THE ANDALUSIAN GUITAR AND ITS PLAYERS

This is from the great resource of the Biblioteca Nacional de España in Madrid. It is from the daily newspaper La Voz (Madrid) of July 20, 1927, page 3.

It is an article / interview with Flamenco singer Antonio Chacon (1869-1929) and Flamenco guitarist Ramon Montoya (1880-1949). Both of these musicians were recording artists and icons for decades at this time.

Stepping out into the street, under a clear azure sky, we left the tavern where we had spent a long time conversing with a famous *cante flamenco* artist.

From within—much like in the final acts of plays set in Andalusia— one could hear the strumming of a guitar and the plaintive notes of a lighthearted song.

Earlier, a group of striking women—well-dressed, brazen, and living unconventional lives— had arrived in flocks. Accompanied by gentlemen "with money in their wallets"—as the fandanguillo goes— they seemed ready to laugh at all of Spain; their merriment was fueled by an excess of "manzanilla" sherry—a drink that enlivens without causing drunkenness, possessing the unique quality of raising voices and spreading joy to those around.

The revelers had ordered plenty of wine, followed by a cantaor (singer) and a guitarist. And then, even more wine. 

Much has been written recently about :cante flamenco". "Bagaría," a dedicated reporter, published extensive articles in these columns covering the songs and the singers. Yet, nothing has been said about the guitarist, and very little about the guitar itself. That is our aim here. In upcoming articles, we intend to give the reader an impression of... ...how the quintessential instrument is made, how it is sold, and who buys it. 

Today we shall speak simply of the guitarists—and among them, not of Tárrega, Segovia, or Cubas, but of those others who, without formal musical training, specialized in accompanying cante jondo (deep song), a genre deeply rooted in Spanish folk tradition. 

For the delicate, aristocratic guitar of a virtuoso concert artist bears, in reality, no relation whatsoever to the Andalusian guitar—an instrument made to weep and wail; to underscore the drama of the song with its falsetas (melodic interludes) and offer a shrewd commentary, all while the voice quivers through an intricate *tercio* (melodic phrase) or a brilliant, bold opening flourish. 

We have heard the guitar of the Gypsy Ramón Montoya utter human laments that harmonized perfectly with the sorrow of a copla. And when a soleá spoke desolately of a dark-haired girl who died in the bloom of youth—cut down by a treacherous, jealous dagger—the guitar’s bass string became a funeral bell, casting its solemn, anguished tolling upon the wind. It evoked, too, the slow, measured pace of the funeral procession, the hoe digging into the grave, and the anguished sob of a loved one as the earth fell upon the coffin lid. 

A flamenco guitar, skillfully played, holds more expression than a violin—and possesses more personality and more human memories within the vibration of its strings. He speaks, weeps, laughs, and sings. 

To flesh out these brief impressions regarding the guitar, we initially considered interviewing Montoya. However, Montoya would naturally speak from a personal perspective, which would not suit our aim of providing an objective account. 

We therefore thought that someone else connected to the cante—even if not a guitarist—might serve our purpose better.So, we went in search of Don Antonio Chacón, the veteran flamenco singer—a true gentleman of the art—whose authority and independence would allow him to enlighten us with absolute impartiality. 

We found Chacón at the authentic tavern we mentioned earlier. 

A brief digression: this veteran artist is deeply devoted to his craft. Years ago, during a debate about flamenco, Don Antonio sought to "convert" us to the faith of *cante hondo*. 

The session was attended by actors Emilio Díaz and Joaquín García León, the poet Joaquín Dicenta, and the writer recounting this story.

Chacón, accompanied by Montoya, poured his very soul into the performance. But since "feeling" flamenco singing requires a special atmosphere and golden Andalusian wine—poured into fine glass tumblers—Don Antonio ensured there was plenty of it. By the end of the delightful gathering—which left us fervent devotees of our folk music and where dramatic expressions brought tears to the eyes of even the most hardened skeptic—a genuine contest of generosity and bravado broke out between the *cantaor* and the guitarist. They vied to see who would foot the bill for what had been consumed—a hefty tab!—while strictly warning that it would be a grave offense for any of the guests to attempt to pay the money in question. 

But let us return to our subject. 

Chacón, a master of his craft like no other, knows more about guitarists—to use his own words—"than the person who invited them." 

Nowadays, guitar accompaniment is essential in cante jondo. The accompanist must know all the styles—better even than the singer does—and, specifically, the individual style of each cantaor. Yet this has only been the case since the 1880s. Before that, accompaniment for the cante was provided by tapping with the knuckles......of fingers on the wooden tables. 

