Category — Flamenco / Jazz Parallels – The First Analysis – by Brook Zern (1973)
“I Can’t Get Paco Out of My Mind” – Interview with writer and biographer Juan José Téllez by Tamara García – translated with comments by Brook Zern
Today’s Diario de Sevilla has an interview by Tamara García with the writer, author and journalist Juan José Téllez who wrote the terrific “Paco de Lucía en Vivo”. It begins with a quote: “I can’t get him out of my head” and the subhead says: “The author from Algeciras writes of the life of his most universal paisano, in “Paco de Lucía, El Hijo de la Portuguesa” (“Paco de Lucía, the Son of the Portuguese Woman”), published by Planeta on the first anniversary of his death. Here’s the story:
“Paco de Lucía is a personality who was interpreted by Francisco Sánchez for 66 years. And this book recounts the dialogue between the person and the personality; it’s an adventure story, a story of overcoming obstacles, because for me Francisco Sánchez is one of those Charles Dickens characters who emerge from a tough neighborhood to achieve their dream. The son of the Portuguese woman accomplished this through the guitar which, in a certain way, formed part of his body; one didn’t know where the wood ended and the melody began, but both elements were of flesh and blood, fiercely human. “ Those words of Juan José Téllez, written on a page or spoken in conversation, fill all the space, both physical and that space, as dark as it is light, that gives us form from within. In “El Hijo de la Portuguesa” we find Francisco Sánchez, but also, in the cinema of the author, we find Téllez in all his aspects.. The reporter, the poet, the novelist…With his camera, which is his gaze from the corner that directs our own focus.
Q; When you knew Paco, was there still an aspect of “the son of the Portuguese woman”?
A: Well, let me take advantage of that question to debunk the notion I’ve seen in recent media reports, the idea that I was an intimate friend of Paco de Lucía. I don’t see myself as his intimate friend, or even a distant friend, because I think Paco had very few intimate friends. He had friends that accompanied him all his life like Carlos Rebato and José Luis Marín, and others who were with him quite early like his compadre Victoriano Mera, but I wasn’t part of that intimate group as some have supposed, I had the privilege of looking at him and his work sporadically for more than 30 years, conducting numerous interviews and drawing near to his circles. With all those connections [matices], I think Francisco Sánchez retained [pervivia], right up to his death, the picardîa [picaresque, roguish aspect] of his early childhood.
The last time I saw him was in Fez [Morroco] , at the flamenco music festival in June of 2003; I could recognize the “hijo de la portuguesa” and also the Paco who messaged me on the eve of his death and told me that in Cuba he had found fascinating things, like a society that had no parabolic antennas and where the children had to play in the streets, and never had to leave. The deep country for a poet is infancy and childhood and Paco, who had the aspect of a poet, for all his life sought a return to that early childhood in the Algeciras neighborhood of Bajadilla.
Q: Early childhood as a paradise lost, Because there’s a passage in your book where after a juerga [flamenco session] they take him to Algeciras and he doesn’t seem to recognize it.
A: That’s because Paco’s mythical Algeciras, like mine, has disappeared. As Romero Peche said in the solapa [jacket] of one of his books, “Born in the vanished city of Algeciras”. The demographic growth has meant the urbanistic destruction of Algeciras, which is situatied in one of the most beautiful natural parajes of Andalucía. Paco was a son of that mythic Algeciras, that of his formative years, wrapped around the port and the Plaza Alta with its light and shade.
Q: In your book, isn’t there a certain tone of mutual reproach in the relationship of Paco and Algeciras?
A: Well, I think Algeciras is a very complicated city because, like all intense [apasionadas] cities, there’s a certain disconnect between the important people whom they’ve engendered, like José Luis Cano, the oldest and best critic of [Spain’s literary “generation of 1927”], or the philosopher Adolfo Sánchez Vázquez, or Paco himself. There are people there who still ask, “But what has Paco de Lucía ever done for Algeciras?” And there’s a certain perception – and Paco was aware of this – that such people must become philanthropists who build hospitals and fund schools. But Paco titled many of his compositions with names of key places in the city and that, in my view, showed his real feelings and preferences [querencia]. Anyway, if it’s true that Paco reproached the city for its lack of interest in the music and for what he had done…I was at a concert there in the bullring in 1980, a spectacular concert attended by less than a thousand people and for which the admission was [only] 100 pesetas [little more than a dollar]. Also, in the pregón [announcement] of the annual fair there was a technical error and it sounded terrible… But that’s all in the past. Algeciras reconciled with Paco a long time ago, naming a roundabout for him in a new neighborhood, the statue [of Paco?] in/of Nacho Falgueras [?], and honored him as a Favorite Son; and at Paco’s insistence, it was in Algeciras where, the University of Cádiz named him Doctor Honoris Causa, [a doctorate that meant a great deal to Paco, who had very little formal education].
Q: From all the ways of approaching a life, you begin the book by noting the very real possibility that Paco might never have been born, because in 1936 his father was arrested. Is that deliberate?
