It was necessary to pursue Pepe de Lucia a few months, because the maestro's schedule is not easy, but we finally have the appointment: one sunny Seville afternoon, near the Maestranza, the singer appears to talk with expoflamencoOf course, an interview with Pepe is never a typical interview: over the course of a full day, you'll have to share a rice dish with him, go in search of some Moguer pastries, and end up having a coffee in Triana... And between bites and sips, but also walking, stopping at every corner of the Sevillian capital, with a thousand and one digressions, the story of this man of enviable appearance at eighty years of age, an exceptional witness to his brother's development as a musician, will take shape. Paco de Lucía, who lived with him through the toughest years and also through glory on stages around the globe. Where to start? Well, where it belongs: at the beginning.
– I'd like to start by talking about your father, who has gone down in history as a somewhat tyrannical figure, although those who knew him closely say he wasn't at all like that. How do you remember him?
– My father never swore in his life. He only said “scoundrel,” “scoundrel,” and that was as far as he went. He kissed us on the cheek; it’s a gesture I remember every day. Shortly before he died, when he had already gone to live next door to my brother Antonio, in Aluche, I saw him sitting there, with his glasses, so old, and he said to me: “I have been very unhappy. I was orphaned when I was little. I lived in a shack. They gave me food in a barracks with a tin jug, and a woman saved me bread from one week to the next.” That was what he recounted at the end of his life.
– And you didn’t want your children to have that life, right?
– I used to study, but the guitar was very difficult for me; I wanted to sing more. Paco, on the other hand, ate the guitar. He had a sixth sense; he was born for it. He'd start playing and do Ramón's falsetas before he'd even learned them. I'd run away, asking my father for money to rehearse. Once he complained to my mother, "Look what he says, give him ten duros for a week of studying." [laughs]
– What other things do you remember about Paco as a child?
– I remember his christening perfectly, the smell of the new leather seats of a 20s-style Chicago car we got into, which Bocahierro, a taxi driver from Algeciras, had lent us. They woke me up early in the room where we all slept, got me ready, and I got into the car. We lived in a very humble house that my uncle Manolo, who owned brothels, had given us on Fuente Nueva Street. It had a toilet that was just a hole and had to be cleaned with newspaper, and a zinc bath that we put in the sun to heat, where we would hide.
– Who was Paco’s godfather at his baptism?
– A man named Francisco Alberto, a family friend. We once went to his house on Panadería Street, and my mother told him: “Look what my son Paco dreamed, that you had been killed.” And he said to her: “Comadre, how does a boy dream such things?” Well, three nights later, the man, who was involved in smuggling coffee, was stopped by the Civil Guard, shot with the Mauser, and managed to continue. He reached Utrera, bleeding, and died there.
"Do you know that Paco stopped being a leftist when he earned his first two million pesetas? (…) That's what he said, but he never stopped being a leftist. Look, I had a gold watch that I wore on the cover of the album Al Alba, and Paco gave me a hard time! Why did you wear that gold watch? I've kept it ever since. He thought it was ostentatious."
– Do you think Paco had some gift for divination or something similar?
Paco had powers, and so did I. We inherited them from my mother. She had premonitions every day. And sometimes I think about something, and half an hour later it happens. Once, Paco went crying to my mother because his cousin Alfonsa had pushed a cat at him, and my mother replied: "But your cousins Alfonsa and Andrea are dead!"
– Did your mother experience these episodes naturally?
– My mother had a habit of giving everyone who died in her homeland butterflies. She wasn't religious; she never went to church, and my father even less so: he stayed at the door. He wasn't at any baptism or wedding.
– Your mother doesn’t either?
– Yes, she came to Amsterdam for Paco's wedding, and I remember she wanted to get involved in those pornographic shows, she was curious, but they kicked her out… [laughs]
– Did you like it very much? flamenco?
– My mother always wanted me to sing seguiriyas for her. And she would sing us a Portuguese lullaby that made us cry. I know Paco even had it recorded. “Sing it again,” we would tell him. We couldn't get enough of it.
– It's said that your sister sang too, that she rocked Paco with folk songs. Was that true?
– So Paco slept in the crib, he was the king, and the others slept in cots. My sister loved it. Oh, The Corals! [Marifé de Triana song]. She had her temper, huh? Once she was stung by a wasp, and she said she was going to die… But it was just an excuse to leave because her boyfriend was waiting for her. And I nicknamed her The wasp'sShe made me go to La Junquera to buy margaritas, and I bargained with her, “You have to give me two pesetas.”
