Yesterday Moraito died.
He is one of the first important names I learned when I started flamenco. Having guitarist friends, you hear about Moraito. Then you realise he is on CDs with all the greatest cantaores.
Last year in Jerez, going to Antonio's class with Keiko and Yoshimi, he waved to us from the other side of the street. Of course he only did that because we were recognisably flamenco people: the girls were Japanese.

Concha got a call from her sister, and then she told us. I went on Facebook, as one does for everything important (lol!) and sure enough, Adela had already posted her shock, and people had responded with an online news article, that he had indeed passed away, and was just about to turn 55 next month.

I would have liked to go to the funeral, and thought at first that we were all going to go, but Rafael and Concha decided to go early without us. I can't imagine the size of the funeral, and the number of distinguished flamencos that will be there.

Moraito comes from a dynasty of flamencos. His uncle Manuel Morao was one of the most important figures in decades past. His son Diego del Morao is already well respected. Moraito is from Jerez and from the barrio Santiago, well known for the way people live (or lived) a flamenco lifestyle, gathering in their patios or in the streets to sing, play guitar and dance.

Moraito

Mai is invited to Miguel Funi's place today for lunch. She is there most of the day, and so I end up practicing almost alone in the house morning and evening, except for Curro who is rattling around somewhere. I start around 6:30 so Mai can have a chance to practice when she gets back around 7 or 8. I'm pretty overheated by the end. Miguel has a Japanese pre-wife. He still has to get divorced from the first wife and things move very slowly and with great difficulty here, so Mai explained. Miguel is a dancer of some renown.

Concha and Rafael get home late from Sevilla and we all sit down for dinner outside, which is unusual. Rafael always eats by the TV, and the ladies outside. Breakfast is eaten at the coffee table, lunch at the official dinner table inside, and cena on the plastic table in the patio. Rafael starts cutting sausage and cheese and we hear the neighbours next door (whom we never hear) doing palmas, and someone making singing noises (in flamenco there is the singing and there are noises that they make before starting, or while encouraging someone else along). There is half a sentence of song, and Concha and Rafael say something to each other, Rafael yells out, "Chimenea, cantame por bulerias!! Ayyyy... Ole!" They know him strictly by his voice because the walls separating the patios are basically the walls of a house without a roof.

When this family is not in front of the TV and are sitting around a table for a little while, it seems that someone normally starts rapping knuckles or slapping hands on the table in bulerias rhythm. Curro started it after dinner and him and his mom were accompanying each other, almost competing. Curro showing his mom a complicated rhythm he'd gotten going, and trying to see if she could do it.

Concha is planning a party for Saturday. All I know so far is that Ines Bacan and Miguel Funi will be there, some friends of Curros, and Juan Diego, Concha's nephew with the Italian wife. Diego is a butcher, and sings good siguiriyas. He drops over unannounced pretty regularly, as do Concha's sister Pepa and her husband.

Estos cabrones! ¿Que, coño, voy a hacer? - Mel Gibson speaking Spanish. Earlier, James Bond was also doing so.

Ate, had class, ate, read, slept, read, practiced, ate, watched movie.

Monday, Wednesday and Friday Mai and I have class. This week it is in the morning because Concha goes to Sevilla every night to give a class to a student who has requested private lessons there. We take turns practicing and we do palmas for each other. Mai also teaches me the choreography. Then Concha teaches me how to dance. This is the absolutely ideal way to learn to dance flamenco, including having someone to practice with.

I realised in 2007 that copying choreography the best I could was not dancing. That is when I quit taking classes, for the most part. Mai has only been dancing 3 years, but she is capable of teaching me, a day beforehand, the basic coordination I need for the different pasos. Then Concha corrects things, and teaches the real stuff.

