But like you, there's no one. Of all of them, the most personal. That's what I would tell him to make him believe it. Ismael de la Rosa The Ball If it served as an incentive for him to throw himself into the fray as a flamenco singer. I'm nobody. But I attended, as a witness, the recital that was the definitive confirmation, if there were any doubts, of his alternative or debut on the stages of flamenco. Ismael is different. We settle into the nostalgia that any past time was better and that now only copycats are born. But El Bola breaks the mold, because he takes ownership of the canteYes, he pushes them from his blood to his throat, savors them, chewing them with exquisite taste, and then releases them into the air, renamed at will, without distorting their essence, but recreating them along the deep paths with a palate of caramel, knowledge, resources, and passion. Alongside the guitar of Joselito AcedoEl Bola gave us one of the best nights of cante that have been experienced in the Peña Flamenca Torres Macarena of Sevilla in the last four or five years. I've already said that.
In the era of plastic flamenco singers, of crude, unpolished imitation, and of flamencoThe tax collectors with their carbon copies of their repertoires, Ismael arrives dreaming of Triana and its sweetness. Embroidering the lyrics, he called for distraction, knowing what he was doing, and he got the audience in the grip of the shivers from the moment he opened the cage to the wail. The Triana soleá, for his own good, which was playing with me like you play billiards, linking it with Pineapple as he pleased, tearing out the oles by the roots, because sometimes it's not the how, but the where. He wove the petenera soleá with that of the Sandbox that pressed on the one of Charamusco or in the apolá, tickling the sweet lows and rushing to the sky with jinque, while giving him the sirocco to chain together a handful of heartfelt thirds, between whispers and falsettos, to fasten the paloAnd from then until the end of the party, it was all a fantasy. And all his.
She attached a granaina of silver garlands evoking Vallejo with the messiahs of the vidalita and a couple of brave abandolaos, stitching the transitions as if they had been born that way canteThat sounded glorious. And different. It entered where it wanted, deconstructing the titititrán He ventured out into whatever corners he fancied, flirting with the rhythm, which he addressed intimately. In a hushed voice, he tempered the pine nut-like rhythms of Córdoba's joys and his little turn to Cádiz. And the audience erupted in applause for the intermission.
"In the era of plastic flamenco singers, of crude, unpolished imitation, and of flamencoWith their carbon copies of the repertoire, Ismael arrives dreaming of Triana and its syrupy sweetness. Embroidering the lyrics, he called for distraction, knowing what he was doing, and he put the audience in the bag of shudders from the moment he opened the cage to the lament.
He continued with the hot nut inspired by Acedo's guitar solo, which paid tribute with his arabesque version of the jewel bequeathed to us by Nino RicardoJoselito held Ismael with a firm grip and carried him with enviable skill. Despite his seemingly simple guitar playing, he imparted the necessary tension, holding him perfectly, showcasing the "less is more" philosophy of Triana's deep flamenco tradition, giving it enough substance to make the pairing taste of the deep passion of Gypsy folk.
He embraced the timeless accompaniment of the bambera with fandangos, just as it was done in the beginning, demonstrating his deep understanding of the old ways. And he wove them together with flair, as is only right. He shone in the Vallejo-esque taranta from Levante, and seamlessly they ended up paying homage to Manuel Molina by relaxed bulerías, Clothes There he was for a few moments. He dug his nails in with elegance and flair, overflowing with sensitivity, tracing with his phrasing the path that touches the left. He put the lyrics into the Moneo, The Chinese, the Light on the balconies de Fernandito Terremoto…and in their wailing, Marchena-esque turns, from Vallejo, from the gypsy cellar of Triana, to Chiquete and two hundred years of cante Truly, one of those that touches your soul. And when it had already melted me, closing the book with Everything is colored, she formed it with tangos from the slums of that other side of the river, without forgetting Malaga and The Piyayo.
The Oruco, Antonio Santiago Ñoño And a few others joined in to keep time with him on the bulerías. He remembered Fernanda and Bernarda and cantes from Utrera, from Gaspar, from Lebrija, Jerez and Camas and rosemary work to lock the door on a memorable recital in which he went to Triana and lavished his syrupy fantasy.
Credits
Recital by Ismael de la Rosa El Bola
Peña Flamenca Torres Macarena, Seville
February 7th 2026
Cante: Ismael de la Rosa The Ball
Guitar: Joselito Acedo