A: Absolutely. Paco could have been a collateral victim of the barbarism and terror that followed the Fascist coup d’etat of 1936. Not just Paco, but his brothers Ramón de Algeciras and Pepe de Lucía as well as Antonio, would never have been born if his mother Luzia, her daughter María in her arms, had not gone to military barracks and headquarters begging for the life of her captured husband and if she hadn’t gotten the help of that friend. But I want to be honest with readers, and don’t forget the story that María Sánchez told me – that Luzia had tried but failed to abort Paco. Fortunately, I don’t hae the same feelings about women’s right to abortion as about the funestas consequences of a dictatorship, whatever its ideology. Ah! There’s also an intent, because it strikes me as so poetic, to point out the fact that the military quarters where Paco’s father was held will soon become the seat of the Paco de Lucía Conservatory of Music, a fact that hasn’t been recognized by anyone.
Q: Paco and Camarón – how much is true, how much is false in everything that’s been said about this situation?
A: Hombre, I’d say that both of them are steeped in legend, because they are beyond orthodox laws, and each have their own legend. Frankly, I think that only Paco and Camarón know about that relationship. Now, in my view, I think they were blood brothers who had taken an oath of brotherhood in music and in life. They played and enjoyed themselves together, creating new sounds, jumping onto tablados in Germany and sneaking out of Viennese pastry shops without paying, They were two golfos [wise guys, rascals, street urchins] and they were two geniuses and they were two young men in a changing world, and they were two men who decided to hold firm in their friendship, against winds and tides, against family disputes [discrepancias].I think a series of cantamañanas that were intended to defame him, calling him a ratero[thief -- for allegedly claiming copyrights on material that was not entirely his] at Camaron’s funeral, and embittering the mourning period. But the most immoral thing that all this stuff provoked is that you and I are talking about Paco and Camarón in terms of money and not magic – because that’s what their relationship really generated: magic, and emotional climates and melodies that became part of our lives and that will continue to be part of the lives of others.
Q: Why, how, and why this book?
A: I met Paco in 1980 but didn’t interview him until ’82 for Diario 16 – it filled one of those 90-minute cassettes but when I went to transcribe it I’d only recorded ten minutes (laughs). But beside that, I felt privileged. I realized that that conversation, and others that followed, were fuel for more than an interview and from that came my book “Paco de Lucia, Portrait of a Family With Guitar” that was presented in Madrid in 1994. I had the good fortune of being presented by [the eminent flamenco authority] Felix Grande, and Paco and [his wife] Casilda Varela on a very special day, Paco’s birthday. From that book my journalistic relationship with Paco gathered steam – he, always very shy and introverted, was taking me into his confidence and granting me many more interviews. In 2003, my book “Paco de Lucía en Vivo’ came out, adding new elements to the situation; and the fact is, I had hoped to close this circle with another book in another twenty years or so, but Paco’s death precipitated everything. I could have just revised that earlier book but I was tempted to try something different, to use a more narrative form, because the life of Paco is the script for a biopic.
Q: That’s when the Americans picked up the story and there was already a film…
A: Several, and some TV series as well. I remember that María Sánchez, Paco’s sister, once told me: “I’ve seen a TV series about the Jackson Five, and I’m thinking, “Wouldn’t a series on the Sánchez family be better than this?”
Q: Will the reader who knows a lot about this find some surprises?
A: I think Paco to a large extent tried to hide himself, and in this book, fortunately, I don’t pretend to tell the whole truth because there are mysterious corners that should be left as they are. This book is an approximation of Paco that isn’t beyond good and bad, done by a writer who sees reality from one corner of the story, with a certain promise, with some beliefs and particular tastes. There are probably episodes that won’t be to everyone’s tastes , but I hope that it would have pleased Paco, though I’ll never know because neither he nor I believed in the afterlife. But Paco was always on my mind and the only emotional respite during the year of mourning was to write this book – and the grief is still with me.
Q: The book has a lot of hemeroteca [material from archives] – how did you confront so much paper?
A: There’s life beyond Google, For example, I had in my hands two jewels, two interviews from the mid-seventies and two very young newspaperwomen, each by his side: Marjuja Torres and Rosa Montero. Reading how these two emerging writers saw Paco was a lot of fun; and so was reading the marvelous chronicles by Angel Casas in “Fotogramas”.
Q: What did you admire most about Paco?
A: His sense if humor. When he filled theaters and was applauded to the skies, he’d walk offstage and say to his compadre Victoriano, “Well, we fooled them again.” That kind of guasa [wising around] was a trademark of his – it came from his mother who loved off-color jokes and the songs of [the pop singer and guitar strummer] Manolo Escobar. I liked something he told me once: He got into a taxi and the driver said, “It is an honor to have you in my taxi, because for me you are the best guitarist there is – after Manolo Escobar and his brother.”
Q: Do you think there were too few authorities at his funeral?
A: His death hit like a bucket of icewater, but among those present were the Prime Ministers of guitar playing, of flamenco song, and of music; the Governing Council of sentimentality and sensibility and art – those were the authorities that Paco preferred. In any case, what should be commemorated is the day of his birth, the good news.
Q: I don’t want to end this interview without asking about the Portuguesa – “who came from the Atlantic coast region but had the character of a Mediterranean mama.”
A: Luzia was a survivor and was the happy note in the drama, Paco and his brothers respected the severity of their father Antonio, but it was their mother quien se regocijaban [who gave them joy].
End of interview. The original can be found at:
Interviewer’s comment: I don’t want to take credit for leading flamenco in general or Paco de Lucía toward the realm of jazz, because a) I never would’ve dreamed it could happen and b) I never really liked the idea, and kind of wondered who was to blame.
