Despite many years on stage and on the road, Jorge Pardo (Madrid, 1956) retains a joviality that speaks of his innate curiosity and his intact love for music. In a setting as unusual as a laundromat near Sancti Petri (Chiclana, Cádiz), while his laundry is spinning in the drum, he agrees to chat with expoflamenco from its beginnings in the flamenco, his years in the group Dolores and later in Paco de Lucía's sextet. An incredible adventure that continues today with multiple projects, to which he always knows how to add a touch of flamenco and that smile that rarely leaves his face.
–A while ago, you confessed to me that you were a little bothered by the excessive worship and deification of Paco de Lucía. Can you explain that further?
–It's something that has more to do with my personality than with Paco's, or anyone else's. I don't like the smearing, the patina of the unusual artist, who isn't a person, who is almost divine. Other people, humanity in general, on the other hand, like to look at themselves in an idol that borders on the divine. It's motivating, and it happens in music, in football, in politics...
–And Paco, how do you think he felt? Divine or human?
Paco had a touch of that. Part of his success as a musician, as a person, even as an entrepreneur, is that he had many visions of everything. It's true that he was very relatable, very human, he ignored all that stardom, but he also had moments of feeling different and having something unattainable for the rest of us.
–What is your first memory of him?
–It was in the halls of Phillips. Hey, what's up? What are you guys doing? We have a band. Okay, see you then.
–Was he already Paco de Lucía, did he impose himself as such?
–Well, as I say, I am not very given to exalting my own and other people's virtues. He had already triumphed with Between two watersAnd of course, as a musician, I saw extraordinary quality in him. But I also saw the artist the media was fighting over. He was already doing mainstream TV shows and appearing in magazines, although I've always applauded him for being very cautious. He was a somewhat public figure, but not even ten percent of what he would later become.
-The flamenco, was it familiar to you then?
–Relatively. I was familiar with it as a fan, but I hadn't really gotten into it yet. I had flirted with it: some figures, some melodies… But keep in mind that the flamenco Back then, things were even more cryptic than they are now, if that's possible. Today, there's so much information about everything on the Internet that if you really want to know, you have to go to the sites and get your hands dirty. But back then, there was nothing.
"It's true that he was very approachable, very human, he was beyond the stardom thing, but he also had moments of feeling different and having something unattainable for the rest of us."
–Jazz was also cryptic…
–Well, yes. As a fan, I owe it to my parents. There was always music at home. We'd come home from school and one day they'd put on Beethoven, another day zarzuela, another day Woody Herman, and another day Pepe Pinto or Marchena. It was absolutely interdisciplinary, so the flamenco It wasn't anything strange to me. But when I started playing the flute, it wasn't even remotely in my plans. All this happened in a very short period of time, two or three years and I was already hooked on the flamenco.
–He came in through the big doors, too…
–Well yes, I always say it. Paco opened the book of the flamenco in half. And very parallel to that, in a very short period of time, as I said before, I started working at the Canasteros tablao, where the group Ketama started. Camborio played guitar there, and his uncle Pepe Habichuela, Manolito Soler, Guadiana, Diego Carrasco were also there... And curiously enough, I got in, don't ask me how. I stayed there for a year; it was another source of information for the flamenco.
–And the Dolores group, which was the fusion, the mix, right?
–Yes, it was a fantasy, a recreation of all the sensations and the “sciences,” so to speak, of all the musical disciplines. It was like a mix of all that.
–It's said you had a lot of chemistry with Pedro-Ruy Blas, but also tensions. Can you confirm this?
–Yes, well, it's normal. We were strong personalities, and there comes a time in life when you can put things into perspective, but when you're young, you become polarized, and if someone likes red... well, I like blue! I like red! I like blue! You liked being your friend's friend, but also making a difference, and that's what happened to me with Pedro. You have to keep in mind that, logically, having different instruments in your head gives you different visions of music, different maestros, different idols...
–Is it true that the Dolores family lived together, like in a commune?
–More or less. Keep in mind the historical context, hippieism was everywhere. Even if you weren't a hippie, it touched you. A concept of camaraderie, of harmony, of living life without the dogmas of the time. And especially moving away from the Francoist vibe, it was an explosion of freedom, long hair, the weirder the clothes, the better… Yes, we had a chalet where three or four of us lived, there was a garage where we rehearsed, and there was that commune spirit without being one, because we each had our own jobs.
