The strings may be squeaky and worn, the voice cracked and hoarse. What counts here is not the pure and polished sound imposed by the anxious academician of our conservatories, but outrageous expressiveness...a sound too human to be heard without a total upheaval of one's being. A heartrending cry that rips through the guts and immerses the listener in the sacred ecstasy of the duende.
Bernard Leblon/Author
www.MatadoraFlamenca.com
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