But in Juan José Tellez’s superb 2003 book “Paco de Lucia En Vivo”, when he finally leaves the early years of still-familiar flamenco and considers its later evolution, I was embarrassed to find the following passage:
“The first academic researcher ["estudioso"] to analyze the similarities in the cultural derivation of flamenco and jazz, and between the Gypsies of Spain and the blacks in America, was Brook Zern in 1973, who said: ‘It seems obvious that flamenco’s deep song styles owe their existence to the Gypsies, just as the blues were the creation of America’s southern blacks. Both of these alien and dark-skinned peoples constructed a new music of their own, though of course they employed in the task the musical ideas that they found in their adoptive country.’ A parallelism that, in Zern’s judgment, extended even to the commercial adulteration of both of these musical conceptions.”
Well, maybe more delighted than embarrassed, but it did seem strange somehow.
Shortly after Paco’s death last year, I was fortunate to play a role in initiating the effort to have a postage stamp issued honoring his life and his genius. It was the first time I had pulled rank by citing the fact that King Juan Carlos I had knighted me for furthering the understanding of Spanish culture outside of the mother country. The process of issuing a stamp, which normally takes years, was completed within just two months of his death. (Who says it takes forever to get anything done at the Post Office?)
April 2, 2015 No Comments
What Hath God Wrought?
The Paco de Lucia Septet, Boston, April 11, 2012
A review and commentary by Brook Zern
Note: Immediately below is a review that appeared in deflamenco.com. It is followed by an endless (okay, it just seems endless) meditation on Paco de Lucía’s courageous and successful quest to change the art, the essence and the meaning of the flamenco guitar — for better or for worse.
Paco de Lucía and his Seven Sidemen appeared at the Boston Opera House on April 11 – a well-oiled machine rolling through the U.S. after a long absence.
(One reason for that long absence is revealed in an interview that appeared in a Spanish publication the same day as the concert. Paco says that aside from the distance, “the situation in the U.S. is very ugly these days, and everything is very complicated with the visas and the controls; they treat you like a suspect, when in fact you are innocent until proven guilty.” His view was promptly confirmed by a front-page New York Times article about the that same problem, noting the failure of the U.S. to grant a timely visa to the flamenco/soul fusioneer Pitingo, whose New York concert was cancelled.)
For Paco, Boston isn’t just another stop along the way. It was there that Paco was granted an Honoris Causa degree by the prestigious Berklee College of Music, and where the producer Javier Limón has been working with various flamenco artists to explore new paths of fusion, and planning programs for the new Berklee campus in Valencia, Spain.
The concert drew upon the whole history and evolution of Paco’s later career. It is loosely keyed to his new recording, ENVIVO, featuring performances from his 2010 tour of Spain. There was no program, but the informative and well-written liner notes from the CD outlined Paco’s career and musical evolution.
In the lobby, a huge poster of the now-grizzled Paco seemed to oversee the proceedings. Above his head were the words, “The most advanced guitarist in any idiom” – Guitar Review. (I was that magazine’s flamenco editor for decades, and wrote those words in the mid-seventies.)
People were buying Paco hats and Paco T-shirts as well as the CD. Onstage, shafts of light cut through the fog-machine smoke to focus on seven empty chairs. Then Paco walked out to intense applause, though not to the standing ovation he has received in some other venues.
As usual, the concert began with a guitar solo – a ravishing rondeña that quotes from preceding versions but is fresh and inventive, beginning with no fixed rhythmic abode and ending with strong, steady pulse and punch. And, as usual, the flamenco guitar concert ended there.
Paco was immediately joined by other wildly talented members of his group, deliberately subsuming his incomparable guitaristic genius to his broader vision of instrumental flamenco as an ensemble music in the spirit of a typical jazz group.
Within that context, the concert was a resounding success. And compared to some Paco events, the music leaned toward recognizable flamenco, with only occasional flights toward the more abstract realm of loosely structured jazz. The interplay was intense, and the mutual admiration of the artists was a pleasure to behold.
As might have been expected in the U.S. and nearly everywhere else, the dancer almost stole the show. And perhaps any competent dancer might have elicited those all-American whoops, yelps, yee-has and shouts. Fortunately, the dancer was Farruco, grandson and namesake of the greatest male dancer I have ever seen, and he managed to project the singular brilliance of that family tradition.
Duquende sang well, and seems to have found a path that distinguishes him from the “Camarclones”, if that’s the right word for the slavish imitators of Paco’s singing idol and creative coequal, the great Camarón de la Isla. David de Jacoba is clearly talented as well.
I assume that Piraña’s percussion was top-notch, and I was nonplussed to note that the harmonicazations of Antonio Serrano seemed to project actual flamenco feeling. (It certainly seemed more appropriate than the allegedly flamenco flute, an ill wind that nobody blows good because it lacks the gritty overtones that fit the flamenco aesthetic.)
Paco himself remains a wonder of nature, even if I have seen him on better nights in the nearly 50 years since he first showed up in New York with the José Greco dance troupe, playing the music of the great Niño Ricardo until he was given that fateful advice by Sabicas – “Do your own thing.”
(Just think – if he’d been a disciple of Sabicas instead of Ricardo, the old maestro would have said, “Keep it up, kid,” and I would still understand flamenco guitar today.)
Paco no longer “runs” – his self-critical term for the way he often played when he was young. He has always played very fast when it mattered. He says that this almost assaultive velocity is a form of internalized rage at the way flamenco and flamenco artists were treated in that desperate era of poverty. Now he is even faster than he was in his youth, though perhaps not in his prime. And yes, there are other incredible players who are standing on the shoulders of this giant, playing even hotter, and sometimes making major statements of their own.