–Pedro-Ruy Blas told me about a lot of hardship, about not even having enough to make a phone call. Did you go through that?
“I escaped that a bit. I got a job at a club, the Balboa Jazz, and damn, I don't remember having more money in my life. I earned 800 pesetas a night, and I had no way to spend it. I paid the rent, dined at the best places, traveled back and forth by taxi, bought music books… But it was a contrast to the rest of Dolores's band, which, I know, was more strapped for cash.”
"Paco started smiling on stage playing with us. He started embracing music, improvisation, and leaving behind his corset." flamenco squeezed to the maximum, because then to be flamenco "You had to frown and put on a mean face. He began to discover other rhythms, other chords, other ways of approaching a composition or being on stage."
–How did you see the chemistry between Pedro and Paco?
–Putting it into context, Pedro is from an older generation than me. I was a kid and didn't have the necessary courage to start certain businesses. Pedro did. And let's not forget that Pedro was very, very successful, at the sales level of Paco de Lucía in those years, and he did have the courage to talk to him as an equal. In the first conversation with Paco, as later with Chick Corea, he was undoubtedly the one pulling the strings. And in other things, contracts, relationships with the company... He was the leader, taking on all the responsible actions. And of course, he was the first to say, "I'm going to ask Paco to play a song with us." I wouldn't have told him that.
–Although at that time Pedro Iturralde had already made his pairing of jazz with the flamenco, you had to invent a way of playing flamenco with the winds. How was it?
–That also has to be seen in the correlation of time. My invention of a way of playing flamenco With my instruments, it lasted 30 years; it didn't happen overnight. At 20, I began to realize things, what I could and couldn't do, and to realize the value I had and the responsibility of having seen myself in that moment and with those people around me. Pedro Iturralde's approach was a bit more aesthetic, let's say. Coltrane had made an album titled Olé, Miles Davis had made the Sketches, Lionel Hampton an album titled Jazz Flamenco…And Pedro, as a jazz musician, drank in, adapted to that spirit. But in part, as if he were the gringo. “I'm not flamenco, I am the jazz one.” He had the flamenco next door, Paco was actually there, but he never felt like flamencoIt struck me differently. I did see it as something more than just "let's improvise on this scale." There were a ton of melodies, patterns, a rich language, something very difficult to interpret, which I've been exploring little by little.
–Did the sextet's rise come with the departure of Pedro-Ruy Blas?
–It was a mere coincidence; everything falls into place. Dolores ended when Pedro left due to disagreements, although she continued for a bit longer, but at the same time, Paco was interested in bringing us with him. The group didn't have much more to say, and we began as individual musicians who went with Paco. At that point, Pedro realized that maybe he didn't have his place.
–Everyone is clear about what Paco's company brought to you, but what did yours bring to Paco?
–It's wrong of me to say this, but any music fan, even with the benefit of hindsight, can see that. For example, Paco started smiling on stage while playing with us. That means he started embracing music, embracing improvisation, and letting go of the corset. flamenco squeezed to the maximum, because then to be flamenco You had to frown and put on a mean face. He began to discover other rhythms, other chords, other ways of approaching a composition, other ways of being on stage. Ways he had never seen before. That richness is there, it's clear that it happened that way, but none of us have had the popular success he had, and it seems like he made it all up. Another thing that pisses me off is when it is said that Paco "brought the cajón to the flamenco”. Forgive me, but Paco didn't play the cajón, as far as I know he played the guitar. Whoever brought the cajón to the flamenco It was Rubem Dantas.
–Another confusion comes from pointing out that he discovered jazz with John McLaughin and Al Di Meola, when he had already been playing with jazz musicians for a long time: you.
–It's the same. In fact, some of the people who introduced Paco to these people were the group Dolores, Pedro, my brother, and myself. We played them the first albums of Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea, John McLaughin, Larry Coryell, Al Di Meola, and many others with whom he ended up playing. But the specific weight of these artists has eclipsed our influence. It's not that important, it's like it was for me too. Paco taught me the flamencoYes, but also 100 or 200 other artists flamencos.
