You have to listen to it. Juani of the Three Thousand You have to see it. It's no use me putting together a handful of clumsy words that dare to draw the lines of his throat. You have to see how he clenches his fists, squeezing the ducas tightly, how he twists his mouth and opens his hands, splashing the cante that springs out of him on its own, without a second thought. You have to describe how his eyes pop out and his veins burst with blood, how his bones crunch in the attacks, how it scratches, how it hurts, how it overflows with gypsy spirit.
It was the first time I'd given a solo recital. I'd been on edge for fifty days and even thinking about running away. This gypsy from the Polígono Sur in Seville is a wild colt, untamed. And that's how I want it. The renewed Peña Flamenca Old Man Shoelaces, from the Cadiz town of Rota, had the enormous good sense of giving him the alternative. He came out of the fight on his shoulders. Because Juani sings of his hardships, those that are chewed over forever if you've lost your mother at five years old and have four little jobs to pull off, four mouths to feed. This noble and sincere gypsy began to sing in the streets. He married at fifteen, became a father at eighteen, and has learned the flamenco like breathing in the corners of the neighborhood, paying tribute to the echoes of Camarón, Chocolate, Thomas Pavon, Joan of the Stir, Agujetas y Pata Negra.
He came curled up at the palmas and the beat of none other than The Torombo y Emilio Castaneda, who showed him the path of the soniquete and stuck their little artistic legs in the end. On the guitar Carlos León, which made it easy for him flamenco that he carries in his hands, touching the interlinings of his left hand.
"The cante Juani de las Tres Mil's is the crumbed bread, the mashed gazpacho, the fat potato, the chestnut from the chestnut tree, the pure olive, the cream, the essence, the softness of the wine, the deep entrails, the toasted pot, the stab that pierces you... His is the indomitable lament of painful wounds, a cry of life, loud creaks, little crystals in the guts, pins in the throat, primitive sweat... cante "gypsy and savage"
Juani came out of the dressing room with tonás, spilling her dark torrent over the whitewashed walls of the sun-drenched peñaAnd he already hit the first ones pellizcos stirring up the audience. A heartfelt taranto of Manuel Torre and greater Cartagena continued to show the omen of a great night of duende. For joys he remembered Camarón, mainly in the tangos of Juana la del Revuelo, curling lyrics that are not heard and smudging with her blessed swallow. The soleá por bulerías was a walk through Beans, Alcalá, and Cádiz, dressing the memory of his beloved mother in mourning. He was able to hold out in bulerías until the milkman came, more than enough. And to close the door, he blasted a few fandangazos, shining in the chocolatiers. The party ended with applause. That was all there was.
His nerves raced, and he vibrated somewhat hastily. He sang with extraordinary imperfections and a flawless palate.
El cante Juani de las Tres Mil is all true. There are no shadows or impostures. He doesn't think in terms, he feels. He is the crumbed bread, the pounded gazpacho, the fat potato, the chestnut from the chestnut tree, the purity of the olive, the cream, the essence, the crunch of the wine, the deep entrails, the toasted taste of the pot, the stab that pierces you... His is the indomitable lament of painful wounds, a cry of life, loud creaks, little crystals in the guts, pinpricks in the throat, primitive sweat... In short: the cante gypsy and savage.
Credits
recital of cante by Juani of the Three Thousand
Peña Flamenca The Old Man Agujetas, Rota (Cádiz)
April 25th 2025
Cante: Juani of the Three Thousand
Guitar: Carlos León
Palmas and compass: El Torombo and Emilio Castañeda
