Interview in 1945 with Flamenco Guitarist Ramon Montoya (1880-1949)
In October of 1945 the journalist, Jose Maria Carretero Novillo, interviewed Ramon Montoya. It appeared in a magazine entitled "Galeria", published in Spain, beginning in 1945.
"I ask him hoping to gauge his spirit at this moment, which is ripe for candor:
"What do you prefer, Ramon: playing in public or in a private room for a handful of aficionados?"
"Well, l tell you. They're two different things one has nothing to do with the other. Of course, it seems the guitar was made to be played in intimate settings, and there is nothing better than playing for friends who know how to listen to intelligent people who feel the music just as the artist does. Take him, for example: he points to Dr. Tarrio, who remains oblivious to our conversation "he knows more about flamenco than the man who invented it... Good Lord, the things that man knows! That's why I love having aficionados like that listen to me... But triumphing in a theater is a thrill every time. Just imagine" he glances around "looking out and seeing thousands of people in silence, as if held under a spell... it's incredibly moving. And then the applause it intoxicates you more than manzanilla sherry it drives you wild with a joy so immense, so overwhelming, it makes you want to weep."
"And yet," I interrupt, "you're used to ovations like tonights, aren't you? You've been performing in public since you were a child, right?"
"Yes, since I was a kid. You see..." He pauses a moment to reminisce with a look of satisfaction, then continues: "I'm sixty-five now, and I remember sitting on a *tablao* stage for the first time at fourteen, with this in my hand..." He shows me the guitar, caressing it like a beloved woman.
"Tell me, who was your first teacher?"
"I ask myself that question often, and I always end up answering: no one."...because my passion for the guitar had held sway over me since I was very young... Although I was born in Madrid, my family lived in Aranjuez and ran a livestock business. They used to attend all the Andalusian fairs, and being true aficionados, they picked up the styles of cante jondo... What captivated me most, however, was the guitar I made a point of watching the skilled players who would drop by our house as friends. I was still just a kid, yet I was already frequenting the cafe cantantes.It was at one of these that I met Canito the son of Galician water-sellers. Of course, at fourteen, I wasn't in a position to judge players I didn't know well, but I still remember his playing as wonderfully spirited he was one of the best guitarists in the world. Even now, and a lot of time has passed since then some of the variations I play are ones I learned from Canito.
"What do you make of that?" he remarked. "So much for the idea that you absolutely have to be Andalusian to perform flamenco well."
"Well, don't be so sure," Montoya exclaimed with a smile."It certainly helps, but it isn't strictly necessary... The essence of the art lies in feeling it, and that isn't a matter of where you were born. Not that I deny Andalusians and the Gypsies among them possess a special gift, style, and innate sense of flamenco. Nevertheless, great artists have also emerged from right here in Madrid, from Old Castile, and from Extremadura."
"How has the singing evolved since you started out?" I asked him with particular curiosity.
Montoya paused for a moment, deep in thought. Then he says to me:
"Well, look: the way I see it, the same thing has happened to *cante* [flamenco singing] as to bullfighting. Bullfighting is in decline because the *suerte de matar* the final act of killing the bull has lost its importance and cante is also in decline because compas the rhythmic timing that is the true measure of its quality is no longer valued."
"Explain that to me it is interesting."
"Well, you see: you can sing with great charm and a genuine Gypsy spirit, yet not truly know how to sing because you lack compas. That rhythm is the very soul the duende of our art, and it's where the true difficulty of the craft lies... Singing, playing the guitar, or dancing flamenco without keeping compas no matter how pretty it looks or how fashionable it becomes it is worthless... Take it from me... It reached the point where, back in the good old days when cantaores drank wine instead of a little coffee. I needed to know to rate a singer, without even hearing him, was that he sang in compas. The same applied to bullfighting: to take an interest in a novice bullfighter without having seen him, it was enough to be assured that he was a good killer. Today, unfortunately, neither the sword-thrust nor the compas is appreciated. This has happened, above all, since the disappearance of the *tablaos* in the old cafe cantantes, where anyone stepping onto the stage to work had to know their craft inside out."
"And that's not to mention," I added, "that in bullfighting, the five-year-old bulls and the massive ones weighing thirty *arrobas* have disappeared. Now I understand something, Montoya, that I hadn't been able to explain to myself until this moment."
"What is that?"
"The observation I made years ago: that all the cantaores always carried a small cane, or like Chacon a walking stick."