«He writes this in small print, but he, even though he is flamenco, being a payo he kept a lot of what the flamenco"Really, really," they might think. That has stopped him many times, and rightly so, too.
–You started with Falla's album. Was it easier or harder than what came later?
–Yes, we started improvising on Falla, but it was just as easy and just as difficult. Paco put the brakes on things, “Let’s see if we can play bulería, and so on…” He never wanted to stray from the flamenco. But the day he brought a bulería, we set it up and it was playing right away. It wasn't that strange or that difficult, but he had that modesty... He writes this in small print, but he, even though he was flamenco, being a payo he kept a lot of what the flamenco“Really-really” might think. That has stopped him many times, and rightly so, too.
–I couldn’t let that audience down.
-Exactly.
–What would have happened if he had let himself be completely controlled by you?
–Honestly, I don't think I would have lost anything. And it's been proven with all the albums we've made, that we ended up playing what we wanted. The format was flamenco, but there was no way to get rid of it flamenco. I had, so to speak, dialectical confrontations with him about the fear of getting out of there, and I told him: “Paco, man, it's just that when you tune the guitar, it's already flamenco. Don’t be afraid! It’s unnecessary.”
–There's a lot of talk about Paco's wicked sense of humor. What was he like?
–You know, the ones from Algeciras, special [laughs]. It's pretty well known that he liked to pit people against each other; it was his favorite game. “Do you know what Benavent said about you? That you played out of tune.” He cracked up at that. The thing is, though I was young, I was more ambitious, but others took the bait.
–Some people say Paco didn't like to talk about music, others say he did... You, who spent hundreds of hours with him over the years, can you clear up any doubts?
–That's also something we musicians have. Nobody likes to talk about music, and we hate people who do, especially with that intellectual, know-it-all quality, which gives off a frightening stench. That interview with Monk and asking him, "What is jazz?" Paco made many statements in which he said that when he finished the tour, he'd put down his guitar, "the further away the better," but it was a lie. You say that because you think it, you feel it, but it's clear we were all addicted to music. Morente once said it with great humor: "There's no place like home."
–In the documentary Trance Your son appears, reproaching you a little for that.
–It was a bit of a chore, but we were eager to go on tour, experience the musical creation with your favorite bandmates, and feel the freedom to make music and earn money for your people. At that point in our lives, it was a perfect job, and Paco, as our boss, encouraged it.
"My observation, from the inside, is that there were two fundamental steps to success. One was the trio with McLaughin and Al di Meola, the other was Saura's film 'Carmen,' with Antonio Gades, which featured Paco. Both allowed us to go from playing for 200 people to playing for 2.000."
–Does that explain the endless tours you embarked on? Because you created the world tour for the flamenco.
–Yes, but you also have to put it in context. Think about how, when we were touring, intercontinental flights cost a fortune. And when you went to Germany, look, now you can fly back and forth to Hamburg in a weekend because an artist you like was playing… That was for millionaires, or for crazy people. Back then, you embarked on tours like that because you played every day, and when you weren't playing, it didn't even occur to you to go home; you spent the money you'd earned in a month. Going back wasn't in the cards.
–Were those tours a complete success, or did they also experience tough times?
–No, no, there were difficult times, they're not just counted by successes. There's a high percentage of successes, let's say 70 or 80 percent, but the first tours were for auditoriums of 200 or 300 people. We went to Brussels, Paris, London... but to small theaters. Then the capacity gradually increased. My observation, from the inside, is that there were two fundamental steps to success. One was the trio with McLaughin and Al di Meola, the other the film. Carmen Saura, with Antonio Gades, where Paco appeared. Both allowed us to go from playing for 200 people to playing for 2.000.
–In Europe as in America, did you see that the flamenco will people get it right away?
–Yes, but that's where Paco's figure rises to the highest levels, because he was a virtuoso of the guitar. He did with it what no one else in the world could do. With a ten-second riff, he could raise the theater. "Is it flamenco"Is it a bulería, a taranta? What do I care, can you do the picado again?" In that sense, he has been an ambassador, like the dance itself. flamenco, because the dance is spectacular: all the girls and boys fall in love with the color, the poise, the presence, the virtuosity. However, the music was not as successful. And the cante It remains to be seen whether it will succeed on the international stage. cante It has traveled very poorly internationally. And the guitar has traveled very poorly, except for Paco, who came out, went Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr… And it worked.