But Paco’s genius is undiminished – we are privileged to hear the mature reflections of a lifetime spent far ahead of others. This seemed most evident when his attack on the guitar sometimes generated completely new harmonic soundscapes – angry new overtones or cancellations or interferences that I’d never heard emanate from the instrument before.
The concert was a commercial success – it seemed nearly sold out. The audience was delighted, standing and stomping. And it was probably a critical success as well; most reviews of the American tour have been quite good.
But the only Boston review I saw – in a publication called ArtsFuse and written by Susan Miron who had never heard of Paco de Lucía – said, “Throughout the evening, the music often felt more like jazz than flamenco.”
Ms. Miron may not be an expert, but the music did indeed often feel “more like jazz than flamenco” – even though it was, for Paco, not one of his jazzier productions. And as a jazz musician, Paco de Lucía will never be listed among the immortals, or even the greats.
The world’s “most advanced guitarist in any idiom” has become an adequate exponent of the fusion idiom, instead of remaining the world’s greatest exponent of the flamenco guitar idiom. I wish it had been otherwise. I ask again: What hath God wrought?
End of review that appeared in deflamenco.com
Further thoughts on Paco de Lucía and the flamenco guitar:
But enough about him. I’d like to talk about my thoughts about Paco de Lucía, meditating on both my admiration for Paco de Lucía and my personal, subjective reservations about what he has done for, or to, flamenco.
In my own lifelong desire to become a living flamenco guitar jukebox, rendering defective approximations of the best stuff by the best players, I have begged, borrowed or stolen more of Paco’s material than that of any of the prior giants whom he has single-handedly wiped of the map.
Yes, wiped off the map. Flamenco guitar was once a garden where a hundred flowers bloomed, each precious and distinct. Perico del Lunar, eerily delicate and strangely dissonant; Niño Ricardo, sloppy and brittle, tunelessly humming to himself while casting perlas a millares – pearls by the thousands – to all other guitarists; Melchor de Marchena, plunging down into his fearsome Gypsy sonanta to match the deepest singers fathom for fathom; Sabicas, effortlessly creating the pure. limpid, crystalline and perfect concert sound; Diego del Gastor, looking out at the olive groves of the town he never left, playing the most moving solea and the most arresting bulerias that I, and a lot of other people, would ever hear.
I tried to copy them all, and they’re all gone now. Not just the artists, of course – that was inevitable – but their music as well. Something came along – Paco de Lucía calls it the “Paco virus” – and it turned flamenco into a monoculture, an art with just one true path. And Paco adds that too many young artists foolishly believe that flamenco began with him and Camarón. (I hate to tell you this, Sr. Sánchez, but I’ve met young players who consider you hopelessly obsolete, and think the guitar began with Gerardo Nuñez or Niño Josele. But in one way or another, they are all your children or grandchildren.)
And of course, I too tried to copy Paco – not as idiotic as it sounds, even for an amateur, because his music was always “guitaristic”, seeming to flow naturally out of the guitar while other players like Ricardo created music that was even harder than it looked.
Of course, I was attempting to play early Paco, or, if you’ll pardon the oxymoron, “easy” Paco. Then, around 1980, he took the music into uncharted territory, inventing a new, jazz-based musical sensibility and harmonic language that would forever remain beyond my wildest dreams, not to mention my technical limitations and my comprehension.
He has since come so far that in his recent Boston concert I only noticed three momentitos when he referred to his great ancient creations – a tremolo in that first rondeña, a jaw-dropping picado from his early tientos, done here in his tangos, and a millisecond self-quotation in the extensive bulerias segments. In fact, Paco no longer seems interested in playing falsetas – those wondrous fixed melodic creations that were once every guitarist’s stock in trade, and trademarks of the few artists who could invent good ones. Instead, Paco is working work in the jazz tradition of finding a groove and riffing freely within it – perhaps so that he can trade off with others in a truly improvisational effort.
The pieces still fit the definition of flamenco forms, though as usual it often took a while for them to acquire a recognizable shape. (The uptempo siguiriyas gradually morphed into a bulerias, underlining the fact that these disparate forms share a common underlying compás or rhythmic cycle.)
Inevitably, the begged-for encore was an update of the rumba called Entre Dos Aguas, Paco’s aural calling card to the whole world. This time, he was trading instantaneous riffs with his nephew, Antonio Sanchez, who had already justified his role as assistant to the chairman.
(The story is that Paco created this crossover smash on the spur of the moment, to fill a blank space in his 1973 album, Fuente y Caudal. Oh, yeah? Then how come the indispensable and available 100-program Rito y Geografia del Flamenco television series shows him playing it with his brother Ramón in a show probably filmed before the record was made?)
Okay, now the hard part. I think the entire concept of the sextet/septet has been a musical mistake. And because I don’t have a deep grasp of music, I feel pretty awkward making this claim.
On the other hand, I was fascinated to read Paco’s appraisal of Camarón’s musical evolution in a recent interview. He insisted that Camarón’s finest work was done early in his career, and that his later work with fusion was essentially a mistake.
Yes, he said that about his beloved hero, the finest singer he ever heard, and in his view the finest singer who ever lived. So I, hopefully, will not be struck dead if I venture the same radical appraisal of Paco himself.