Man!" Montoya exclaims with the air of an expert.
"That little cane—the kind you won't see any cantaor carrying anymore—was used precisely to keep the rhythm. It was their baton, the magic wand a good cantaor needs; otherwise, like Chacón, one had to keep the beat—the compás—with a walking stick. But just imagine a modern-day cantaor stepping onto the stage today with a wand or a cane! The audience would kick up quite a fuss, and yet, it is necessary... indispensable."
"Who is the best cantaor you’ve ever known?"
"Man!" he reproaches me quite seriously. "You don't ask a question like that—especially not when you're Andalusian, as you are." Then, without hesitation and with great enthusiasm, he adds: "The greatest cantaor—the most complete, the most knowledgeable, the one who mastered every style—was Don Antonio Chacón; I recall you interviewed him, too... To me, Don Antonio was to cante what Joselito was to bullfighting: a sublime master. Mind you, I’ve known other greats: Manuel Torres—very temperamental, very inconsistent—but in terms of emotion and vocal power, he was the Belmonte of *cante*... When Manuel Torres was in form and sang seguiriyas, he was unequaled—much like the Gypsy Basilio, Juan Breva, El Niño de Cabra, Enrique el Mellizo, and Mercedes la Sarneta. She was a phenomenon—the greatest female flamenco singer there ever was. And from that era, Escacena was magnificent, too; no one has ever been able to match him in the cantes de Levante... And Silverio! Don't forget Silverio. He was a giant. I remember an anecdote that perfectly captures his character."
"Tell me about it! ... It ought to be interesting."
"Well, Silverio," he tells me—he was a very enterprising man who liked to make his own way in the world—left for the Americas, where he became a millionaire and returned to Spain dressed in a flashy style, sporting fine jewelry and a great black beard. No one recognized him. One night, he showed up at a "colmao" in Seville where a lively gathering of the local elite was underway. Silverio—a stranger to everyone there—asked for permission to enter the room and join the party. The best flamenco singers of the day were gathered there; upon seeing this strange intruder—and assuming he was just some "indiano" with no flamenco credentials who didn't know the first thing about the art—they began to mock him under their breath. After everyone had finished singing, that flashy, bearded indiano asked for permission to sing a seguiriya. And just imagine the quality of his singing: the moment they heard him, an old Gypsy woman burst into tears and cried out, "This can be none other than Silverio—the man you’ve all been imitating! You are Silverio!" At that point, he revealed his true identity.
—And among today's singers, who do you like best?
—Well, that’s a tricky question... They all earn their living through their art, and naturally, one shouldn't really rank them based on personal preference.
—Yes, but in everything—I say—there are different levels of quality. You have Conchita Piquer and Gracia de Triana, for example, and I might prefer one over the other.
—True, but your situation regarding me is different. I wouldn't want to leave out any of the good ones, because they are all magnificent artists and excellent colleagues... And perhaps...
—That doesn't matter, Ramón; give me a few names.
Finally, he makes up his mind:
—The thing is, there’s a group of guys nowadays who have nothing to envy the very best. Among the current ones, El Niño de Marchena is a versatile and undisputed cantaor—a true artist of the cante. I remember taking him to sing for the first time at the Café de la Concepción Jerónima... Then there are undisputed stars like El Niño Mairena, Juanito Mojama, Manolo Caracol, El Niño de Almadén, Juan Varea, and many others. And I’ll save the two siblings for last: Pastora Pavón—La Niña de los Peines—a true empress of the cante, and her brother Tomás, who is, without a doubt, the best of them all.
—And guitarists? What can you tell me about them?
—There have been true masters in that field, such as Paco Lucena, El Habichuela, Patiño, Miguel Borrull, El Cotufera, Amalio Cuenca, and Ángel Baeza—one of the best accompanists for dancers I’ve ever heard... I could talk about that from now until tomorrow. Among today’s players, there are some colossal talents—like Javier Molina (though very old, he taught us a great deal, especially regarding *seguiriyas*), followed by El Niño de Huelva, Manolo "el de Badajoz," Perico "el del lunar," El Niño Ricardo, Esteban Sanlúcar, Patena, Paco Aguilera, and many more.
—What do you think about the current boom of flamenco in theaters?
—I think it’s excellent. Especially for the artists; ever since the cafés cantantes declined, they had been living a very hard life. They had to go from place to place, constantly waiting to be called for a private party."