Andalucian TV: show on toros. Everything about toros. Herds of toros (they only castrate a few here) being driven by very Andalucian prancing horses through the mountains, fake toro heads on wheels that new toreros can practice with, clips of bullfights, discussion of personalities of the toreros...
An old movie from the 60s or 70s, with the protagonist a bullfighter and all the drama of him getting injured and his sweetheart and so on.
Then trash: reality shows trashier than American ones, I'd bet. Women fighting and screaming grabbing their own bottoms and telling the audience what a great "culo" they have. Weird clash with how traditional society normally seems.

3pm and everyone is sleeping and since I got out of bed around 1 pm, I am sitting here watching the news about protests everywhere.

5 people packed into tiny car, too much cigarette smoke, but I am happy to travel with anyone who listens to Fernanda de Utrera and Diego del Gastor during the entire trip, and breaks out into Ole! when the singing strikes them particularly. This was probably privately tape-recorded at a house party sometime before 1971, and possibly isn't even available anywhere.

Concurso de Fandangos. The judges are 3 little old guys in striped, short sleeved shirts. It is a hole in the wall place. At intermission the bar owner uses a deck of cards as raffle tickets for a leg of Iberian ham. People are spilling out onto the sidewalk, watching. A pot bellied grandfather that fits right into this seaside pueblo evidently full of motley fishermen and marinero types, is the most moving singer, with beautiful Fandangos. Another Curro Vargas, who has come from Lebrija and who is a friend of Concha (not her son), sings and is also very good. A young muscular guy with earrings does a very intense and skilled job of his set of Fandangos. Jesus, one of the gang from the gitano bar in Lebrija is the last to sing. During intermission he asks if I like Camaron and tells me he will dedicate the first one to me, and the second one to his friend who is there to film him. Jesus is a decent singer, but he appears really nervous and I guess he is either on drugs or medication. He seems like a really sweet soul, but isn't quite alright. I sit there fanning Mai and myself, while taking in all kinds of crazy letras. I wish I could remember them to tell. "I abandoned my mother for you. Then you didn't love me any more and I ended up with neither to love me, alone."

Afterwards, we waited while Rafael drove Jesus and Sebastian somewhere...  I didn't quite understand. 3 km distant from town, they walked in, something about someone driving them disappearing or maybe not finding their car, something about the police, and one officer related to somebody. We had the motley marineros (guy with a baseball cap, rough beard, and tank top, long haired dude in a striking red shirt of the kind that only Spanish men wear, old codger in a shirt and tie, and so on) to entertain while we waited. They were sitting around outside drinking and breaking out into flamenco cante and arguing about Agujetas versus Morente (very trad. vs. very cutting edge).

Up walking to the train at 7 am. Lebrija is one of the first normal towns I've been in. I mean gotten out of a car and looked around. It seems like a working place. It's not about tourism, though it is pretty enough. There are places that make industrial stuff, though they are small. The walk through the city at dawn was an encanto. There is one narrow street with its whitewash walls, birds flying above, and the occasional plant growing out of the eaves, but for a couple blocks, every few feet there are red terracotta plant pots hanging on the walls, high up. The best thing is, they are stamped "Lebrija". Now tell me where you are ever going to get terracotta pots being used that are actually made in the same place!

I went to my appointment in Sevilla and spent time hanging around in the heat, then shortly after I got back in the evening, we all went to "the Gitano bar". A lady called Chiqui (common nickname here) was with us. She is a "personaje" (character).

Today I can't believe I am living in the most flamenco possible town, in one of the most flamenco possible families. As I was rushing to get dressed, Chiqui and Concha broke out into bulerias in the living room, one singing and the other doing palmas, joined by Mai.

The gitano bar was run by a family with two grown daughters with their own tiny children: two little girl cousins about a year old, that everyone was looking after, while their mothers and grandparents served the customers. There wasn't a soul there that didn't know each other and the owners, except for Mai and I. We were both amazed by the whole community atmosphere as well as the flamenco being absorbed from birth. No actual singing or dancing happened, but one guy was trying to teach one of the tiny girls how to rap her knuckles on the table, with a flicking of the finger between rapping, to get bulerias compas with contras.

