Paco de Lucia:

mY Memories of A fLAMENCO lEGEND

Rusel DeMaria
For Paco de Lucia
- In Memoriam

ii
Paco de Lucia:
Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

Rusel DeMaria
Copyright © 2014 by Rusel DeMaria

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means electronic or mechanical, inclusing photocopying, recording or by any infor-
mation storage and retrieval system, without perimssion in writing from the author.
 Contents

Remembering Paco................................ 1
The Thing about Memories................................... 1

Meeting Paco.......................................... 3

Stanford................................................. 7

You Must be Rusel.................................. 9

Santa Cruz............................................ 11

Marcia................................................... 16

My Mother is Dead............................... 18
Bill and the Mobster........................................... 20

We Party with Paco............................. 22

Dublin.................................................................. 24
Cloverdale........................................................... 25
The First Oud...................................................... 25
Inspiration.......................................................... 28
Denver................................................................. 28
Charisma............................................................. 32
Ouds..................................................................... 33
Postscript:........................................................... 33

Pierre.................................................... 34
In Spain with Paco............................... 37
Marcia, Paco and I in Spain................................ 38
The Alhambra..................................................... 40
Chris Carnes........................................................ 40

Bill’s Contract and Santana................ 44

Santana................................................................ 45

Mediterranean Sundance.................... 47
New York – Paco’s Happiest Time...................... 48
Recording Session............................................... 49

Back to New York ............................... 53

Sabicas................................................................. 53
The Rude Guitarist............................................. 55

Traveling with Al................................ 57

Madrid................................................................. 58
Buying Guitars with Paco and Al...................... 58
Too Many Guitars................................................ 60

Albuquerque ....................................... 63
The Wrong Ramírez............................................ 64

In Sevilla with Paco............................. 65

Lole y Manuel...................................................... 65
Camarón...............................................................67
Algeciras............................................... 69

The Montoya Show.............................. 73

Los Montoyas 76
Raimundo.............................................................76

Top Ten Flamenco Guitarists.............. 78

Máximo Moreno.................................... 79

Belly Dance Music................................ 81

Maui...................................................... 83
Spreading the Word............................................ 83
The Trio............................................................... 84
They Come to Maui............................................. 86

Sextet.................................................... 89

Rites of Passage.................................... 91

Paco’s Innovations............................... 93

The Paco de Lucia I Knew.................... 96

A Last Word.......................................... 99
Remembering Paco

Paco de Lucia was a friend of mine. I thought of him as a brother, and he

showed through actions and words that he felt the same way. He died
yesterday (as I write this), and I want to celebrate him in the only way I
can – by remembering. You might consider this my eulogy for Paco, but
it’s much more than that. It is a look at Paco as a man and as a friend,
and it is also a look at some of my personal adventures through the ‘70s
and ‘80s during what I think of as my “flamenco years.” In part, I hope to
offer insight into who Paco was when he wasn’t on stage, and also to offer
amusing stories for the entertainment of his many fans.
My mother was a flamenco dancer. I grew up around her performanc-
es and across a courtyard from the classes she taught at night, when I was
supposed to be sleeping. Even so, I didn’t start playing flamenco guitar
until I was in my 20s. I met my first teachers and flamenco friends among
those who had been her accompanists. My first informal teacher was
Freddie Mejia, who had once played guitar for my mother. I began hang-
ing around flamenco people in the late ‘60s, and was dedicated to both
flamenco and classical guitar for many years.
Like all of my friends, I had heard about Paco. He was already a
legend in the late ‘60s among us guitarists. His skill and technique, his
albums with Camarón, his astounding speed and power, all had us in
thrall. But at that time, I was never aware of him coming to the United
States to play, and I hadn’t yet considered traveling to Spain. And, even
if I had traveled to Spain at that time, what likelihood was there that I
would meet the great Paco de Lucia?
And it wasn’t in Spain that I first met him.

The Thing about Memories

I first met Paco 44 years ago, and in recounting the stories of those times
I’m discovering an amazing fact about memories. Mine exist in pristine
detail, but not always connected with the timeline of my life. For instance,

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 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

I can remember vividly every experience I had with Paco, and many other
pivotal events in my life. But I sometimes have a hard time figuring out
exactly when – what year and in what order – they all occurred. Every-
thing is so clear within the boundaries of a specific experience, but the
memories float around in space, each encapsulated, and all too often not
bound by a continuum of other events. It’s as if someone had drawn a
road map to remarkable places of interest, but drew some of the roads in
disappearing ink. The remarkable places are still there, but sometimes it’s
very hard to figure out how you get to them and where you go next.
This account is the best I can do to reconstruct my history with Paco
and other related events. Some of it will be accurately placed in time, and
some of it may not be, but every experience I’ve related here is true.

2
 Meeting Paco

I met Paco de Lucia for the first time in Munich in 1970. I was in Europe
for two reasons. One, to purchase some equipment for a small, personal
recording studio I was building at home in the San Francisco Bay Area.
And two, to visit Spain and study flamenco guitar.
I met Gerhardt at a fundraiser for the local PBS station, KQED, where
I was volunteering. He was a record producer for a large label in Germany.
I remember telling him about my interest in doing recording, and he said,
“Come to Munich and I’ll help you get the best equipment at the best price.”
And so I took a charter flight to London and hitched a ride with two
American servicemen who were headed to Würzburg, which was just a
short train ride from Munich. These servicemen were very nice, but they
weren’t very good navigators, so we ended up going around in circles for
two hours in Paris after midnight. I eventually took over the navigation
chores and recalled my rudimentary French – enough to say, Nous sommes
perdus. “We’re lost.” By the time I arrived in Munich, I had been on the
road for nearly 24 hours. Meanwhile, Gerhardt had arranged a party for
my arrival, featuring no less a celebrity than Meat Loaf. Yes, that Meat
Loaf. But by the time I arrived, I was so sleep deprived and jet lagged that
I found a table somewhere, curled up under it and fell asleep.
Gerhardt didn’t take it too well that I shined on Meat Loaf, whom I
think I glimpsed as a man mountain moving around in the near distance
before my sleepy eyes closed. Gerhardt suggested that I find a cheap
place to stay (rather than stay with him), but at least he stood by his
promise to help me with recording equipment.
I spent six months traveling back and forth between Munich and
Madrid. In Spain, I studied flamenco from a wonderful old toothless Gyp-
sy named Triguito. He would play a falseta* while humming it at the same
time, and then look up at me as if to say, “Now you play it.” The lesson
was conducted in the entrance to Triguito’s third-floor apartment. A nearby
canary sang the whole time – it’s a wonder I didn’t incorporate the canary’s
singing into my flamenco. Neighbors came and went without paying any
particular attention to the fact that this young American – because I as-
sumed everybody knew I was American just by looking – was learning
guitar from the old man.
3
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

