We are going to enter a tablao where everything is possible, the crying of the guitar begins, it cries for distant things, crystal lamps and green mirrors. Long tails of gowns move, open and close of fans, heels, heels hit the tables, sevillanas, tientos, marianas, tarantas, tonas, light, petenera, soleas, seguidillas, all the cante from Levante, all the cante from the mines, all the cante.
Smell of flamenco, flavor of Andalusia to Moorish guitar, purity, guts and claw.