It is always stupid to criticize the path that a genius chooses to take. The stupidest thing I ever did in flamenco, and it has lots of competition, was to tell Paco de Lucía – whom I’ve never known well – that he was making a mistake by choosing to pursue a flamenco-jazz fusion instead of pursuing flamenco.
Well, it was worse than that. As an American who dares to meddle with flamenco guitar, I was accustomed to being figuratively patted on the head by real live Spaniards who listened to me play for a moment and said it was nice, adding that of course in order to play flamenco guitar one must carry it in the blood. And they patted their hearts, to emphasize the point that I should give it up.
And so after one of his concerts with Al DiMeola and John McLaughlin when Paco politely asked me what I thought – well, perhaps my own feelings seeped into my answer.
“I don’t know, Paco,” I said, “but it seems you are trying to play their music, which isn’t bad, and they are not trying to play your music, which is magnificent. And perhaps you are better at flamenco than at this other stuff. In fact, maybe in order to play yazz-fuzione, perhaps one has to carry it in the blood.”
And I patted my heart, just like the Spaniards patted theirs when telling me to give up my cross-cultural transgressions.
It was intended as a sort of ironic twist, though he couldn’t have known that – but it wasn’t exactly a joke; I was trying to tell a genius what to do. How stupid is that?
Amazingly, a mere decade and a half later, Paco seemed to forgive or forget that moronic faux pas. And that was generous, because what I didn’t realize at the time was that Paco was not moving in that direction out of arrogance, but because of a sense of humility.
He has since explained that he was simply embarrassed to be the major flamenco guitarist of his time when he did not really understand the rest of the musical spectrum. When Al and John asked him to join them, he felt compelled to take up that immense challenge. He said he was miserable every night, unable to respond to the musical and harmonic challenges that were thrown at him, but that he gradually learned this new musical language.
He also said that he learned to improvise on that tour. Now, I’ve been around a lot of fine flamenco guitarists who always assumed that they could improvise, because in flamenco one almost never plays the same thing the same way, except for a few showy set pieces – maybe a zapateado in the key of D, or a formalized rondeña based on Ramon Montoya’s unique original, a or flashy guajira.
But even in their renditions of the fluid, ever-changing other forms or palos, I felt that flamenco guitarists weren’t really improvising – certainly not in the sense of jazz giants like Miles Davis or Ornette Coleman. Sure, they were remixing and rematching, and playing inversions of material they had known for years. But that’s not true improvisation. And Paco de Lucía had the courage to realize that, and to bring his towering talent to that task. At the end of the tour, he had met his own high standards. He says he was the first flamenco guitarist to really improvise. I believe him.
This whole evolutionary move was something he had to do. It was courageous. But did it improve the art of flamenco? If it did, why do so many fine guitarists whisper to me, late at night over a bottle of sherry, that they find flamenco/jazz fusion aburrido – boring?
Maybe it’s just because they lack the talent to achieve that same objective, and they’re jealous.
Or maybe not.
Like many Americans, I loved flamenco and the flamenco guitar because it was so different from the music that surrounded us in the U.S. For centuries, Western music had been based on harmony. You didn’t have to understand harmony to realize that it permeates every aspect of what we hear – a simple, three-chord folk song or a complex Beatles composition or a Beethoven symphony.
Flamenco is, or was, the opposite. Like other fundamentally Oriental or non-Western music, it was monodic, focused on a single melodic line. There is no interplay between simultaneous notes.
And flamenco has a strange indeterminacy that is revealed in the singing. Ask any two Americans to sing any popular song, and they’ll sing the same notes on the same beats. Ask any two professional flamenco singers to do a duet version of their respective siguiriyas, for example, and the result will be either tragic or comical, but it won’t work. There is no single, exact melody for the siguiriyas in general, or even for the siguiriyas of Diego el Marrurro or other specific subsets of the form.
Guitarists accompany flamenco singers using chords, but the chords often seem imprecisely matched to the melodic moment. In many cases, they are determined more by convention than by normal musical standards.
Meanwhile, guitarists created their own instrumental versions of flamenco forms. They played melodic falsetas stolen from other guitarists, or created their own. As for harmony – well, those falsetas often employed chords, but those chords were from a skimpy grab-bag indeed: Mostly, they were the four chords that define the common flamenco or Phrygian mode. (In E, they would form a falling cadence from A minor to G major to F major to the tonic E. A C major was okay, too, but beyond that it was terra incognita.)
Paco was, shall we say, less appreciative of this traditional limitation. In an astonishing early-1971 interview in Triunfo magazine, this new kid on the block came out with guns blazing at the flamenco establishment. “There’s too much nonsense and lying in flamenco today,” he said. He added that the art was in the hands of a bunch of hidebound obstructionists who didn’t want the art to evolve – clearly referring to the great singer Antonio Mairena and his supporters. He said the flamenco guitar was stymied because artists like Sabicas and Mario Escudero had failed to take that great leap forward, giving a needed new form to the instrument. And he said that he was the cure for this sickness – he and a certain young singer named Camarón de la Isla.
Talk about chutzpah. But the truly amazing thing is that within five years, Paco went from being a voice in the wilderness to the unchallenged boss of a radically revised art form.
Musically, Paco’s mission was simple. He considered the flamenco guitar to be gravely deficient because the chordal pallet was so limited. So he blew it wide open, copping chords from bossa-noveros, jazzistas, rockeros and anyone else within earshot.