*Falsetas are short tunes composed within the rhythm and musical
structure of a particular flamenco form – the building blocks of flamenco
guitar playing – and during a solo performance, the guitarist will typi-
cally string several falsetas together. Most of the great flamenco guitarists
composed their own falsetas, which lesser guitarists (such as me and my
friends) would often imitate.
I also spent a lot of time in the guitar shop of Paulino Bernabé , who
had been the head guitar maker for Ramírez Guitars for many years, and
was now running his own independent operation. Paulino was very affa-
ble and showed me and other visitors some of the ins and outs of guitar
making. He seemed happy to have our small cadre of American guitarists
more or less camp out in his shop. And I did commission him to build
me a guitar, which he said would take a year to complete. (This was not
so unusual. Many top guitar makers had waiting lists of five to ten years.
Paulino was probably doing me a favor by making it only one.)
I hitchhiked back to Munich to check on my equipment and to do a
little sightseeing. On one of my walks I came across a poster advertising a
concert by Paco de Lucia. The poster said that the concert was that same
night!
I got to the venue early and sat in an uncrowded little café/bar that
was attached to the small theater where Paco was going to play. I had
already recognized Paco sitting at a nearby table with a couple of other
men. I watched them, excited just to be laying eyes on this virtuoso whose
music I already idolized.
The venue was tiny. It was funky. There were folding chairs, for god’s
sake – maybe 30 of them, if I’m being generous. The wooden floor was
beaten up – scratched and pitted from years of use. There was a single
chair in the front of the small room, not on a raised stage, but just in an
empty space facing the rest of the chairs. It seemed entirely too modest for
the great Paco de Lucia, but from my perspective, it was the equivalent of
being in someone’s living room to listen to one of the greatest living musi-
cians. I sat front row, center.
The music was everything I could have dreamed of, and anyone
who has heard Paco play would understand that I can’t fully describe
in words something you have to experience. The place was so small that
Paco played without a microphone. It was just the guitar, the way it was
meant to be heard. This was Paco just a few years before his hit, “Entre
Dos Aguas,” would smash flamenco preconceptions internationally. It
was still a few years before Paco would completely transcend tradition,
destroy boundaries, and explode as an innovator, although there were
signs of it already in the music he was playing.
4
 Paco had already caused a stir throughout the flamenco world by opt-
ing to play the guitar with one leg crossed over the other. Until that time,
flamenco guitarists traditionally played with both feet on the ground and
held the guitar with the neck nearly vertical. Flamenco purists were scan-
dalized, and that was only the beginning of the convention busting and
innovation Paco was yet to deliver.
At the intermission, I got into a conversation with the woman sitting
next to me. It turned out that her son occasionally took guitar lessons
from Paco, a concept I found astounding. Lessons from Paco de Lucia?
Who was this kid? Royalty? I never really found out that much more
about her son because she said, “Would you like to meet him? Why don’t
you go back and introduce yourself?”
Now I’ve never really been shy about famous people and was often
backstage when my mother was dancing, but I figured it would be inap-
propriate for me to barge in backstage, a total stranger, and bother Paco
during intermission. After the show, sure, but not in the middle. But in
this case, backstage was little more than an area of the same room divided
by a simple beige curtain, so it didn’t seem like too big a deal. No security.
No badges. Just a curtain. So I stood up and walked with false confidence
to the curtain, opened the gap in the center, and stepped “backstage.”
Paco was sitting there, filing his fingernails, something that all
flamenco guitarists do as a part of their ritual. In order to achieve the
blinding speed, accuracy and distinctive flamenco sound and power, the
fingernails had to be just so…the perfect tool, which is why flamenco gui-
tarists pay more attention to their nails than just about anyone else.
As I walked through the curtain, Paco looked up, friendly, smiling.
I introduced myself and we talked a little in Spanish… at the time, he
didn’t speak more than a few words of English. I asked if I could look
at his fingers and nails, thinking that somehow doing so would reveal a
great secret and allow me to play like Paco. It didn’t, but still, I noticed
that they were shorter than I usually kept them, so I learned an incremen-
tal lesson. In retrospect, I realize just how completely dorky I was at the
time, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I think he understood.
I told Paco a little about myself, how my mother was a flamenco
dancer, how I was learning to play. Stuff like that. He listened with friend-
ly interest, and when I asked questions, he answered me seriously. My
first meeting with Paco was short, but sweet.
I returned to my seat for the second part of the show and, of course,
it was awesome. Paco de Lucia live was so much more dynamic and
astounding than any recording could be. He was truly without equal, so
5
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

I was witnessing the work of a master. In my life, I had previously seen

some pretty good flamenco guitarists. I had also seen the maestro of the
sitar, Ravi Shankar, play when he first toured the United States in the ‘60s,
and I had seen the virtuoso finger picker Doc Watson once in a small ven-
ue in Palo Alto. These were the virtuosos I’d witnessed first hand – not
to mention the great rock and rollers like Eric Clapton, Jerry Garcia, Jimi
Hendrix, Peter Townsend, and so on. But Paco was something else. His
music moved me and his technical skills made my jaw drop.
After the concert I snagged one of the posters off the wall and went
backstage to ask him to sign it for me, but to inscribe it to my mother. He
signed it to my mother’s stage name, La Mariquita (little Maria). Ironical-
ly, the poster never made it back to the States. The tube I sent it in arrived,
but empty.
I left the theater and walked the streets of Munich for some time,
clutching the precious poster and full of Paco’s music and his presence.

6
 Stanford

The second time I met Paco was the following year – 1971. He was sched-
uled to play at Stanford University, which is pretty much where I grew
up. In anticipation of the event, some friends and I decided to prepare a
welcome gift for Paco, and so we sat and rolled spliffs of the finest weed
we could find and put them in a baggie.
I met Paco before the concert. It was early, and he was out on the
stage for some reason that I don’t remember – maybe a sound check. The
scene was pretty casual, so I climbed up onto the stage and walked right
up to him, holding out my hand – the hand in which I had palmed a
tightly rolled joint. He shook my hand and greeted me like an old friend,
and I saw his eyes widen a little and a smile lift the corners his mouth as
he felt the little gift I was handing over. Of course he knew immediately
what it was and deftly palmed it. I returned to my seat while Paco headed
backstage.
The concert was, if anything, even more magical than the one I’d seen
the year before. In fact, it had an extra transcendence to it – something
magical even for Paco. And when I talked to him after the concert he told
me that he had smoked some of the joint in the bathroom before coming
out. “It was…very strong,” he said, sounding surprised. “Very good. I
was very high. I almost didn’t know where I was.”
Over the succeeding years, at almost every concert of his that I at-
tended, he would put his arm around my shoulders, lean in close and ask
if it was good, if the sound was good, if he played well. Sometimes he
would be angry about something and then he really thought his playing
stank. But it never did. In those angry moments, he would come up to
me, frowning, and say, “I played very badly tonight. It was bad. Very
bad.”
The worst time I remember was in Spain. He was playing in a pretty
large hall. I don’t remember the occasion, but there were tables set in rows
where people were eating while Paco was playing. He played as well as
any other time – which is to say, fantastically – but when he was done he
came up to me and said, “Eating? While I play? What an atrocity!” He
went on in that vein for some time, coming up with all kinds of ways to
express his displeasure at the morons who sat and ate while he played,
7
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

some of which used expressions I didn’t even understand. Of course,

while I could fully sympathize with how he felt, playing to the clank of
silverware and other sounds of eating so near the stage – not to mention
the fact that all of the audience’s attention was not on him, as it should
have been – I have to admit that I also thought it was hysterically funny…
Paco’s outrage was quite entertaining. I remember laughing while simul-
taneously agreeing with him. Before long, we were both laughing about it
and happily vilifying the audience of goons who ate through his concert.
Over the years, Paco would often ask me what I thought of the sound
during intermission, as well. I sometimes wandered around the audience
area to check that the sound was even and strong in all areas of the venue,
and I would report to him if I thought there was a problem, which he
would then have someone report to the sound guy.
Whenever Paco expressed his doubts about his performance, I would
say something along the lines of “Of course it was good, Paco. Excellent.
You couldn’t play badly if you tried.” Because it was true. Whatever his
mood or however he viewed his playing, it was always astounding, pre-
cise, lyrical and powerful. His rhythm never faltered. It was impeccable,
driving the music forward and the listener with it. And his technique –
flawless.
And on that night at Stanford his playing was transcendent, and I
think, for once, stoned as he was, he felt it, too.
It was also in 1971 that I returned to Spain to collect my guitar from
Paulino. I didn’t see Paco on that trip, but it was made quite memorable
when I met two beautiful Norwegian girls in Barcelona. We took a train
to a nearby city just to sight-see, and, well, I was so entranced with them
that I forgot my new guitar on the train. I was devastated. This was the
first handmade guitar I’d ever had, and from a top maker.
Amazingly, the guitar made the trip to the end of the line and, the
next day, it was returned to me. I won’t comment further on the Norwe-
gian girls. Sorry. I can say, however, that the guitar remained with me a
lot longer than they did.