A lot of stories were told, especially by Chiqui, and Mai and I were kind of lost for a lot of the time. Curro finally joined us, and there was a big discussion about his upcoming trip to Brazil to teach guitar for three months and about visa issues and the trustworthiness of the flamenco academy that is hiring him. It was interesting to see Concha all worried about him and looking very disapproving of what he might be getting into, and everybody telling him to be careful and what to ask for or verify in the contract. I guess mothers are mothers, whether they are little mothers of timid children, or big strong, gutsy ladies, with a strapping, confident and accomplished sons.

Concha's youtube videos don't do her justice. She is quite a glamourous lady with a very pretty face, despite her extra pounds. Mostly importantly she is really nice. Her and Rafael both cook really well. She told us she just peeled and pureed 5 kilos of tomatoes today. They make their own salmorejo (which is then turned into gazpacho by adding water).

I like living in a house full of people.

There is a rubber sheet in the patio (area inside the house with 4 walls but no roof), where classes and practicing are done. Mai practices first in the evening and I've been practicing twice while Concha starts to make dinner. She is right there through the open kitchen door, at the stove while I am doing the stuff she taught me.

I live in a house with six other people, including Mai, the Japanese girl who gave me the idea of living here or studying in Lebrija with Concha in the first place. When people are not siesta-ing they are often found on the couch in the living room watching TV. At times just about everyone is there. Curro doesn't think much of TV and is usually on his computer but brings it to sit with everyone else near mealtime. He is here less often than the rest, as he is a young guy with stuff to do. Frasci is Concha's sister in law, whose husband has passed away, so Frasci lives here with them. She is my age. Concha is 55.

Curro, who must be anywhere from 23 to 26, is a flamenco guitarist already sharing stages with the greats. I live in Carmen's room. Carmen is 20 and sings flamenco. She is away on holidays in Almeria during August, and that is the reason Concha said yes, when I asked to come and live here. The oldest son, who is 29, has a rock band and sings in English; the black sheep of the family! Not really; they don't seem unpleased with what he does. He lives in Sevilla, and has changed his name from Quintin (“keenteen”) to Quentin, and his surname shortened to “Gas”.

The entire family travelled to Japan together last year to perform together. Rafael, Concha's husband, sings flamenco as well, though not professionally.

Yesterday as we were starting our lesson, at quarter to 8, Pepa (concha's sister) and her husband arrived, with Esperanza Fernandez, Pepa's daughter! Esperanza is a flamenco star; rather famous. I had no clue about the connection before that.

After siesta I came down and sat on the couch with Concha, Rafael and Frasci, while Mai practiced in the patio. Concha has been carrying around some cookbooks, discussing how she was thinking of making baked eggplant. I picked one up to take a look and inside the front cover were some typed pages – her biography. I've known for a while that she is renowned and of a certain greatness, but don't remember reading about her specific accomplishments or connections. Way to intimidate yourself – go live in someone's house and then read about them in detail: she is about as connected and accomplished as it gets. Grew up in a cradle of flamenco, with all the great names visiting her house as a child, started performing at a young age, I believe was self taught. Got grabbed up by Mario Maya (all the greatest dancers in Spain now once studied and performed with him), and performed with El Guito in Madrid. She has danced for Indira Ghandi and for the Pope. There really are very few people who dance with the same combination of gravity, flavour, intensity, gusto as she. She is a person that is not afraid to be honest about what she believes she is good at. She never talks about her dancing accomplishments or connections, but about her teaching; and for good reason – she's seen too many frustrated students like me, who have been taking lessons for years but still can't “dance”. Despite being a very strong personality, she seems to love people and is a good listener, not just to your words but to what else is there.

There are crickets humming continually outside my window, and it is way cooler than Sevilla. I had to put jeans and a jacket on sitting on the patio in the evening. We are on the very edge of town. There are fields nearby, but it is pretty flat here. I wouldn't call it pretty. The neighborhood looks like the outskirts of any small town on the edge of fields. Stark modern rowhouses, streetlights, and vacant lots with grass, a brick skeleton of a building without the outer whitewash on it yet.