"There are three ways to sing: one is beautiful, one is good, and one is sing well and gypsy." This statement has been spreading like wildfire on the internet for some time now. Miguel El Funi He sentenced, sowing controversy. He was the one who blessed this dancer with the trapío calorró when, together with Pepa de Utrera She was taken to the baptismal font before Undibé. Two godparents of high standing for a gypsy woman of father and mother. The daughter of Quintín Vargas y Curra Torres He climbed onto the timbers of the temple flamenco Sevillian to reclaim her heritage. And the goblins assisted her, reminding her of the experiences she's had since childhood that leave their mark on her appearance. She threw in a handful of crazy zamarreones. Gypsy spirit blossomed. She danced. Concha Vargas.
I've been asked to explain what the Gypsy touch is. And that night I saw it all before my eyes. There it was. Curro Vargas, disfigured with the grimaces on his face, because the cante and the dance moved through him in such a way that it twisted his expression and flooded him with sorrows and joys, translated in the mirror of his soul. And in his hands. He touched one of his fingers to kiss her, carrying his mother's dance in his arms and cante of cast bronzes of The Little Breast y Moi de Moron who, especially inspired, delivered daggers full of taste and wisdom. The painting split the corners. Curro traversed the cypress veins, pressing the drones and riffs with a resounding pulse. He collected each of the singers' thirds with the perfect response: impetuous in the attacks, with caresses on the plains of the melismas. He didn't miss a single transitional tone. And he hit three hundred pellizcos. Neat and heartfelt tremolos, deep falsetas, round strumming... The sooty touch and fat bells accompanied the cante and the rancid dancing that delighted the audience on a night to remember. Yet another one. But not just any other. Concha, Curro, Moi, and El Pechu made a mess.
"I'm dying in Lebrija, which is about to be registered. But he who doesn't smell of cloves and cinnamon doesn't know how to distinguish me. That's what I smelled like. And like a little doll with snail stew. Of the land and a jug. Of fennel stew."
I die in Lebrija, which is about to be registered. But it's that He who does not smell of cloves and cinnamon does not know how to distinguish. That's how it smelled. And like a snail stew doll. Of the land and a jug. Of fennel stew. From the moment Curro wove the sound of his guitar strings into a taranta and malagueña, without harmonic displays but full of melody and depth, until Concha said goodbye, telling the privileged childhood he lived surrounded by the cream of the crop flamenco.
At the clamor of "I love to throw potatoes, because it already has meat" from José El Pechuguita, they opened their throats with cantiñas. Moi remembered the basting of the garments y the little cockroachJosé embellished the joy of Córdoba by melting the caramel. They didn't forget the nod to Pinini and in the end they came together to end up later in Cai through La Viña and El Mentidero.
The soleá arrived solemnly. Concha scattered the commandments of the strong, gypsy dance over every one of the tatters and red fringes of her dress. They say that experience is a degree. And in Concha's case, a basketful. Because she knew how to condense the essence without ostentation, without kicking her feet to the ground, dancing predominantly from the waist up, with her face, the turns, the flourishes, a dreamy arm movement, and the figures that only those who know how to master. What a way to scratch with a glance! What a way to squeeze the left foot while dancing upright! Concha no longer has to prove anything. But she pointed out the paths where the creeps prowl, the path to touch little hearts and leave them sad. She made a monument to the soleá. Moi wrapped his middles, swollen with emotion, and twirled with the cante, rocking his mid-voice, chewing the verses and splitting the charges, sending shivers down his spine. Pechuguita gave him his eyes and his place, admiring his companion's state of grace. Although he wasn't far behind, because he sings better every day. And, infected by the sensitivity that overflowed on the stage, he dug into the fabric of his chest to give himself entirely to Concha's feet and over Curro's six silver rivers, forming the ritual of what jondo, the ceremony of primitive metals and the old echoes of ground gold. The saltiness and the fatigue of Bag in the trabaero of Moi and the cadences of La Andonda o The Roezna in the nut of El Pechuguita. Concha danced to the canteAnd she took our breath away with her composure, holding the time. She was able to win over the crowd without embellishing the dance. Technique helps. But Concha is already a work of art. What more could we want?
"Concha scattered the commandments of the vigorous, gypsy dance over every red tatter and fringe of her dress. (…) What a way to scratch with a glance! What a way to squeeze the left foot while dancing upright!"
Through tangos they broke exquisite molds. And the bulería initially became a tribute to Gaspar de Utrera y Luis de la Pica in the voices of the singers until Concha climbed the steps and the rhythm began to sing for Lebrija. Lyrics alluding to her, paying homage to her, and a flurry of shivers in which everyone threw their allies provided the joy on a silver platter so that Concha could shine with all fours, raising her arms, those very particular ups and downs of hers, and her little turns simulating a cambayá. Romances, corridos, and bulerías with a Lebrija-style lilt brought the recital to a close. A tremendous ovation greeted her.
Concha didn't hold back, but she discovered again that less is more. She swayed her hips, put her feet in when they came, showed temperament and race. She signed in the hot air of the Peña Flamenca Torres Macarena the drawings that attested to his feat and the decalogue of the mysteries of the gypsy dance of truth.
Credits
Dance recital by Concha Vargas
Peña Flamenca Torres Macarena, Seville
24th October 2025
Dance: Concha Vargas
Cante: Moi de Morón and El Pechuguita
Guitar: Curro Vargas