8
 You Must be Rusel

I spent the winter of 1971 living in Lake Tahoe. When I returned from my
six-month trip to Europe, I discovered that the equipment I had previous-
ly obtained for my recording studio had all been stolen. I didn’t have the
money to replace it all, so I just walked away from it and began a period
of happy homelessness, mostly by sleeping on people’s floors and couch-
es or in my VW van, mostly in and around Marin County.
One day, a friend told me about a house in Lake Tahoe that was for
rent. I called the owner, and she suggested that I try it out for a weekend
to see if I liked it, and I decided to take her up on the offer. On my way,
I stopped for gas in Berkeley and picked up two young ladies who were
hitchhiking. I told them that I wasn’t going any further than Tahoe,
which was short of their destination, but they decided to accept the ride
I offered.
When we arrived at the house, the snow was starting to fall, and by
the next morning we were snowed in. It took about five days for the snow
to let up and the roads to be cleared, and during that time I got to share
the place with two beautiful young women. It was really quite a wonder-
ful few days, and it became clear that I had to rent the place. After drop-
ping the girls off at a good hitchhiking location, I headed back to Marin
County to arrange my move. The night before I headed out, I found
myself staying in a house with some people I didn’t really know. I had
met a young woman on that particular day, and we had gotten to talking.
Long story short, she invited me to stay at her house that night. I remem-
ber that the guys she lived with were somewhat too hip and cool for my
liking. To put it bluntly, they bugged me. I did tell them that I was on my
way to spend the next few months in Tahoe, however.
When I arrived in Tahoe, I went out to do some shopping and stock
up on supplies. As I drove along the main drag, I spotted a Mexican
restaurant with a prominent Om sign painted on their front door. Even
in the early ‘70s, this was quite unexpected. Hindu symbols and Mexican
restaurants simply didn’t seem to belong together. So I had to check it out.
I parked around the back and walked in through a back door, my
guitar in hand. (I never left my guitar unattended in a car.) I figured I might
grab a bite to eat while I was there. The people there were really friendly
9
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

– so much so that they encouraged me to play some music for them. The
place was pretty empty at that time of day, so I obliged while they fixed
me up with some food. While I was playing, a guy walked in the front
door and received enthusiastic greetings from the restaurant owners. They
hailed him as Michael. Then the weirdest thing happened, and why I am
relating this story. Michael walked up to me and said, “You must be Rusel.”
Now I knew nobody in Lake Tahoe at the time. It was basically im-
possible that he could know who I was, and I stammered out that I was,
indeed, Rusel, but how in hell did you know that?
Michael explained. It seems that the too-cool guys that I had stayed
with the night before were really cooler than I thought. They had alerted
Michael and some other friends that I was moving up there and to look
out for me. They described me and mentioned that I was a guitarist. And
so the mystery was solved, but for a moment I thought I’d entered some
kind of Sierra Nevada version of the Twilight Zone. I also learned a small
lesson in judging others just because they seemed “too cool for school”.
My time in Tahoe was wonderful. Michael was a part of a group
of friends who quickly became my friends. So from knowing nobody, I
suddenly had an amazing family around me. At the end of six months, I
was ready to leave. I was going to go back to Spain to collect my guitar
from Paulino Bernabé . However, I did return to Tahoe to visit my friends
several times over the years.

10
 Santa Cruz

It wasn’t until our next meeting that I began to think of Paco as a friend,
not just someone I idolized. It was in 1972 (or possibly ’73), and I was
working as a cook for a Spanish restaurant in Marin County, north of San
Francisco. I was also playing guitar there at night. It happened like this:
I was playing guitar at the northern Renaissance Faire on the week-
ends during the six weeks in September and October that the event
traditionally ran. I wore a strange costume that more or less fit into the
Renaissance theme, but was atypically more like a Gypsy commoner’s
outfit. I had a leather bag at my side with an attached silver case that car-
ried a knife and a set of chopsticks. Although the chopsticks were anach-
ronistic in either a Renaissance or Gypsy costume, they were a part of my
daily life back then and the set looked cool. The original chopsticks had
both been ivory, but I lost one along the way, so I found a piece of ebo-
ny and sanded it down into a matching chopstick, so now I literally had
ebony and ivory for my eating utensils. I wore high boots that had been
made for me by artisans at a previous RenFaire, with fossilized mastodon
buttons scrimshawed by another friend, and a purple peasant style shirt,
also made by friends. At the Renaissance Faire, I didn’t particularly stand
out amid all the costumes and pageantry, but when I walked into an ele-
gant local Spanish restaurant, with a pretty mime as my companion, we
weren’t what you’d call the usual clientele.
El Greco was a really beautiful little restaurant. There were archways
and large candelabras dripping impressive sculptures of white wax. It
was intimate and reminiscent of an elegant dining establishment one
might find in Spain. (To be clear, when I was in Spain, my usual haunts
were flamenco bars and one-fork restaurants that were anything but
elegant. They did, however, serve tasty, very cheap food. When I was in
Spain in the early 1970s, I was able to live on about $2 a day, including
food and lodging.)
The people at the restaurant were gracious, despite my outrageous
attire. This was Marin County in the ‘70s, after all. We were shown to a
table and I was about to sit down when I heard the guitarist in the front
corner of the room play some flamenco riffs. Coming as I had from the
RenFaire, I was very outgoing and had no hesitation doing what a lot of
my guitar-playing friends would do. I went up to check him – and es-
11
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