In Andalusian cante (song), Patiño—known as "Patiño de Cádiz"—began to distinguish himself as an accompanist; he represents the true classic style. Later, in the same style—though more of a virtuoso performer—Paco "el Barbero" (from Jerez de la Frontera) appeared, performing between 1882 and 1894. Paco "el de Lucena" was an even more accomplished instrumentalist, though he possessed less style and classical purity. Antonio Sol (from Jerez) and Javier Molina—who is still alive—seem to have surpassed the traditional artistry of those previously mentioned. 

Don Antonio Chacón notes that the Andalusian guitar took on a new dimension with the Gypsy guitarist Miguel Borrull, whose highly personal style and distinctive school of playing have inspired today's tocaores (flamenco guitarists). 

The contemporaries who, in Chacón's view, deserve special mention are "Habichuela" (who recently passed away), Ramón Montoya, Luis Molina, and "Niño de Huelva." 

Paco "el de Lucena," Borrull, and Montoya specialized in performing malagueñas, cartageneras, taranto, and murcianas. 

Chacón speaks of a time when the guitar was overshadowed and no tocaor dared to perform in public. It was Paco "el de Lucena" who elevated the art of the guitar, bringing it to the stage—just as Silverio Franconetti did for cante. 

That tocaor (flamenco guitarist) used to perform at the Café Monedero—which closed many years ago—and earned the then-exorbitant sum of 20 pesetas; when taken to a private gathering, he might earn as much as five duros (25 pesetas).

"Habichuela" earned between 10 and 15 pesetas per session. 

When Don Antonio Chacón—leveraging his friendships and connections among the aristocracy—began performing at private parties, his guitarists started charging 16 or 20 duros. Nowadays, the standard average fee for a guitarist is 20 duros. 

The "juergas" (impromptu flamenco gatherings) of that caliber happen every day? —It varies greatly. Sometimes you go fifteen days without work, and other times ten or twelve come in a row, with two or three sessions a day.

—Does the singer charge a set fee? 

—No. You’ll understand that... there is no fixed rate... The artist plays or sings without asking for anything. He is invited to the gathering and attends. And when it is over, his work is paid for with greater or lesser generosity, depending on his performance and the listener's appreciation.

(In parentheses, we'll mention that a few nights ago, Chacón received 900 pesetas for his work before a lively gathering, and Montoya, who was playing, received roughly the same amount: these reports come from the owner of the establishment where the revelry took place.)

The chronicler poses a bold question to Chacón. Tell me: Is it true that the "flamenco" generally dedicates himself to seducing the women at the gathering, and that he achieves great success?

Absolutely not. That's the legend of the "flamenco lover," which I want to dispel. The artist goes to sing or play, and neither dares nor should dare to offend with ill intentions the person who makes him work and earn money. Besides the fact that it would be pathetic. A few days ago, there was the case of one of those "insinuating" young men, and he earned a superb series of slaps: very justified and very timely. 

Let's return to the guitar. Are all the "cantes" accompanied by it?

No, sir. Soleares, seguiriyas, javeras, serrenas, rondeñas, the café, and the polo are all accompanied by it; but neither the "tonas", nor the liviana, nor the martinete, nor the saeta can be accompanied by the guitar. 

Reasons? 

Because these last ones don't have, let's say, a rule of art or a peculiar form. They are sung in a special and arbitrary way; lengthening and shortening thirds. As one wishes. In reality, they are improvisations. Look: in my land, in Jerez, the saeta is accompanied by a long whistle. 

Which guitarists do you prefer, those of today or those of before? The classics. They were purer, more authentic. Nowadays, only two kinds of seguiriyas are played for everything; but there are many, just like soleares. 

And of the modern guitarists? Ramón Montoya. He's not a classical player; but believe me, he plays arpeggios and plucks the strings like no one from the moderns or the old-timers...

—One last detail, Chacón. I saw Montoya cry while he was accompanying you on some songs. —Don't believe it. He did cry, yes, but it wasn't because of my song, but because he liked how he was playing. That same song is accompanied by another guitarist and Montoya doesn't get emotional...

Up to here are the reports of the veteran Chacón, who was, in reality, the one who tried to give a category of art to the "deep song". His proper conduct, his good judgment and discretion, and his absolute chivalry won him the sympathy and affection of those like Santa Coloma, Fernando Díaz de Mendoza, and others, who introduced flamenco to the Spanish aristocracy. This is surely the group that keeps alive the sacred flame of the traditional Andalusian and Murcian song in their typical and elaborate celebrations, which take place almost daily. 

Another interesting and very important aspect of the Andalusian guitar is its accompaniment to dance. Everyone remembers Víctor Rojas solemnly accompanying the brilliant Pastora Imperio on stage with her tangos and bulerías. 

Montoya, Mariscal, Molina, also cultivate this specialty of the guitar, giving the spectacle of Spanish dance a characteristic and authentic stamp that separates it from the frivolous and counterfeit "variété"