Every time this gypsy woman comes and climbs onto the wooden beams of the peña A mess forms: soot from a brown spider splatters. The Repompilla It resolves like a thunderclap and sweeps everyone away with just a glance. She doesn't think about the dance; the dance thinks about her. It's all naturalness, spontaneous creaks. The spirit possesses her and she transforms, distorting her waist, swaying her body, drawing her arms, the pose without affectation… she takes ownership of her feet, which move on their own, precise, powerful, with meticulous definition. But not even she knows what she's doing. She dances as she breathes. She dances as she is: a gypsy, pure. She dances for the canteAnd to the guitar. He lets himself be carried away by the pellizco In that moment, she seduces and is seduced. And in that frenzied idyll, she twists her core until she's completely squeezed and surrenders herself entirely on stage. And the audience is enraptured by such a display of flamenco passion, by a torrent of swagger. What vein do I dip my pen into? If instead of a critique I should write a compliment. But I'm at a loss for words.
"La Repompilla reached the summit with soleá. Wrapped by the hot gañafones of canteHis soul transmuted and became sorrow. The hands of the clocks stopped, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a razor's edge. The long walks, the click of his heels right where it fits, the breathtaking gesture… and thus the dance emerged, as if breathed by Undibé's feet.
The sweet rondeña in the sonanta of Ruben Romero It is a caress that becomes graceful with the rhythm of The Petete, El Galli y Miguel Lavi...who raised their voices to accompany him at the end. Thus began the night, later weaving in the alegrías and bulerías of Cádiz from the cobblestone throats of Lavi and El Galli, who urged El Petete to take a little step. Ole! Then came the solemn taranto dance, a haven of hieratic composure and its pauses, elegance, restraint... Arm movements painted with fine brushstrokes, castanets played with the fingers, just the right amount of silence. The tangos were a delight to the swaying hips of this gypsy woman. The perreo of the flamencos. Enough of the nonsense. I saw her, magnificent, descending the stairs to the dressing room, where she tapped her toes and heels to the square of a stamp, raising her arms, her eyes blazing, her hands moving in a trance of magic with a raw edge. El Galli and Lavi formed her with bulerías, brimming with rhythm, tearing up the verses, chewing the cante and occasionally taking bites. But La Repompilla reached its peak with a soleá. Wrapped by the hot gañafones of canteHer soul transmuted and became sorrow. The hands of the clocks stopped, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a razor's edge. The long walks, the click of the heels right where they fit, the awe-inspiring gesture… and thus the dance emerged, as if breathed by Undibé's feet, watered by the incorporeality of Gypsy feelings… She danced until she was bursting. Exactly. She stripped herself of artifice. And of her heels, to answer the daring of La Andonda In the soleá of Lavi and the broken cries of El Galli. And for them alone, the end of the party. With the fabulous kick of El Petete and full of exaltation and depth, they closed the revelry of the gypsy dance mamao.
Credits
La Repomilla dance recital
Peña Flamenca Torres Macarena, Seville
March 27th 2026
Dance: La Repompilla
CanteDavid El Galli and Miguel Lavi
Guitar: Ruben Romero
Palmas: The Petete