pecially his guitar – out. And like what lot of my guitar playing friends
would have done, he said, “Would you like to try it?”
So I sat in his chair while he stood to the side and I began to play. I started
with a slow soleares and transitioned into a lively buleria to end my little
experiment with his guitar. I felt no shame or embarrassment to be play-
ing in front of all the restaurant’s patrons dressed in an absurdly inappro-
priate costume. I had been playing in front of people all weekend already,
and was focused on checking out this unfamiliar guitar.
While I was playing, a bearded dude dressed in chef’s clothing came
out from the back of the restaurant and stood practically over me. He
didn’t say anything, and when I stopped playing, he left. After an excel-
lent meal, our waiter said that the owner would like to speak with me,
and would I accompany him to the kitchen? No problem.
The bearded man was Curro, a short, intense Spaniard and the owner
of El Greco restaurant. Curro said, “You play very well. How would you
like to play here at the restaurant?”
As it happened, I had been trying to learn to cook. I enjoyed my
own cooking experiments, and thought it would be an interesting career
option, or at least a good hobby. I had been volunteering at a strange
restaurant in Palo Alto where the owner would teach people how to work
in restaurants as they played different roles, but for no pay. It was pretty
fun, but limited in its appeal over the long haul.
So I said to him, “What I really want to do is cook.”
He answered, “Good. I tell you what. You can do the prep work in the
afternoons. I’ll teach you. And you’ll play guitar at night. I’ll pay you $10
a day, and I’ll put out a tip jar for you when you play. And I’ll feed you.”
I accepted his offer, found a room for $100 a month in San Anselmo, and
got all the food I wanted from the restaurant. It’s very strange, but in my life
I’ve never been very good at saving money, but during the six or so months
that I worked at El Greco for $10 an hour plus tips, I actually did manage to
save money. Working six days a week, I guess I was too busy to spend it.
My experience at the restaurant started out with a bit of the surreal.
Curro wanted me to have some nice clothes to wear while I was playing,
so he bought me some pretty straight-looking shirts and pants. So, during
the time that the RenFaire was still going on, I didn’t wear my own
clothes at all. It was cooking outfit, performance outfit, and, on the week-
ends, RenFaire costume. It was a time in which I explored how clothing
could define identity, and I found that the lack of my own familiar cloth-
ing was somewhat unsettling.
12
 Fast forward a few months. I was learning to cook and practicing my
music. Life was good. I also took a gig at the Dickens Faire, a pre-Christ-
mas event run by the same people who did the Renaissance Faire. I
played a little act where I pretended to be drunk and then played com-
plex classical pieces on the guitar. (A quick shot of whisky before each of
my performances did a fine job of preparing me for the act.) And in the
mornings I volunteered as a short-order cook to serve breakfast to the
crew and crafts people.
One of my friends at the faire was a talented scrimshander, and in his
booth I discovered a very beautifully wrought piece of scrimshaw. Etched
onto the surface of a round piece of fossilized mastodon tusk was the im-
age of a dragon, circling head to tail like the ancient symbol for infinity –
the worm Ouroboros. It was mounted on a leather thong that ran through
the ivory. I bought it and began to wear it immediately.
In a seemingly unrelated event, Paco was scheduled to perform in
Santa Cruz, California the next week, and Curro was happy to give me a
couple of days off so I could go hear Paco play. I hitchhiked approximate-
ly 100 miles from San Rafael to Santa Cruz, passing through the beautiful
coastal mountains, and arriving probably an hour before the concert was
due to begin. My timing was excellent because I ran into Paco, who had
just arrived himself, in the parking lot. When he saw me, he gave me a
warm greeting and a hug, like an old friend. And at that moment I don’t
know what possessed me, but I remember thinking, “People probably
give Paco things all the time, so this gesture probably won’t have much
meaning to him. But I want to do this.” And I slipped the scrimshaw
necklace over my head and handed it to him, saying, “I want you to have
this, if you like it.”
Paco took the necklace, and I could tell that he was surprised, and
I think a little touched. He looked at it and said, “Very beautiful. What
does it mean?” I told him about the symbol of infinity and how I thought
it was an excellent piece of work with a very powerful message. He
thanked me and we walked toward the venue. Meanwhile, his small en-
tourage of American fans was eyeing me, clearly thinking, “Who the hell
is that?” They might as well have had thought bubbles above their heads,
with their curiosity – and in some cases, jealousy – so apparent in their
eyes and posture.
Paco’s head was much larger than mine, so we had to untie the
rawhide and retie it to fit his neck, which we did in the dressing room.
Paco wore that necklace for years after that, rarely, if ever, taking it off.
Although it fit perfectly around his neck, he couldn’t get it over his head
without untying it, and he told me later that he didn’t do that often. You
13
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

can see the scrimshaw on at least four later albums, including Paco, which
I believe was a British re-release of Fuente y Caudal from Island Records
but with a different version of “Entre Dos Aguas,” and on the cover of
the later reissues of Paco’s 1967 album, La fabulosa guitarra de Paco de Lucia
as well as a reissue of Recital de guitarra de Paco de Lucia, originally from
1971. He was probably wearing it on many other album covers, but it was
sometimes covered by a buttoned-up shirt, a turtleneck or a scarf. Still,
at the time I gave it to him, I thought little about it. I just wanted him to
have it, nothing more.
After the concert, I asked Paco if he thought I could hitch a ride with
the people hosting him. They were headed to Mt. View, which was only
a few miles from where my father lived. I figured I could crash at my
father’s house and then make my way back to Marin the next day. The
host/driver at first tried to claim that there wasn’t enough room, but Paco
laughed and said that they could make room for me. I don’t remember
the host’s name, but he clearly didn’t like me being there. I think it was
obvious to him that Paco and I had a connection. I wasn’t sure what kind
of connection we had, but over the next few hours, I did notice Paco’s lack
of connection with the host. Still, I could understand perfectly how he
wanted Paco’s attention and how he might resent someone who showed
up out of nowhere and stole some of that focus. I tried to be helpful and
humble and not hog Paco’s time.
When we arrived at the host’s house, I offered to cook a tortilla españo-
la for everyone. The tortilla española is nothing like a Mexican tortilla. It is
an omelet traditionally cooked with egg, onion and potato, and it is often
served cold as a tapa in bars, although it’s also delicious hot. The trick to a
good tortilla española is to flip it so it is cooked on both sides. It comes out
in the shape of the pan itself, like a large, round egg and potato cake.
Someone took me to a nearby store and I bought provisions. When
we returned, Paco was sitting on the floor, leaning over a small music
player. He was listening to the Supremes’ “Love Child,” over and over
again. He looked up at me at one point and said, Muy Flamenco. “Very
flamenco.” It was true that the chord progression of the song was very
similar to typical flamenco progressions, so I understood what he meant.
I could even imagine him playing flamenco riffs that would run through
and punctuate the music.
I went and cooked a magnificent tortilla española, if I do say so my-
self. I flipped it perfectly at just the right time and fed the whole party.
Paco came out from under his self-imposed isolation to enjoy the food
and complimented me on my cooking. Muy Español. And then he said it
in English, “Very Spanish.”

14
 (When I was learning to make this dish, I decided to take advantage
of an afternoon when Curro was away to practice making it until I got
it right. After many attempts, I got the knack of it, but not before I had
splattered egg and potato all over the stove. When Curro returned, he
looked at me for what felt like a long time, and then asked, “Can you do it
now?” I said, sheepishly, “I think I’ve got the hang of it.” He said, “Good.
Now clean it up and get started on the soup,” and walked away to un-
pack provisions. The good news is that I never made that kind of mess
again. Other messes…well, sure.)
Back to the party: It was clear that Paco wasn’t in the mood to be very
social, because after eating he didn’t really do much but put headphones
back on and continue listening to music. I helped clean up and did my
best to fit in with the group of strangers. Things got less tense after a
while, but it started to get quite late, and so I decided it was time to leave.
I said goodbye to the host, who seemed quite relieved to see me go and
did not offer to give me a ride anywhere. Paco gave me a warm send-
off and thanked me again for the scrimshaw and the tortilla. So, with
his thanks echoing in my ear, I headed out onto a suburban road, into a
cold, pre-dawn chill for which I was underdressed. No matter. I was still
glowing from the inside and hardly felt the cold. It was about eight miles
to where my father lived in Menlo Park, but I hardly noticed. I had Paco’s
music playing in my head, along with the refrain from “Love Child.”