–How would you define your brother Ramón?
– A very disciplined person. He wanted us to do things well. We all owe our beautiful handwriting to him. He punished us by making a page. “Not another page, Ramón!” “No? Then another one.” Antonio had been working since he was eight years old. He was called up as a bellboy at the Hotel Cristina in Algeciras. My mother would accompany him to the dock because she was scared of him. He would come back loaded with millefeuille scraps and pastries. I would also go to the bakery, run errands, and get paid like that, with pastry scraps. Then I would distribute them to the children at La Bajadilla. And the one who divides and distributes… [laughs]
"When Sabicas died, we were in Buenos Aires, and Paco flew to New York alone to hold a wake for him. There was a very powerful bond. He told me, 'Pepe, he was alone, all by himself there.' There's so much talk about him now. Why didn't anyone do what Paco did?"
– Did Antonio never dare to play?
– He played the guitar; he had a great air about him playing bulerías. He played bulerías al golpe very well, but he dedicated himself to his own thing, the hospitality industry, and didn't want to be an artist.
– And your sister?
– She didn’t want her boyfriend. And in those days, you know...
– When did you realize that Paco’s playing was something out of the ordinary?
– It's funny, I never realized he was supernatural. I only thought about my brother, with affection and respect. It's only now that I'm starting to realize how brilliant he was. We both suffered a lot alone, in Madrid… It was very hard.
– Tell me, what did the capital mean to you?
– We were very tired. “We’re going to Madrid! Off to the adventure!” We were waiting for a letter from Manolo Cano, a classical guitarist from Granada, which never arrived. And my father picked Paco and me up just as we were getting a little bit of light. We went on the train; I remember we stopped in Bobadilla. “There’s soda, citronella, soft drinks, sandwiches!” I told him to buy us something, and he replied: “No, son, don’t worry, Mom put some food in this little wicker basket for us.” It was still a coal-fired machine, one of the last, whoosh [imitates the sound of chimneys]. We arrived in Madrid and took a beautiful old car; the porters were going back and forth with their carts. And my father asked them: “Where’s there a boarding house around here?” “Look, right across the main street, there’s Calle Santa Isabel. You’ll find one there.” And off we went.
– And what was your daily life like there?
– We went out every day to walk around Madrid. Everywhere we went, they told my father that the children were underage, and that, unfortunately, nothing could be done. So we went to the Esteso guitar shop. There, we asked Faustino or Mariano to buy us an ensaimada or a pastry from the place across the street. Until Faustino said to my father: “Why don’t we go somewhere where maybe the children can do something?” It was the Félix restaurant, a two-story establishment on Muñoz Seca Street. This Félix man was a very nice man, dressed in white, and we stood at the door of the private rooms. “If any diners want to listen,” he said. flamenco, let the children come in.” We sat there, diners arrived, and they gave us a thousand pesetas, two thousand pesetas… One day we were told that Nati Mistral had arrived with someone well known from the Central Bank. When she heard us, her face became so emotional… She was gorgeous, I’ll never forget her beautiful teeth. Tears came to her eyes when she heard us, Paco playing and me singing, and she gave us six thousand pesetas.
– What did they do with that huge amount of money?
– That helped us pay what we owed for food on Echegaray Street. We would arrive at the boarding house at night after walking all over Madrid, my father would buy a little cheese and quince paste, and Paco and I would lie down in a bed just like this one [pointing to a small space], one on top of the other. I was on top of Paco, of course, because he weighed twice as much as me. That was until they called us from the Roll the Ball, the program José Luis Pecker recorded on Paseo de La Habana, and there we thought we could make some money. When we finished singing, they applauded us and came with a package. Paco and I looked at each other smiling, but they came… With a Meccano set and a train. Again, our heads down! What did we want with a Meccano set and a train?
"It's funny, I never realized Paco was supernatural. I only thought about his brother, with affection and respect. It's only now that I'm starting to realize how brilliant he was. We both suffered a lot alone, in Madrid... It was very hard."
– You, as children, how did you live with those hardships?