–Said like that, it sounds like it's for show.
–It's the pure truth. Then, obviously, that effect was filled with artistry, and I also value our work. We were amazing. But the first knife, the dagger, was Paco's virtuosity. In fact, we often found that a large percentage of people came to the theater because they were in love with the guitar, perhaps the most popular instrument in the world. Every Hawaiian, Japanese, or Pakistani home has one, and everyone knew how difficult it is to play a guitar like that. That reached him in a brutal way, in a way that no one could reach him. cante by seguiriya… Or also, after, but the dagger came first.
–What was the working dynamic like with the sextet?
–Everything was pretty anarchic. For example, as an anecdote, I can tell you that we'd finish a tour and there wouldn't be another one for two or three months. We'd go about our respective tasks, and when the new tour event was coming up, Paco would call: "Hey, we're going on tour on June 7th. We're going to meet up a week before, come over to my house and we'll rehearse a little." We'd arrive at rehearsal the week before, and there would be two of us. Two or three days later, another two would arrive. And to make a long story short, you can imagine: we'd joke around, we'd tell each other things, and when there were two days left until we left, we'd get the urge. "Hey, we have to do something!" But not us, he himself! We were all guilty.
"He did with it what no one else in the world could do. With a ten-second jump, he would raise the barn door. "Is it flamenco"Is it a bulería, a taranta? What do I care, can you do the picado again?" In that sense, he has been an ambassador, like the dance itself. flamenco»
–Does this confirm the idea that Paco didn’t rehearse much?
–Yes, but perhaps because of his brother Ramón, he did take good care of his fingers. There was a certain amount of dilettante effort involved in rehearsing together, but having his fingers ready to be able to do that Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr… That's true. Ramón forced him, he'd get everyone out of the dressing room an hour early, including us – "Come on, come on, Paco has to practice" – and Paco took it seriously, and he practiced.
–And Pepe? Did he have a good relationship with you?
–It was good in that he was a very nice guy, very salty and a very good companion, but don't think he didn't step into his "I'm Pepe de Lucía" territory, eh?
–It never ceases to amaze me that this creative effervescence and success has caught you at a fairly young age. How did any of you manage to stay in your own heads?
–It's true that no one lost their minds. We rubbed shoulders with highly successful bands, technicians and road managers who worked with Iron Maiden, Dire Straits, or Paul McCartney, and we told stories about many people who had been left behind. But we didn't, and I think there were two reasons: Ramón's discipline, which wasn't English, but I've even said we were in the Ramón de Algeciras Sextet, not the Paco de Lucía Sextet. In terms of coordination and corporatism, it was Ramón who imposed those rules. And then among us, the fact of being Spanish, coming from a country with a bit of an inferiority complex, in that post-Franco era... If you were English or American, you put your feet up on the table, you curse the taxi driver, you order a ton of food that you won't eat... Those excesses that occur in rich countries. But since we were Spanish, we ate peanuts; we didn't have that delusion of grandeur. We weren't educated in that. Not even Paco or his brothers.
–You also experienced the era of the big jazz festivals at the end of the sextet. You shared a dressing room with legendary figures. Were you impressed by any of the people you bumped into?
–Well, everyone, because when I was young I was educated in the mythology of jazz, and if you met Sonny Rollins, Herbie Hancock, Michael Brecker, Miles Davis himself… They were all big shots. But there I did see with Carles, with whom I shared more of that mythology, a paradigm shift with the flamencoI loved it when they asked Camarón What did he think about singing on a bill with Jaco Pastorius, and he replied: "And who is that?" It wasn't arrogance, it's that he didn't know who he was. Why the hell did he have to know? I've used that, I've incorporated it into my spirit as a musician, and it's that all that excess of honey that we put into it, especially in Anglo-Saxon artists... Yes, it's very good, but the thing is, I have a neighbor who also does it very well, called Rancapino or someone else, and he knows how to do something that the one you're telling me about doesn't know how to do. I signed up for that: very good, so what?
–Were your experiences with José and Paco very different?