15
 Marcia

For most of the ‘70s, I played guitar at the Renaissance Faire in Northern
California during six weekends in the fall from September to mid-Octo-
ber. Most often, I would sit on a hay bale in my favorite spot and play for
tips, or wander around the faire trading music for food at different booths
and playing for people at random locations. After a few years, I also
joined the flamenco show.
I first met Marcia when she was reading palms in the booth as an
assistant to an Indian palmist. Marcia was tall and beautiful, with a huge,
engaging personality. In our first encounter, she simply read my palm for
money, and I thought nothing more about it. It was a really good reading,
I remember, though I don’t remember much more than that. However,
during the year that followed, I would run into Marcia and her friend
Yguette here and there around Marin County, like at the health food store
or just on the sidewalk somewhere randomly. The two of them were
always very friendly – almost excessively so. They kept inviting me to
come visit them and hang out, but I was freaked out about it, to be hon-
est. I wasn’t used to women being so forward with me. I usually did the
chasing. I had no idea why they were interested in me, or what they had
in mind, so I kept my distance and didn’t really respond to their offers.
Then came a time when I encountered Marcia in a completely new
and unexpected context. I had rented a tiny one-bedroom house in Mill
Valley that was next door to the house of rock promoter Bill Graham.
In fact, my little house had a great view of a waterfall that was on Bill’s
property, with a big picture window overlooking it. The little stream that
powered that waterfall also ran through the back of my property. It was a
hideaway for me – a place to rest and regroup and find myself. Although
it had only one bedroom, it had a spacious living room and kitchen,
which comprised the rest of the house. I found myself sleeping on a
nomadic mattress stuffed with a sheepskin in front of the picture window
instead of in the master bedroom. I also spent a lot of time sitting by the
little stream, watching fish and crawdads and enjoying the quiet.
One day, around dusk, I was out on the street, having walked a friend
to her car to say goodbye. As my friend drove off, I turned and saw Mar-
cia and she saw me. “Rusel! How the hell are you?” she said as she came
over and gave me a hug. I told her I was living here and asked her what
she was doing there?
16
 “I’m living next door to you. We’re neighbors. You should come by
and visit sometime.”
“That’s Bill Graham’s house, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m living with Bill now.”
I had spent many years of my youth going to concerts at the Fillmore,
the Avalon Ballroom and Winterland. I had encountered Bill Graham
several times while doing so, and had even taken a free class in recording
studio techniques that he had offered, although he didn’t teach the class. I
knew who he was and had a lot of respect and admiration for him – and a
little bit of fear. Bill was known to be a complete hard-ass when he want-
ed to be. I was somewhat dumbfounded that Marcia, the young woman
who had been sort of chasing me around, was living with Bill.
One day, Marcia repeated her offer, asking me to come to dinner, and
so I did. Living the way I had, as almost a vagabond for so many years,
I just carried my own soup bowl with me to Bill’s house. Both Bill and
Marcia thought it was the funniest thing they’d seen in a long time, and
in retrospect, I understand how utterly goofy it was. I was more or less
immune to the ravages of embarrassment, however. I laughed with them
and joined them for dinner – using my own bowl, which at that point
seemed appropriate. At the end of a very warm evening with Bill and
Marcia, my bowl and I returned home.
Over time, Marcia and I became great friends. It was like finding an
older sister, because even though she was a year younger than I, she was
far wiser and more emotionally balanced in many ways. I developed a
relationship with Bill, as well, to the extent that once when I called him
at work, he told me, “You need a code word to get past the receptionist
when you call. All my friends have their own code words.” I asked him
what mine would be. He told me, “The lox has arrived.” I loved lox, so I
was pleased.
Bill was a remarkable guy. Most people know him as a very success-
ful promoter of rock & roll, but his friends knew him as a remarkably
generous man. He could be the ultimate hard-ass if you crossed him, and
he was a very tough businessman, but he also had a heart of gold. He
helped a lot of people in his time.

17
 My Mother is Dead

In the week before Christmas 1973, I hitched a ride with some friends to
Lake Tahoe to visit with my Tahoe family. During that visit I got a call
from my step-mother telling me that my mother had died on Christmas
Eve. Some wonderful women I didn’t even know at all spent much of the
night just hugging me and helping me cope with the news, and the next
day I boarded a bus and headed home for the funeral. If you’ve ever read
Albert Camus’ The Stranger, you’ll have a very good idea of the state of
mind I was in. I just kept thinking, “My mother is dead. My mother is
dead,” for the eight hours of the bus ride. And I was certain that every-
body else on the bus knew that my mother had died. I was certain that
something radiated from me, like a neon sign that announced my circum-
stances. It was a miserable, but memorably surreal trip.
Shortly after the funeral, I was invited to a holiday party with Bill
Graham which took place in Francis Ford Coppola’s apartment in San
Francisco. I was still a little shaken, but was grateful for the distraction.
Coppola sat in a comfortable chair throughout party, surrounded by en-
thralled listeners as he spun tale after tale. I wandered around the party,
talking to people I didn’t know and generally feeling awkward. At one
point, I stepped out onto a terrace and something came over me. I began
singing flamenco. Now to be clear, I had no idea how to sing flamenco. I
was merely a guitarist. I had never once even considered singing flamen-
co. And yet, I was singing loudly, powerfully…flamenco. Something had
possessed me and here I was doing the impossible. I remember Bill Gra-
ham looking at me in amazement afterward and making some comment
about how I always managed to surprise him.
I sang one more time about a week later, and then I never even
considered doing it again. I am convinced that the only way it could
have happened was that, in some way, my mother had come to me and
released something atavistic inside of me. It only happened those two
times, in that short period after her death. Although she was a dancer and
not a singer, I still cannot come up with a better explanation.
I was no stranger to unexpected events and occurrences. For instance,
I had once played and sung an entire album’s worth of brand-new songs
I’d written (not flamenco) before a small audience of my mother’s friends.
It was at a party following one of her performances. The whole time, I
18
A 1965 newspaper clipping of my mother, La Mariquita.

19
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

swear, my consciousness was at the upper-right back corner of the room,

near the ceiling. I could see myself on the stage, sitting in a half-lotus
position, cradling my guitar the way Indian musicians cradle sitars and
sarods, and I saw the entire audience from the back. What’s amazing to
me still is that I sang and performed flawlessly. Or perhaps I should say,
my body did. If there was ever a time when I performed at the level of my
musical idols, that was it. Unfortunately, it took some really weird out of
body experience to make it happen. Otherwise, I was never a very good
singer, and a decent, but far from perfect guitarist. That night might have
been my one and only superstar moment, and I was watching it from out-
side, just as I had watched every other superstar in my life. And I didn’t
even have a front-row seat.

Bill and the Mobster

Bill Graham was a fascinating man, and I got to know him as a friend, al-
though I never got over my sense of awe around him. My favorite memory
of Bill Graham occurred a couple of years later, when he and Marcia came
to my house in San Anselmo to swim and hang out. There was a remark-
able house across the street from me. It was an old, Spanish style building
with an interesting tower at one corner. I had always been curious about it,
but had never seen anyone there. Bill was curious, too. He thought it might
be interesting to make an offer on it. Being a multimillionaire allows you to
have thoughts like that, even though there was nothing about the place to
make the average person think it was on the market.
So Bill and I crossed the street and knocked on the door. An old man
opened it. I don’t remember exactly what Bill said, but the man invited
us in. It was remarkable inside. There was a huge, darkly lit room with
a very high ceiling. The floor was completely covered by the biggest
Persian rug I had ever seen. Along one wall was an ancient TV set – obvi-
ously one of the first ones ever produced. The tiny, maybe 6-8 inch screen
was attached to a lid and moved on hinges into position when the lid was
lifted and folded back down when it was closed. I don’t know why, but
that strange old TV fascinated me even more than the giant Persian rug.
Go figure.
The old man led us from the huge, dimly lit room into a bright sunny
alcove next to his kitchen and gestured for us to sit at a small, round table.
I sat to the man’s right, and Bill sat to my right, across from him. Almost
immediately, the man began to tell his story.
It turned out that the guy was an ex-gangster who had taken a rap for
someone in the mob and done prison time. Sadly, I no longer remember
his name, so I’ll call him the Mobster, henceforth. As a reward, the Mob-
20
ster was allowed to retire and the mob built this house for him, complete
with a guard tower, and provided him with money and protection. The
protection was long gone, but the house remained, and I have no idea
about the money. It didn’t look like he was hurting, though, as the house
and grounds were all well maintained.
The guy was very much the East Coast type in the way he talked,
full of funny expressions that I can hardly do justice to now. Listening to
him was like listening to a Jimmy Cagney movie from the ‘30s. But Bill
was right there with him. Bill was from the Bronx, and he spoke the same
language. I was happy to be a fly on the wall and watch them out-macho
each other – a sort of verbal sparring, with subtle little verbal jabs and
counterstrikes.
At one point the Mobster held up his hand and showed us his fist.
“You think you’re tough, huh? Look at this hand. See those knuckles?
Every one of them is caved in, broken on some guy’s face. Now that’s
tough.” Sure enough, his hand was a wreck, and each of the knuckles of
his fist was basically a concave depression. I know that Bill had a rejoin-
der to that, but I don’t remember what it was. I do know that Bill knew
what tough meant, having escaped the Nazis in 1941, at 10 years old, and
eventually coming to America and working his way up until he became
the greatest rock promoter of his time.
Eventually, Bill broached the subject of buying the guy’s house. He
offered to pay cash, under the table, and asked the guy to name his price.
The Mobster looked at Bill, who, fresh from my pool, was wearing a
t-shirt and ragged cut-off jeans, and said, “You don’t look like someone
who could pay squat, especially not in cash.”
And that’s when Bill reached into the pocket of his ragged cut-off
jeans and pulled out the biggest wad of cash I had ever seen, all tightly
wrapped into a cylinder at least three inches in diameter and secured by a
rubber band. I had no idea how much money was there, but it was in the
thousands, at least.
The look on the Mobster’s face was priceless. From his aggressive
stance, the dare in his eyes changed in an instant to wide-eyed surprise.
His face went slack for just a moment, and then the energy in the room
changed. I think, for the first time, the Mobster realized that he was deal-
ing with someone who had real power, not just some lightweight poser.
At that point, the guy backed down, saying he’d think about it, which I
interpreted to mean that he really wasn’t prepared to sell. We left a short
time later, and in the end, Bill did not buy the Mobster’s house. He saw
us to the door, and we crossed the street to my house and returned to the
pool. I never saw the Mobster or Bill’s wad of money again.
21
We Party with Paco