– I'll tell you another good thing: my father was already fed up with it when we were going out for breakfast one day and Paco said to him: "Dad, I'm in a pinch." "Paquito! Another coffee, Paquito? Another coffee?" That meant I couldn't use the bars anymore; I had to spend. And our money was limited. "Another coffee, Paquito?" became a catch-all phrase in my family. [laughs]
– When did your luck change?
– We continued like this until I met Vitorilla, a woman who was very fond of cante. Pepe de la Matrona, Alberto Vélez, Antoñita Moreno… went to his house. We went to the Nerja Caves with Vitorilla in an American car she provided for us, which also included her dog, Tiznao. My father, Antonio El Bailarín, came along… I still remember the red telephone we had on Calle Ilustración, one of those wall-mounted ones, where my father gave Valderrama the biggest scolding in the world, because Paco had been rehearsing with him for over a month and in the end, he took Niño Ricardo away. If you could see my father, the scolding he gave him…
– The one who left with Valderrama was Ramón, right?
– Yes, he was the first to leave home, with Valderrama, with Marchena… I also have at home a letter I wrote to my brother Ramón in 1958 or thereabouts, asking him for some diving goggles. “I'll pay you in installments, Ramón.” And the title of the letter was “Ask Letter” [laughs].
– The first person to give you a chance was José Greco, right?
– Yes, one day José Greco showed up at Vitorilla's house, my mentor in Madrid, and said he wanted to take me to America. I was incredibly excited; I was already 16, and I went with Greco. And a week later, I was doing the Ed Sullivan Show with Greco. I returned to Spain, on a plane that was crashing in the middle of the Atlantic (the flight attendant told me, "We're all going to die"), and then I returned to the United States. I remember I was at the Bristol Hotel, I'd taken a shower, and Greco called me to come down for dinner. I did, and I found Greco standing next to a man in black with a white shirt. "Pepe," he said, "I'm going to introduce you to a friend. His name is Rocky Marciano." And I shook his hand like I would any friend, like so many people who introduced me, the welterweight champion, the head of Coca-Cola worldwide, a man who was also very big and tall... And just the same, I shook his hand like it was nothing.
– The story is well-known of how you constantly protested that Greco would also take Paco on the tour, until he succeeded.
– After nagging Greco a lot, I got him to tap me on the shoulder in Denver and say, “Your brother is coming to Chicago tomorrow.” I went to give him a hug, but he got angry because I was fed up with him, and besides, he didn’t need a third guitarist because he already had Manolo Barón and Ricardo Modrego. When he arrived in Chicago, the flamencos from Albuquerque and everywhere, because as young as he was, he already had a reputation. By the way, Zumosol's cousin came to me, because in the company there was a guy, Astigarraga, who did Basque dancing with Greco, and one day he slapped me in the face. When Paco arrived, he settled the score with him; imagine, back then people could swim across the entire Bay of Algeciras!
"They called us from Ruede la Bola, the program that José Luis Pecker recorded on Paseo de La Habana, and we thought we could make some money there. When we finished singing, they applauded us and came with a package. Paco and I looked at each other smiling, but they came... with a Meccano set and a train. Again, our heads down! What did we want with a Meccano set and a train?"
– It's also said that you were always arguing. Were you very argumentative?
– I was the one who did his laundry, the one who cooked for him, and more than once the hotel manager, a big man with white hair, caught us and yelled, “No cooking here!” I cooked in the bathroom, the mirror covered in tomato sauce… I blamed Paco, and then he’d pick me up like a bundle and throw me across the room. I’d fly away, though I always landed on the bed. He was three times my size, but he knew where I was going to land.
– Did you call him “Chubby”?
– Yes, and Mambrú. “Mambrú went to war, what pain, what pain, what shame…” And he didn’t like it, he gritted his teeth, “I’ll kill you!”
– And you, Pelleja. Why?
– That was Loli, the Gypsy, who came and was always hanging around my house, living with us. She worked in a canning factory. When it was her turn to get paid, I wanted to go with her, but I didn't want to. "Well, give me a peseta or I'll throw you on the ground." "Okay, come on." And when we arrived, I told her she had to give me two pesetas. "Should I give you two pesetas? You're a real jerk!" And that's how it stayed. Even Carmina Ordóñez called me that.
– The crucial encounter with Sabicas occurred during the American tour with Greco. How do you remember the maestro?