Everyone loved it. Progressive thinkers thought the idea was great and the music was great. Slow thinkers, myself included, thought the idea was questionable but the music was great. During the decade starting in 1967, guitarists deciphered and traded his falsetas and startling chord progressions like the precious gems they were and are.
I lost my grip early, struggling to mimic all those great bulerias and his other best creations. I still work at that. Meanwhile, Paco continued his fearless march onward.
The key move: He decided to base flamenco guitar performance on jazz performance.
Not a great idea.
Granted, there are cultural parallels between the two forms. The blues/jazz tradition of American blacks, and the subset of flamenco called deep song with its primary debt to Spain’s Gypsies, each reveal a disturbing response to a historic ethnic disaster.
(Juan José Téllez, author of the definitive biography titled Paco de Lucia En Vivo, begins the second part – about Paco’s embrace of this alien art – by noting, “The first estudioso (scholar/investigator) to seriously investigate the parallels between these art forms was Brook Zern, in an article written in 1972 for the Spanish publication ”Flamenco.”)
Okay. Guilty as charged. But hey, just because there are cultural parallels doesn’t necessarily mean that the two musical styles should be fusionized into a new bastard style. The quest for ever-richer harmonies made the move to sextets and septets necessary, and made the solo flamenco guitar itself seem underdeveloped or lacking, when that was not the reality.
I guess anyone who aspires to a career in flamenco guitar must now go and agglomerate a half-dozen trumpeters or keyboardists or bassists or whatever. The music immediately becomes a collaboration instead of an individual vision.
Oh, well, as Ms. Mitchell once said, “something’s lost but something’s gained, in living every day.” Nearly everyone would agree that more was gained than lost by Paco’s brave creative decisions.
Nearly everyone. But not quite everyone.
– Brook Zern
April 20, 2012 1 Comment
Parallels Between the Blues/Jazz of American Blacks
And the Deep Song/Flamenco of Spanish Gypsies
1973 Article by Brook Zern
This article was first published in Spanish in the February 1973 issue of “Flamenco”, Spain’s major flamenco magazine of that era; it has been widely cited and reprinted in many Spanish publications and also in France’s journal of Gypsy Studies, “Etudes Tsiganes”.
In recent years, with the growing torrent of musical fusions between flamenco and our jazz/blues, it has become fashionable to cite the parallels between the flamenco tradition and the American blues/jazz tradition. I don’t know who did it first, but when I was reading “Paco de Lucia en Vivo”, Juan Jose Tellez’s definitive 2003 biography of that gigantic artist, I was pleased to see the following passage:
“The first academic researcher to analyze the similarities in the cultural derivation of flamenco and jazz, and between the Gypsies of Spain and the blacks in America, was Brook Zern in 1973, who said: “It seems obvious that flamenco’s deep song styles owe their existence to the Gypsies, just as the country blues were the creation of America’s southern blacks. Both of these alien and dark-skinned races constructed a new music of its own, though of course they employed in the task the musical ideas that the found in their adoptive country.” A parallelism that, in Zern’s judgment, extended even to the commercial adulteration of both of these musical conceptions.”
For that matter, already in 1995, the eminent flamenco authority and critic for Spain’s El Pais newspaper, Angel Alvarez Caballero, had written in his book “Discoteca Ideal de Flamenco” (Planeta, Barcelona):
“Already in 1973, Brook Zern established a revealing and disturbing connection between the peoples who created the musical styles called jazz and flamenco; the Spanish Gypsies are the descendents of those Gypsies who more than half a millenium ago settled in the south of Spain, a dark-skinned race from a distant land – similar in some ways to what happened with the blacks who were shipped from Africa to the United States in chains. The similarities don’t end there. Zern writes that Gypsies and blacks found themselves “in the south of a new and alien land”, where they were the targets of cruel laws, repression and persecution on the part of the lighter-skinned majority. The dense and pessimistic music that both groups created “served as a living testament to the anguish and grief they endured.”
Admittedly, I did not anticipate that in 2010, the best-selling recording by any flamenco artist would be Pitingo’s “Soulerias” featuring his feeble version of Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly”.
Here’s the translated article, which was actually written in 1972:
Centuries ago, a dark-skinned people arrived from another continent. They found themselves in the deep south of a new and unfamiliar country, and they faced a long period of persecution and misery. They had none of the rights of the citizens, and they suffered under a cruel series of laws specifically directed at them. They learned to always fear and never trust the lighter-skinned people who despised them.
In response to this overwhelmingly traumatic experience, they forged a style of music that was dense, pessimistic and enormously powerful. This music, initially sung only for and among themselves, gave voice and response to the enormous racial tragedy that had befallen them. It also served to document their experience, for their children and for history. The music became a living testament to their anguish.
This new musical form was the creation of this persecuted group, although it undoubtedly owed aspects of its particular form to the existing music they heard in their new country. They constructed it using the musical materials they found there, materials previously brought by various other cultures, now filtered through their own experience.
Nonetheless, this music was completely distinct – the unique patrimony of this persecuted group. All of its original interpreters were members of this minority group, and all of the musical centers were also the places where these dark people were concentrated. A key characteristic was its extreme difficulty, which was due to the enormous demands it placed on the singer – difficulties that were physical, vocal and above all emotional. Because only a few members of this group possessed the faculties to interpret it properly, this “minority of a minority” was tacitly chosen to give voice to the feelings of the entire group..
