I will never, ever, never understand the obsessive need of so many people to separate men from women in almost every kind of endeavor, whether artistic, academic, or of any other sort one might name. In some circumstances it’s justifiable, such as in sports where physical strength or build make a difference. But simply saying “person,” I see no need to invoke the associated reproductive anatomy when referring to each individual’s role.
Nor is it necessary, when speaking about flamenco, to focus on the performer’s age, appearance, or background. These are interesting and relevant aspects when discussing the sociology of each artist and the characteristics of their work, but my point is this: fierce localism in flamenco simply adds nothing.
Why is Extremaduran flamenco so overlooked? Why don’t its artists appear in Andalusian peñas or festivals, instead of the constant repetition of the same stars? They are excellent, of course, but it would be refreshing to experience different airs that are still unmistakably flamenco.
Our beloved Camarón de la Isla, who together with Paco de Lucía revolutionized flamenco singing, popularized the canastero musical inflection through the compelling style of Juan Cantero, Ramón el Portugués, Guadiana, Marelu, and others. This is where “festero” ceases to be an accurate description of what these artists convey. Unexpected, fresh tonalities, a rural sensibility, almost innocent yet wounding, anything but festive. They call it “festera” because singer La Kaita largely keeps to tangos and jaleos (a variety of bulería). But her voice and delivery cut you without mercy…some “celebration.”
"For non-initiated foreigners, there is only one kind of flamenco: the one of polka dots, heelwork, plastic flowers, “castanets,” and plenty of dancing. The Extremaduran identity however, is a kind of singing with a rural, canastero air that joins hands with Andalusian flamenco through the temperament of La Kaita and other artists from Badajoz"
For some aficionados, perhaps the majority, La Kaita’s singing comes across as excessive, for others, it is the raw pain, carried with courage sustained by brilliant inner strength. It is that flamenco state that “hurts good” as they say.
When I was young, I used to go every year to the gypsy pilgrimage in Fregenal de la Sierra, Badajoz. Thousands of people, with caravans and tents, would spend the weekend around the sanctuary of the Virgen de los Remedios. It was there that I met La Kaita, in the middle of a large circle of devotees, unleashing her tremendous singing. That cold Sunday morning in October, with the smell of coffee brewing over an open fire, I was captivated by that alternative way of feeling lo jondo, both musically and expressively.
I’m not familiar with the funding system for cultural activities in Spanish municipalities, but one assumes that each local council strives to satisfy the citizens who have elected them. If that’s so, then the lack of diversity in programming is also attributable to those same citizens, even when many of them have no interest in flamenco nor intention of attending the scheduled performances. What prevails is the mindset of: “In my town there are plenty of artists; we don’t need to import them.”
Somewhere I once read that Antonio Mairena declared that Extremaduran singing was not true flamenco. Yet the maestro would go on to award a very young Camarón de la Isla at the Concurso de Cante Jondo Antonio Mairena accepting the nainero sound of the young man’s delivery, and thus began a new era of flamenco singing.