In the early ‘70s, Paco usually traveled alone. He had friends and fans all
over the world, and at least in the Bay Area, he never stayed in hotels,
but with friends. One of the places he liked to stay was with Rosa Mon-
toya and her husband, Carlos. Rosa was the niece of the famed flamenco
guitarist, Carlos Montoya. In fact, in 1976 or 1977 Rosa arranged for me
to conduct an interview with her uncle for Guitar Player Magazine, which
came as a complete surprise since I had never written anything profes-
sionally before. Even though it was my first professional writing gig, I got
a great interview with Carlos, and the magazine was quite happy with
it. The next year, I went to Spain and wrote an article with pictures and
interviews with ten top flamenco guitarists in Spain, including, of course,
Paco. But I’m getting a little ahead of the story here.
In 1975, I bought a house in Marin County. The house was a large,
five bedroom ranch style house built like a big horseshoe. The house was
livable, but unfinished, so I got it for a great price. I immediately set about
making the house into what I wanted. I got a lot of help from friends and
from Curro, the owner (and designer) of El Greco. I put in a pool mod-
eled after the pools at the Alhambra and started putting in fountains and
archways, tile roofs and a tiled jacuzzi that I designed myself. I was trans-
forming the ranch house into an homage to the wonders I’d seen in south-
ern Spain. One of the early things my friends and I did was to sand down
the oak flooring in the living room and then apply two coats of Varathane.
Two coats of Varathane was hard enough to stand up to the pounding of
flamenco heels, and we intended to put it to the test as soon as it dried.
My house became something of a community project, with people liv-
ing in all five rooms and helping to build this work of art. Curro brought
workers from Mexico who were expert tile setters, but who also would
work for him at the restaurant. He also found a unique stucco artist from
El Salvador who applied an amazing outer shell of stucco on the house,
which we then whitewashed with lime, the way they do in Spain.
By the time Paco next came to the Bay Area, the house had already been
broken in with some good flamenco parties, but the best was yet to come.
On one particular morning, there was a woman – a friend of a friend
– who was just passing through town and had spent the night at my

22
house. Before she continued her journey, she showed us all some of her
work with cloisonné. One piece in particular really struck me and I asked
if I could purchase it. Of course, she was delighted to sell it. It was a beau-
tiful piece – a medallion perhaps two inches in diameter. I liked it and
thought I’d wear it sometimes.
Soon after that, I got a phone call. It was Paco. He said he was inter-
ested in coming to visit, but the condition was that we would provide
nieve y chicas – snow (cocaine) and women. This was the ‘70s, after all. I
said yes, we can do that, although I had no idea where to find cocaine and
the second condition required some discussion among us all.
A quick consultation with my friends took care of the first issue, but
finding single women, especially at the last minute, proved to be more
complex for some reason. The only single woman we came up with was
our housemate Jane, who was living at the house in exchange for helping
keep things together. Jane was a quiet woman, however, and I certainly
didn’t intend on counting her as one of the requested “chicas.”
It ultimately didn’t matter. Paco arrived with Carlos and Rosa and
another Spanish guitarist, René Heredia. René was a long-time friend of Pa-
co’s who had left Spain years before and now lived in Denver. I didn’t give
it a thought back then, but I believe that Paco had René along so that he’d
have someone to play accompaniment for “Entre Dos Aguas” on stage.
We all visited for a while, and I offered to make room for Paco and
René to stay at the house if they were interested. They agreed, and pretty
soon the word got out and a juerga (flamenco party) happened. We were
all playing music, singing and dancing. Except Paco. He sat in a chair
in one corner of the room, listening and watching, and sometimes qui-
etly noodling around on my Turkish style oud, which had been leaning
against the wall near his chair. The music continued into the wee hours.
My friends really knew how to party.
What was remarkable is that nobody asked, begged, demanded or
even suggested that Paco play. This was pretty much unprecedented in
Paco’s life. We respected his decision to enjoy the party as an observer.
This is how it was with us. People played, sang, danced as they wished,
but nobody pressured anyone, including Paco. René, however, was hav-
ing a ball and played some really great music. Eventually, to our surprise,
Paco disappeared with Jane, so the second part of the request – chicas –
got fulfilled, after all.
The party fizzled out slowly. Some people crashed where they were
or went back to their rooms in the house. Some left for their own homes.
Everything became quiet and we all slept. I think René might have been
23
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

one of the first to get up. When I came out of my room, he was sitting
in the living room practicing a complex and challenging piece of Paco’s
music. There were some very difficult techniques in the music that he was
practicing over and over again.
Sometime in the late morning or early afternoon, people began to
straggle back to wakefulness and we shared a great breakfast together,
family style. The day passed in quiet discussion, punctuated by occasion-
al flurries of music – especially from René, who was still practicing Paco’s
tricky techniques. It was the kind of quiet that followed a long night of
singing, dancing and playing – and some drinking, although less alcohol
than you might think. It was also like the quiet before a storm.
At one point early in the evening, Paco picked up his guitar. He sat
on a couch and started to play, and I can only say it was like some godlike
energy descended over the room. I don’t really know how else to express
it. Everything else disappeared, and only Paco’s music mattered.
It was like that for several days. Paco played and played. Whenever
there was a gap, René would play. There was music filling the house day
and night, and more singing and dancing broke out, sometimes with Paco’s
guitar driving the rhythm. At one point, Paco even sang and danced a
few steps. He sounded a little like Camarón , the genius boy prodigy with
whom he had recorded many highly influential albums. When he danced,
it was more like a few quick steps, but expertly performed with a flourish.

Dublin
Paco had a gig in Dublin, California. I had lived in the Bay Area my entire
life, and I had never heard of Dublin, so I was somewhat dismayed at the
location. Stanford? Yes. UC Santa Cruz? Why not? But Dublin?
And Paco had this idea. He said, “Why don’t you guys bring your
guitars and play accompaniment for me on ‘Entre Dos Aguas’?” And so,
my friends Freddie Mejia, Chris Carnes, Rosa’s husband Carlos and I
packed our guitars and, along with René Heredia, headed to Dublin. We
got there early enough to run through “Entre Dos Aguas” once before the
concert started. I don’t really remember the venue. It was far bigger than
the place in Munich had been (which isn’t saying much), but not as large
as either concert hall at Stanford or UC Santa Cruz. As I recall, there was
nothing particularly memorable about it.
Paco was his usual magical self as he played his guitar solos for the
first part of the concert. Then came the moment when we all filed up
on stage behind him and played the rhumba accompaniment while he
played “Entre Dos Aguas.” We were playing on stage with Paco de Lucia!
24
 Playing with Paco is like trying to jog with a freight train. At first it
seems as if you can keep up, but little by little the freight train gains speed
and momentum. It’s a relentless force, and so was Paco’s relentless rhythm.
It’s like he’s pushing you from behind, like a powerful tailwind, and you’re
trying to stay relaxed and focused and not get blown over. It’s fun and ex-
hilarating, but it’s definitely not easy. We all did what we were there to do,
and it came off great. I definitely appreciated Paco’s inclusiveness. It was a
sorry venue, but he made the whole experience a great one for all of us.