While other folkloric musical forms were traditionally sung by virtually all members of the groups that had created them, this music was sung only by a few exceptionally gifted individuals. It was always marked by this singular aspect, and among the group, everyone knew the names of those few who could sing it properly.
The ideal voice for this music – a music that recounted a bitter and agonizing experience – was not the “bel canto” so admired in other complex musical styles. It was neither clear nor pure nor even agreeable. On the contrary, it was hoarse, disconcerting, unsettling, even cutting; and of course it incorporated the particular vocal inflections of these dark-skinned people.
This music was not narrative; it did not tell an unfolding story in the manner of the ancient ballads that were still sung in the new land. Instead, there appeared a corpus of individual verses, which the singers could draw upon according to their feelings at any given moment. They could also improvise new verses, and the best of these entered the new tradition.
These verses were never marked by the poetic artifice of high culture, of course, since their creators could not read, and were completely excluded from the larger social structure. Instead, the songs were marked by a powerful directness and gripping simplicity that elevated them into an astounding realm of emotive grandeur and majesty.
It is interesting to note that this music could never be properly termed “protest music” of the type that is popular today. To sing that kind of music, one must believe that there are people who care about one’s plight; who are prepared to listen, and to correct their behavior when, ashamed, they realize the error of their ways. Within this group, however, no one had these illusions. Instead of protesting abuse and conditions, the music underlined the mental state, described specific social situations, and revealed the underlying sorrow of the singer.
The music was originally unaccompanied, but it gradually acquired the support of the only instrument that could possibly express this profundity without competing with the human voice: the guitar.
Gradually, and at long last, the epoch of the most intense persecution drew to a close. New laws gave the darker-skinned group the same legal stature as other citizens, at least theoretically, and the musical style began to reverberate outside its intimate, sealed-off circle, to be presented for the first time in public.
Although must people didn’t like it, there were others who understood its power and became aficionados of this newly-revealed music. They even dared to love it, despite the fact that it was the creation of an alien, despised and – according to popular opinion – morally dubious subculture. They sought it out, and heard it sung and played in settings where alcohol and prostitution were commonplace
Nonetheless, the music continued to gather devotees. And it also began a stage of rapid and dramatic evolution, as it began to mix with the popular music of the region. Some white people even dedicated themselves to learning its secrets, and this further contributed to the broadening and expansion of the form. Within a short time, the original name of the music was no longer sufficient to describe a new musical style with many variants. There appeared – with origins disputed – another name that was less restricted and more descriptive.
In this form – much more accessible to broad popular tastes – the music was destined to reach fabulous success. Within a short time, there arose the phenomenon of the star who became rich on the popularity of his or her interpretations.
The music spilled out of its southern birthplace, heading up the river to the big cities.
But within this success there was hidden the seed of a future failure. The very phenomenon of mass acceptance was opposed to the minoritory origins of the primitive music itself. Acclaimed novelties quickly became tired.
Although it continued to gain aficionados in other countries, the music was losing interest in its own land. A period of decadence sapped the strength of the art. By the middle of the Twentieth Century, these excesses had cost the music almost all of its original support.
The broad public abandoned the art form, and only a few serious and knowledgeable aficionados continued to care and support it.
But that was not the end of the story.
In the 1960’s, a new wave of interest arose – one that valued the true form without any musical mixing and adulteration. The renaissance began with a few recordings, but it was soon realized that many of the forgotten masters of the art were still alive, and even able to bring the art to life again. Thus the music in its pure form – one that a few years ago had seemed to be dead and gone, or at least doomed – lives today, and continues to gain new devotees with every passing year.
And that’s the story of Blues/Jazz music in the U.S. – and of Cante Jondo/Flamenco in Spain.
Okay – of course there are significant differences between these two distinct musical traditions – that of Blues/Jazz in America, and that of Cante Jondo/Flamenco in Spain. They certainly don’t sound alike, and from a musical standpoint they are completely distinct. But the observations made so far are, in my view, applicable to both of these musical cultures..
And it is also possible to note parallels between important artists in both arts. As is the case with Spain’s cante jondo or deep song, the blues also has its giant interpreters. For each great Gypsy singer like Manuel Torre or Tomas el Nitri, the Country Blues offers a legendary Black artist like Robert Johnson or Blind Lemon Jefferson. For each pure female singer like Merced la Serneta or La Fernanda de Utrera, the American tradition has its Ma Rainey or its Billie Holliday.
Manolo Caracol knew how to render the deepest forms of real flamenco, but he earned his living singing adulterated popular songs that conformed to the tastes of a broad public. In much the same way, Louis Armstrong was a titan of pure Jazz, but he made his real money offering absurd self-parodies to a public that simply did not know how to listen to great art.
Up to this point, we have been speaking about America’s Blacks and Spain’s Gypsies. But whites have a key role in the blues, and “payos” or non-Gypies have an important role in the flamenco tradition. And just as a non-Gypsy like Silverio Franconetti learned the Gypsy forms of flamenco and interpreted these styles very well, we Americans have our legendary white Jazzmen like Bix Beiderbecke. Spain has its Antonio Chacon and Juan Breva, interpreting the sweeter side of flamenco that fit their personal and artistic vision, while America has its Artie Shaw or Tommy Dorsey. In the place of Pepe Marchena and his highly commercial flamenco falsifications, we have Paul Whiteman.
