark my life forever with the flamenco.

«Marchena sounded very old-fashioned to my passionate nineties perception. Enrique insisted: “Listen, listen carefully, try to appreciate the musical richness of this way of singing. You, who are a musicologist and are used to listening to Verdi and Beethoven, have to be able to value what lies beyond these supposed trills.”»

When I arrived at my family’s apartment on the corner of San Bernardo and Divino Pastor, where I returned after the Vienna decade while I was looking for a job to become independent, the first thing I did was to write down Morente’s phone number in my diary. The next day I wanted to call him but I didn’t dare. He had offered to show me his record collection and “teach me” about the music of some artists that I had shown that night that I didn’t even remotely know. But I thought I shouldn’t abuse the trust of the generous teacher. I went out at eight to have a drink and when I came back my mother said to me: “Someone called you, Enrique.” What! It was already too late to return the call but the next day, before lunch, I called him.

Come here! I live in Rastro, at the bottom, on Casino Street. And off I went. Enrique lived with his wife and three children (the talented Small Starfish, the beautiful Solea and the little right eye of his father, Kiki) in a small apartment in Madrid that had an upright piano at the entrance to the living room, where, as Enrique told me much later, I put Estrella's little hands on the keys to accompany herself to popular songs.

When I went to the teacher's house he was usually alone. We sat in some armchairs in the living room and with the cassette at his side he would play the tapes for me. Pepe Marchena. That one to me cante I didn't get it. Think that I had reached the flamenco listening to Camarón and the songs of Lole and Manuel, in addition to the rumbas of Chichos y Peret, a bit of Morente and little else. Marchena sounded cheesy to me (that's what happens when you're a purist child of the baby boom, born in 1961). That thin voice and a melody that was too ornate for my taste didn't reach me. However, I did appreciate that surprising speed and an unusual intonation. I had heard, of course, Juanito Valderrama, Antonio Molina, and Marchena sounded very old-fashioned to my vehement nineties perception. Enrique insisted: “Listen, listen carefully, try to appreciate the musical richness of this way of singing, you who are a musicologist and are used to listening to Verdi and Beethoven You have to be able to value what is beyond these supposed trills. “Yes, Enrique, but it doesn’t tell me anything.” He turned a deaf ear, aware of where my problem lay. It was psychological. He knew there was a wall between my ears and my heart and he tried to tear it down against all odds. And he succeeded. Today I am a staunch follower of "The boy".

I still have to thank Morente for the patience he had with me in those Madrid sessions of the early nineties, I can no longer tell him how much I learned at his side. Much of what I know about flamenco, or rather, knowing how to appreciate the canteI owe it to our late Enrique, who by the way, had Marchena's tapes worn out from listening to them so much. The things.