–Yes, in different aspects, because José was a guy who didn't have the information that Paco had. Paco was a successful character, and Camarón Not so much at that time. He was an admired figure, but not a successful one. And that's when things changed quite a bit. As an anecdote, I can tell you that Carles pushed hard (we all did, but he had less shame), insisting that "the one who should come here is Camarón"And of course, that was impossible.
"Two months before Paco died, God gave me the gift of a conversation with him. Fate, or whatever, had me in Mexico playing some concerts. Paco found out and tracked me down. "Bodegas, come over here, we're going to make some fish and such..." I showed up, and Javier Limón was there. And I said to him: "Paco, be careful with Javier Limón, one day he'll tell you to shut up."
–Paco, was it very different in the studio than on stage?
–Yes. Like all musicians, live performances are top-notch and you throw yourself into the puddles, but in the studio you're more cautious; you like things to be just right, everything to be fine-tuned... Anyway.
–Was he the perfectionist obsessive that has been portrayed?
–Yes, in the end, over time, yes. When technology started to allow it, with digital recordings, Pro Tools, the death of tape recorders and the birth of the hard drive, which allowed you to do practically anything, change a chord, change a note… That's when Paco became a sick man.
–For Paco, was there a before and after his meeting with Javier Limón?
–Look, when the sextet ended, seven, eight, or nine years passed in which we barely spoke, on the one hand, in the confidence that there wasn't much to say to each other, on the other, the respect for that silence, and finally, the idea that it doesn't matter that I don't talk to my brother, he's my brother, and if anything happens, he'll call me any day now. That happened, but two months before Paco died, God gave me a conversation with him. And I say this without being very religious, fate, or whatever, meant that I was in Mexico doing some concerts. Paco found out and tracked me down. "Bodegas, come over here, we're going to make some fish and such..." I showed up, and among the many things we talked about, Javier Limón was there. And I told him: "Paco, be careful with Javier Limón, one day he'll tell you to shut up."
–Did he say it exactly like that?
–I'll leave it there. Paco didn't like interviews; he hid from public opinion. And Javier Limón was the complete opposite. At that time, he had become the voice of Paco de Lucía, the voice of flamenco. And consequently, a guy as foul-mouthed as Javier could at any given moment say, "No, no, I did what Paco did..." or some other outrageous thing.
–Was the farewell with you heated?
–Yes, unhinged. It wasn't dramatic, nor tragic, but things were slowly sinking. We were all a little fed up, there was no more food, the music wasn't flowing… Relationships hadn't soured; on the contrary, we were a family, but there was no more combustion either. And personally, both Carles and Rubem and I had our projects, and there was combustion there. The other thing, getting together to do three concerts, ended up being like a job, and that band didn't deserve that ending. The best thing, no matter what happened, was to say "enough."
–Who ultimately made the decision?
–Obviously Paco, who was the owner of the invention. But it was a feeling shared by the others. Then, as I told you before, there was no animosity or anything like that, everything was fine. It was like a couple that breaks up, but there's love, there's affection, even though we don't fuck anymore, so you're there and I'm here, and if you ever need me, you call me.
"That love-hate relationship with the gypsy was also very much Paco's. That idea that the flamenco It's not theirs, but if they give me a shout-out, my socks will fall off... That strange contradiction, I don't want you by my side, but I need you to look at me.
–Did you experience the crisis that followed the death of Camarón?
–Yes, I experienced it in a very strange way, I'm not going to go into it too much. I felt hypocrisy everywhere, both because of the famous accusation from the environment of Camarón to Paco's entourage and vice versa... I thought, how awful, I don't want to be involved in this, and in fact, I didn't go to the funeral. I had a few words with Paco that I kept quiet. I understand everything, but... It's not pretty, it's not pretty.
–Do you think you became more of a gypsy after that incident?
–That love-hate relationship with the gypsy world was also very much Paco's. That idea that the flamenco It's not theirs, but if they give me a shout-out, my socks will fall off... That strange contradiction, I don't want you by my side, but I need you to look at me.
–How did you experience the formation of the second sextet?
–I've talked about it more than once. I was the one who recommended Antonio Serrano, although it took him a while to join the band. That says it all. My admiration for all of them is total. However, what I didn't like was that he made them play our stuff. You change bands, change music, do something else. It's up to you, you have money, you have time. "Come on, guys, 15 days locked up, brainstorm." But having someone else play my lines... It doesn't make much sense to me, artistically. I wasn't attracted to the idea.