Readers will note this article attributes to Spain’s Gypsies the central role in the formation of cante jondo, the deep song that is seen as the core of flamenco. I am well aware that there are many noted Spanish authorities who do not agree with this view.
There are even some who say that Gypsies always steal, and could never contribute anything of their own creation. To support this thesis, they cite the indisputable fact that among Gypsies outside of Spain, nothing remotely similar to cante jondo exists.
Nonetheless, it seems obvious to me that cante jondo owes its existence to the Gypsies of Spain’s deep South, just as the country blues is the creation of the Blacks of the southern U.S. And it also seems that neither the Africans nor the Black people of Latin America have originated anything like the country blues. Instead, each dark-skinned alien group constructed its own new musical style, although of course they employed the musical ideas that they encountered in their adoptive country.
For me, it is sufficient to state that Spain’s folkore is one of the richest and most varied in the entire world and that the non-Gypsies there have created not just the jotas, the sardanas, the seguidillas and many other rich folkloric forms, but have also given birth to the great majority of the roughly fifty forms that are today called “flamenco”. Thus not just the famed sevillanas and the simple rural songs like bamberas and trilleras are purely Spanish; I also believe that all the many styles of fandango – from the simple Huelva version and the charming verdiales to the elaborately evolved tarantas and granainas and the exquisitely artistic malaguenas are essentially a product of the Spanish people, although they may have Moorish roots and the most complex forms may reflect some influence of Gypsy song.
But when it comes to the very few forms that can be strictly called cante jondo – the tonas/martinetes, the siguiriyas, and the soleares – there is little doubt that they are fundamentally Gypsy in origin. In the case of cante jondo, all of the earliest interpreters that we know of are Gypsies, and the Gypsies constitute an important part of all the geographical centers of song. Like the country blues, cante jondo always views life from the point of view of the victim – the person who is at the bottom of the social structure. Cante jondo, like the country blues, uses phrases, words and dialect that didn’t exist within the majority race – including many words that reflect the Sanskrit roots of the Gypsy language.
However, it is possible to state that these two musical styles are the products of a complex interaction between a persecuted race and the new land in which it finds itself; thus, all the gamut of flamenco can be called “Spanish” and all the gamut of Jazz is “American”, although they are not entirely the creation of the white people in each country.
A persecuted group doesn’t have to limit itself to producing tragic music, as is obvious in the U.S. Huddie Ledbetter, known as Leadbelly, was a magnificent Black singer whose specialty was not the blues (although he sang them very well) but rather the songs that were often happy and optimistic – the “reels” and “play party songs” created or elaborated by American Blacks.
Likewise, there are Gypsies in Spain who specialize in the lighter flamenco styles that have arisen among their people. Pastora Pavon “La Nina de los Peines” was the supreme interpreter of the tangos and the bulerias of her people and, like Leadbelly, enjoyed in her country an extraordinary popularity even among many who were not aficionados of her genre of music.
If there are so many parallels among these two great traditions, surely they should produce similar effects among those who listen to them. Here, admittedly, we are dealing with something subjective and partially dependent on the attitudes of the listener. However, it is interesting to note that Alan Lomax, the most important American folklorist, describes Gypsy flamenco as the most important folk music style of Europe. And he, like most researchers who write about American folklore, gives primary emphasis to the Blues music of Southern Blacks.
And America’s best-known folk singer, Pete Seeger, speaks of both these analogous arts in his new book, “The Compleat Folksinger”, in a way that is negative but interesting.
He says there are two styles among the world’s folk musics – just two – which he deeply respects and admires but simply doesn’t like to listen to. One is the country blues, as sung by masters like Robert Johnson. The other is flamenco. I suppose that the pain and anguish that resonates within these two traditions is simply too hard to bear for this peaceful and optimistic artist.
When we Americans try to define the so-called “duende” – the mysterious, sometimes frightening power and intensity that is the defining attribute of Gypsy deep song, we often cite the American word “soul” that signifies the mysterious God-knows-what that seems to be exclusively the property of Black music.
The poet Federico Garcia Lorca, speaking of this attribute in Gypsy deep song, called it the “sonido negro”. And it is this – this “black sound” that lives within the Spanish Gypsy’s cante jondo, as well as the blues of America’s Blacks – that truly and unmistakably links these two musical styles.
Update, March 21, 2012 — This topic continues to resonate 40 years later. Today’s issue of the Diario de Sevilla newspaper has an article/interview with the gifted flamenco/jazz fusion pianist Chano Dominguez by José Antonio López under the headline, “Jazz and Flamenco Stem From The Expression of Oppressed People.”
Chano has just released a record titled “Kind of Blue”, celebrating the 50th anniversary of the original by Miles Davis that remains the best-selling record in the history of jazz. Asked why flamenco and jazz seem so right together, he says, “While they may seem on the surface to have nothing in common, if you look at the matter in depth you realize that both flamenco and jazz are musical forms that have as their starting point the expressive needs of a people who have been oppressed, who find themselves far from their homeland — call it whatever you want. And that produces a sentiment that reveals itself in artistic expression. I believe that the blues of America has a lot to do with the solea and the siguiriyas [the two key forms of flamenco deep song, closely linked to Gypsy artists although Chano does not specifically mention this] — and that they are closely related in that there are forms that express death, and birth, and are done at weddings, and parties, and express love and the end of love…”
Right on, Chano. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
November 20, 2011 No Comments