– I used to fall asleep singing to Sabicas, because I was a 16-year-old kid in New York. My brother Paco hadn't come yet. He would wake me up because Sabicas smoked a lot, and suddenly I couldn't breathe. He'd look at me and laugh. He was one of the best guitarists in the world, as well as a lovely person.
– For Paco it was also a great discovery, wasn’t it?
– Yes, but I met him first, and no one says that. Paco also loved him madly, and he loved us, like his brother Diego. When Sabicas died, we were in Buenos Aires, and he took a plane to New York by himself to hold a wake. There was a very powerful bond. He told me: “Pepe, he was alone, all by himself there.” There's so much talk about him now, why didn't anyone do what Paco did?
– What other guitarists did Paco like back then, apart from Sabicas and Niño Ricardo?
Paco really liked Cepero; he said he was the best at singing. We were very good friends; he'd also come to the guitar shop and buy us ensaimadas. He's made a lot of money playing the guitar.
"Paco really liked Cepero; he said he was the best at singing. We were very good friends; he'd also come to the guitar shop and buy us ensaimadas. He's made a lot of money playing the guitar."
– Was the tablao Las Brujas your first serious job in Madrid?
– Yes, everyone went there, the artists, the politicians, everyone fell for it, the best artists in the world, Elton John, who was a poor copy of Nino Bravo… It was a very secluded place, where there were no problems with fights, or rows, or stories. And there was a group of very beautiful women, among whom I met Pepi, my wife by marriage.
– Have you met many politicians who channel flamenco?
– The Ministry of Culture doesn't even know what a soleá is. I once sang at the Zarzuela and greeted Adolfo Suárez, because he was a neighbor of mine, who was about to leave. I asked him why he was leaving so soon, and he said, "I'm leaving because the Constitution is being signed tomorrow." I wished him luck, and he replied, "I'm going to need it, because nothing has changed." I once met Zapatero in Huelva, and he didn't even say good morning. I got the impression he was an unscrupulous man. Manolo Chaves did; his wife is from San Roque, and we've always had a good relationship. Guerra was also very fond of the flamenco, especially the guitar: once at an Ave, he made me open one and show it to him, because he told me his son played. I called them the Tortilla Clan. And Felipe was also very kind to us. His brother was very good friends with my brother Paco. He was greatly admired in our house; he was very much a Mairena native.
– Have you ever been to the famous wine cellar?
– Yes, of course. We met him once. We were returning from a tour, and he was coming from Sudan. He had a very large book with him, and he wanted to give it to my brother, who loved books. “Sign it for me, Felipe,” he said, and he laughed. “In any case, you’d have to sign it for me.” Then we traveled together to Seville. He was a great fan, he really liked the book. canteThe day Felipe's father died, my father called us twenty times to make sure we'd sent him the condolence telegram. Nowadays, most politicians are from Castile and León, but what's there over there? There aren't even any geckos.
– Man, there must be something…
– [laughs] I was just remembering the time Paco came to Rocío with me, and we were with Luis de Algeciras, Luis el Gordo, El Zambo, Tomatito, Potito, the Marismeños, Diego Pantoja, who was very funny… And El Zambo said to Tomatito: “There’s nothing in Almería.” The poor guy turned white, yellow, green… The joke took him by surprise. I also remember that Herminia [Borja] sang her head off, and Juanini from the Marismeños came down drunk and asked us all to be quiet, “Do you want to listen a little?” And we were all silent, listening to Herminia! [laughs]
– And the Royal Family, is it as flamenco as they say?
– I have been to the Zarzuela a lot, because Felipe loves it. flamencoI remember saying to my brother, "You're like me, Ramón, one of the good ones, we were born on the same day." King Felipe was the first to arrive when Paco de América's body arrived. I was standing before the coffin, and he touched my shoulder from behind. I saw him dressed in black with all due respect. He took me by the shoulders and offered his condolences. It wasn't just any old thing. Did you know that Paco stopped being a leftist when he earned his first two million pesetas?
– That's what he seemed to say, as if it were a contradiction. But I think, due to his attitude and convictions, it never ceased to be one deep down.
– Yes, he never stopped being a leftist, although when he started making money he made that statement. Look, I had a gold watch that I wore on the cover of the album At dawn, and Paco gave me a hard telling off! “Why did you wear that gold watch?” I've kept it ever since [laughs]. He thought it was ostentatious. ♦
[Continued in part II]