Cloverdale
We also took a little overnight trip to visit the rural home of our flamenco
friends Nino and Catana in Cloverdale, which was about 70 miles from
San Anselmo. As we were about to pile into the car of one of our friends,
Paco asked if he could drive us. Surprised, our friend said yes, a decision
he quickly came to regret.
Paco drove like a maniac. He ignored speed limits and ran at least
one red light. At one point, he sped right past a police car on the freeway,
but somehow didn’t get stopped. It was a wild ride, but we arrived at the
homestead in Cloverdale safely, albeit with slightly shaken nerves. I re-
member somebody snapping a photo of Paco just after we arrived. It was
shot looking in from outside the open passenger’s side door and showed
Paco leaning forward with a truly mischievous grin on his face. It was
manic. It was priceless.
Of course, there was more music, song and dance in Cloverdale that
night, plus a great feast including fresh venison. The next day, when we
returned to San Anselmo, Paco didn’t drive.

The First Oud

During those days at my house and also in Cloverdale, Paco began exper-
imenting more with the oud. He didn’t approach it “properly”, by which
I mean that ouds are traditionally played with a long, thin, flexible pick,
often made from the feather of an eagle or other large bird, but these days
usually from some kind of plastic. Paco, on the other hand, played the
oud with his fingers, flamenco style. In fact, he attacked the strings with
the power and force of a flamenco guitarist, whereas great oud players
express a lot more subtlety and range in their approach. But this was
Paco, and he was getting a new sound out of an instrument he had never
played before. You could see that he was intrigued, and so were we.
My oud was not a particularly good one, but our friend Chris Carnes
owned a spectacular oud that had been made by a very famous Turkish

25
 Left: My home in San Anselmo,
seen from the back.

Below: Flamenco at the RenFaire:

Front row: Me, Chris Carnes,

Freddie Mejia, Solomon

Back row: Maruja, Armando,

Catana, Carla

Below: Paco’s slightly

demented look after his
wild drive to Cloverdale.

On the right, we strech

our legs and breathe a
sigh of relief.

26
 Above: Playing with Paco
in Dublin.

Left to right: Chris Carnes,

Freddie Mejia, Me, Carlos
Mullin, Rene Heredia, Paco
(wearing the cloisonné I’d
given him.)

Paco and me in Cloverdale

Rene and Paco jamming

in Cloverdale. Paco is
playing my oud.
27
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

maker named Onnik Karibyan. Karibyan ouds were very valuable and
rare. When Paco expressed interest in getting an oud to take back to Spain
for his next recording, Chris offered to lend him his Karibyan – a very
generous offer that Paco accepted.

Inspiration
Later that day, I was arranging flights to Denver, which was Paco’s next
destination. Paco was in my bedroom, holding his guitar and playing
some of his amazing riffs. At one point, he laid on his back and played for
a while with the guitar held on his stomach. Of course, he never missed
a note or a beat. I spoke with him after our flights had been arranged – I
had been invited to go to Denver with him and René – and asked him
about composing for the guitar. Paco’s compositions were complex,
original and often difficult to play. He played one of his very difficult
falsetas and then stopped. “It is very hard to keep creating this music. Very
difficult. There is a lot of pressure.” I asked him if he ever multi-tracked
himself, for instance doing the accompaniment as well as the lead on any
of his recordings. He said that it wasn’t something he had considered do-
ing, and I told him about some musicians who had done that and created
some amazing results.
I don’t know if this conversation inspired Paco to do what he did
next, but when he returned to Spain, his next recording was “Almorai-
ma,” the title track of his next album and one in which he multi-tracked
several layers of sound, including a rhythmic riff using a fingernail file,
palmas (clapping), guitar and oud. I have always believed that the time he
spent with us inspired him and perhaps gave him a chance to relax, enjoy
himself, and allow his creativity some freedom. He always struggled
between respect for tradition and the desire to experiment and seek new
avenues of expression. I think he saw among our West Coast flamencos a
spirit of joy, risk taking, and freedom that in some ways allowed him to
let his creative side loose.

Denver
I can’t even begin to describe how high I was after five days with Paco.
After everyone else was in bed, I was up composing my own flamenco
pieces. Music was just flowing through me, out of me, around me. I had
always been creative, had always composed music and songs ever since I
started playing the guitar, but I had never before felt the spirit of flamen-
co (or perhaps it was the spirit of Paco) push my creativity to new dis-
coveries as I did on those nights after the others had retired. I was sleep
deprived, but that only added to the wonder of it all.

28
 So I was not going to let the magic stop. When Paco and René asked if
I wanted to go to Denver with them, I didn’t hesitate for a microsecond. I
knew everything would be taken care of at home, and so I booked flights
for all three of us and off we went.
We arrived in Denver in the early evening and went directly to a large
house where a party was already underway. The house was owned by
Gerald Phipps, who was a great flamenco aficionado and also the owner of
the Denver Broncos. There were lots of guitarists jamming as we walked in,
and we listened for a while, then moved on to drinks and some food. Paco
was talking with people, but showing no interest in playing. Some people
asked him to play, but he encouraged them to, “Keep playing. It’s good.”
So the guitar jam continued, and eventually I joined them. I couldn’t
help myself. I needed to be playing. However, I felt pretty awkward.
These people were familiar with each others’ styles and changes, which
was somewhat different from the way my friends and I played. Even
more, I was filled with Paco’s rhythms and cadence. Still, I felt sort of
discouraged that I had a hard time matching with them, seeing it as a
failing on my part. Eventually I stopped playing and put my guitar away.
Nobody seemed to notice.
I found Paco and told him how confused I found it trying to play with
the other guitarists. He said to me, “That’s because you should be leading
them.” I think something snapped in my head at that point. I had always
been shy, self-deprecating and insecure about my playing. It’s hard not to be
that way when you’re around people like Paco, but even with many of my
friends I was at least 10 years younger and felt very junior. What they liked
best about me was that I was creative and could make up or compose pieces
and innovate, but technically, I was average at best. So when Paco said that I
should lead, I wasn’t really sure I had heard him right. In some ways, it was a
great compliment, but it also challenged my self-beliefs and created a conflict
between my self-image and the off-hand comment of someone I idolized.
I learned another lesson the next morning. We slept at Phipps’ house
that night and in the morning, as we were preparing to leave, Phipps
pulled out his guitar. He hadn’t played the previous night. He wanted to
show Paco what progress he was making.
Phipps’ playing was very crude. His technique was sloppy and
unskilled. He was very earnest, however, playing with all his heart. You
could tell. Paco said, “Very good, Gerald. Very good.”
Afterwards, I asked Paco about what he had said. Was he lying to
spare the man’s feelings? Why didn’t he offer some constructive criticism?
And Paco answered, “Did you not see it? He plays with great feeling.
29
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