–How did you find out about Paco’s death?
–In the morning, I was sleeping, and I don't know who told me. You know, you're in that state of disbelief: What's going to happen now? Is the sun going to rise tomorrow? It wasn't at all planned. In fact, part of the conversation in Mexico was that Paco wanted to reissue the old sextet.
–Did you feel like it?
–I told him the same thing I told you when you asked me about the new group: Look, Paco, I don't feel like getting the old sextet back together to do what we used to do. If we get together, it's to spend a month rehearsing, and do different things, and hit it big. So, yes.
–Although they would always ask him Zyriab y Between two waters...
–Man, you can always have that, like with Chick Corea. It's one thing to be asked Spain, which Chick played with great pleasure at the end of concerts, and another that you didn't do an hour and a half of crazy and new things before playing the SpainAnd Paco could do it perfectly.
"I know Paco had a great love for me, perhaps because I was critical of him. He had this fondness for having 'slaves,' but he also liked people who told him what they thought. Perhaps it's pretentious to say it, but I consider myself that way. I know my opinions were useful to Paco."
–By the way, you witnessed the rapprochement between Paco and Chick, how was it?
–Chick came to play in Madrid with his group, in one of the first popular jazz concerts in Spain, after Franco's death. Pedro-Ruy Blas, who was the one who opened the doors, found out about the hotel where he was staying, brought him to Balboa Jazz, we had a jam session, from there we went to eat a stew at La Bola, and then we went to El Corte Inglés and made him buy Paco's records, Camarón, by Enrique Morente… He took a dozen long-plays that must have weighed quite a lot in his suitcase.
–And when do you connect with Paco?
–The first personal encounter was in Japan. We were going to play at the Live Under the Sky festival, and Chick, knowing that was going to happen, had sent her some songs he had written in her honor months before, the famous Yellow Nimbus between them. There, on the tour that lasted for about a month, touring different places, the meeting took place.
–Do you think it was as important as the meeting with McLaughin and Al Di Meola?
–I think even more so musically. Commercially speaking, less so. Keep in mind that that trio sold millions of copies of one of their albums, on par with Michael Jackson.
–How many times do you think about Paco during the week?
–I dream about him. I won't say daily, because that would sound obsessive. He's a person, a spirit that's still there. I know Paco had a great love for me, perhaps because I was critical of him. He had that fondness for having "slaves," but he also liked people who told him what they thought. Perhaps it's pretentious to say it, but I consider myself that way. I know my opinions were useful to Paco, and that spirit now appears in many dreams that may have nothing to do with him. Maybe I'm in a bar like this talking to you, and he appears there, "Paco, but, don't you...?" And vanishes. He has that presence in my life and in my dreams.
–One last curiosity: when you ride a wave like the one in Paco's music, and then leave it, do you stay up, or do you go down many levels?
–If you mean that with Paco you go to a five-star hotel, and when you go to a gig you go to a four-star hotel, yes, you go down. But that's too biased a view for my taste. For me, it's the opposite. When Paco leaves you, you close one door and open 700 windows. In reality, that's when the good stuff starts, when your thing starts, call it what you want. I understand the feeling of falling, but I would dispute it, because it doesn't seem good or healthy to me.
–Maybe it has to do with the idea that success in music means playing Carnegie Hall or Madison Square Garden…
–You've got it right there. You associate music with that kind of successful environment. You don't think about the new song you've released, the new band you have, how much fun you have on stage, what happens to you emotionally. Paco isn't there, but think about what you've learned. I've never felt bad about playing in a small venue, on the contrary, a huge gig! It's one of the things I learned from Paco and Chick Corea: you go on stage and there's no reflection, bam! Full blast! Whoever's there doesn't matter to me, so to speak. Look, I'll tell you a story: I was in Ecuador playing with my band when Chick Corea called me, "Look, I have a show in Los Angeles." I had bought my ticket to Madrid, and Los Angeles is way up the road from Ecuador. So I arrived and the gig was at a club, the Baked Potato, prestigious, trendy. There were three rows. Do you know how Chick Corea ended up playing? Bang, bang, blah! That's the lesson for both of us: wherever you are, whether there are more or fewer people, whether you earn more or less, go all out. ♦
