It was the big day. Angels Cruzado He did not present her: he honored her in a beautiful eulogy. The temple of flamenco The Sevillian opened the small window to receive with open arms and bare chest the Lebrijano laments that Inés pushes from her guts.
She let loose the larvae she digs into, digging her nails into their painful centers until her mouth tasted of blood. And we witnessed the celebration of the ritual of the jondo, to the trance of perpetual lament, to the ceremonial of the wound, to the instant of the goblin's gush.
Inés sang better than ever, brimming with inspiration and Lebrijan spirit, touched by the caresses of the bacanWherever they are. Perhaps filled with the reeds of her opá Bastian or from her maid Luisa, lattice between the half dozen strings of his brother Pedro, which has in Antonio Moya almost an invocation, being the mold of his throat and the one who best accompanies the guitar his swaying songs, those that he imitates with his childlike hands with sunken knuckles tickling the wind with the pain that emanates from his gypsy nature.
"Inés let loose the sorrows she digs into their painful centers, her nails gnawing at them until her mouth tasted of blood. And we witnessed the celebration of the ritual of the jondo. To the trance of perpetual lament. To the ceremony of the wound. To the instant of the imp's gush.
It was tempered by touch, squeezing the cante in the belly, slowly and rhythmically, distressing the audience in each of the thirds, showing how one wounds in the little house where she livedThere was only a little bit of tango. He gave a few pinches to the fandangos in soleá and then made us cry with the lullaby, weaving the velvets of his Adam's apple, cradling in its depths the memory of the indelible loss. The soleá por bulerías was a compliment and an ardent longing, with sweet and very flamenco lyrics: How happy must be the person who counts your freckles! And each of us thought of a love. Or we set our sights on someone. how the madmen ravedThe seguiriyas were like slow, stabbing strokes, one after another, like a cry that never stops, a mourning that won't go away, or a pricking pain that crackles and finds amusement in its suffering. The children went up to play the palmas Through bulerías, to soothe all ills. She always sang boiling from below, she broke from above. And to lock the door on the night of broken hearts, she left with tonás, carrying a basket of ovations in her pocket and the supreme admiration of a fanbase that recognizes her for what she is: woman, gypsy, and flamenco singer. Unique, inimitable, and unrepeatable. Inés Bacán.
Credits
recital of cante by Inés Bacán
Closing ceremony of Women's Week
Peña Flamenca Torres Macarena, Seville
March 7th 2026
Cante: Inés Bacán
Guitar: Antonio Moya