Duende. Alma. Yes, he has bad technique, but his playing is genuine. Many
people who play with great technique are empty. They have lost the love
of the music. He still loves it, and that is why I called it good.”
This was one of many lessons I learned with Paco. I instantly under-
stood what he meant because I had also seen it. But unlike Paco, I had
focused more on the negative side of technique, and not on the obvious
love Phipps had, innocently offering his music to the greatest flamenco
guitarist in the world. I felt humbled, but grateful for this lesson. Many
flamenco guitarists are highly competitive and judgmental, and they ar-
en’t the ones I tended to like best. I enjoyed the friendship of people who
supported and encouraged each other and saw the best in everyone. Even
Gerald Phipps. And to this day, whenever I see somebody doing anything
with their heart in it, I appreciate them for that.
As an aside, I have been studying tai chi over the past 14 years. One
of my teachers is a Chinese grandmaster named Chen Zhenglei. Grand-
master Chen has spoken about “what is kung fu.” He says, “When I am
the teacher, I am the teacher, but when it comes to fixing the pipes in my
house, the plumber has far better kung fu than I do.” He stresses each of
us may have strong kung fu in what we do well and what we do with
consistency and focus because, in translation, kung fu isn’t about martial
arts, it’s about mindful practice. This lesson seems to go along with the
lesson Paco taught me so many years before.
We left the Phipps mansion and headed to René’s apartment, which was
a spacious one bedroom affair. The living room area was especially spacious,
as was the master bedroom. When we got there, René went off and made
phone calls while Paco and I just sort of lounged around. Over the past few
days, I had asked Paco if he would give me a guitar lesson. I had heard that
he sometimes taught others, so I thought I might ask as well. Up until that
point, he had always said, “Maybe later.” This time he said, Vale. Vámonos.
So Paco played a complicated riff and said, “Now you play it.” I did
my best, but it was hard to get it all so fast. He didn’t slow it down, but
played it again at full speed. About this time, René came out of his bed-
room and stood over, watching. I was embarrassed. There was no way
I could just pick up Paco’s lightning speed and complex technique like
that. After a few minutes, I suddenly realized what was happening. The
lesson wasn’t about the guitar. It was about expectations. It was about
being ready for the teacher. I laughed and said, “I get it. That’s ok. I get
it.” Both Paco and René smiled and laughed.
In some ways, this had been a test. Paco was very mischievous and
would sometimes test people to see how they would react. In this case,
he was testing me, and apparently I passed and failed at the same time. I
30
couldn’t match his speed or instantly pick up what he was showing me,
but I passed by seeing what was true and accepting it. Once I understood
the folly of it all, I got over my embarrassment and disappointment and
laughed, too. Over the years that followed, Paco always taught me when I
asked – as long as I had done some of the work and had a specific question.
For instance, if I was learning a piece of his music, I could play it for him,
and he would help me refine it. I never again asked for a lesson, but every
time I came to him with a real question, he always took the time to help me.
One more memorable event occurred that, again, shows Paco’s
mischievous side, although this story is a bit off color. Shortly after my
“lesson,” a young woman arrived. She didn’t spend too much time so-
cializing before she and René retired to his bedroom. In the meantime, it
being late and all of us being tired, Paco and I started to arrange bedding
in the living room where we were going to sleep. Paco was actually very
informal about things, as was I, so it didn’t seem odd that we were going
to sleep in the living room.
Paco changed into some powder blue pajamas. I didn’t wear pajamas
at that point in my life, and I thought he looked like a little boy in them.
And then, like that little boy, he gestured to me to follow him, putting his
fingers to his lips and quietly saying, “Shhh.” There was a look in his eyes
that I was coming to recognize. He was up to something.
He crept silently toward René’s bedroom, which was separated from
the living room by a short hallway, turning toward me several times to
beckon me forward. He was just like a little kid. When I think of that
familiar, mischievous face today, it makes me smile.
The hallway had a slight bend in it, which prevented the bedroom
door from being seen from the living room. We crept into the hallway. The
bedroom door was slightly open – enough to peer into the room. Paco
pointed. I looked. There was René, whose nickname, according to Paco,
was “El Navo,” which, according to Paco, was a reference to his prodi-
gious manhood…so there were René and the girl, both naked. He was
holding her legs open as he thrust from above – in and out – while she
made little noises of pleasure.
I was shocked. What we were doing seemed quite a violation of pri-
vacy and sort of twisted. But Paco was smiling and whispered something
to me that I don’t remember. But what I did come to suspect is that Paco
and René had orchestrated this and that René was in on it. It occurred to
me that perhaps I was being tested once again.
I’m not a prude or shocked by sex, but this was not really interest-
ing to me, and it just seemed uncomfortably awkward and, to be honest,
31
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

unfair to the girl. I soon retreated back to the living room. Paco followed
me and made some comments about “El Navo” and his prodigious size. I
could tell he was having fun with me, and to be honest, I wasn’t offended
or scandalized. I didn’t particularly want to watch René fucking some
girl, but that was more because I didn’t find it all that interesting than
anything else. On the other hand, I kind of enjoyed the conspiratorial
moment with Paco. This was something we shared that very few people
would have been invited to share with him, so I also felt flattered in a way
that caused all kinds of strange conflicts in my head. Fortunately, that was
the only time I ever shared that particular brand of fun with Paco.
The next day I headed back home while Paco was on his way some-
where else. I don’t remember where he was going, but I was tired from
lack of sleep and all the excitement, so I decided it was time to return
home and get some rest.

Charisma
I’ve previously alluded to Paco’s interest in the opposite sex. I once asked
him about it. I mean, a lot of my musician friends were good at getting
laid, but with Paco it was almost a game that he just had to play, and I
think he had a considerable advantage over most people – charisma. I
never met anyone who simply emanated sex appeal to the opposite sex
as much as Paco did. And if you’re thinking that it was because he was
famous or that he was such a great talent, you’re wrong. Paco didn’t need
any help. He was just immensely charismatic.
Paco told me that his behavior and attitudes went back, once again, to
his Andalusian roots. It seemed that sex was a form of conquest, of prov-
ing your manhood. Moreover, in the often lonely world of a superstar, it
was a distraction and a moment of direct contact and escape, but one that
ultimately turned into a habit.
One of the best examples of Paco’s charisma occurred when we were
in Denver, probably after leaving the Phipps mansion, when we stopped at
a local diner to get some food. Our waitress was a young, pretty girl who
clearly had no idea who Paco was. As I remember it, there were three of us
– Paco, René and I at the table. We were friendly and joked a little with the
waitress, but it was Paco who really put on the charm. The interesting thing
is that she didn’t speak any Spanish, and at that time Paco spoke almost no
English. But somehow, he charmed her in a language she didn’t even un-
derstand and somehow he managed to convince her to leave work and lead
us to her apartment. As I remember it, Paco went upstairs with her while
we waited outside. After a time, Paco reemerged smiling and whistling a
sevillanas through his teeth, which he did often, and we continued with our

32
day. We didn’t talk about it. It just happened. But I admit that I was in awe
of his powers of seduction, and just a touch envious.
This story, and others like it, took place when Paco and I were in our
twenties, and I know that Paco changed over the years. I saw his lifestyle
begin to change during the ‘80s and ‘90s, and long before he remarried, I
believe he had matured and left the promiscuous life behind.
For years during the late ‘80s and’ 90s, he always traveled with one
particular woman in his entourage. She was very quiet and stayed in the
background year after year. All I knew is that she was from Mexico and that
Paco liked having her with him when he toured. It wasn’t until sometime
in the ‘90s when she opened up and started communicating. I was glad that
at last I was able to get to know her a little because she had been a nearly
silent fixture backstage for years and I had wanted to know more about
her. Her name was Gabriella Carrasco, and what I didn’t know at the time
was that he would marry her and father two children with her. (He also
had three children with Casilda.) The last few times I saw Paco, Gabriella
was no longer traveling with him, and there was no other woman on tour.
He had lived in Mexico for many years, but when I saw him last he told me
that he had moved back to Spain, to the Canary Islands, where the schools
would be better for his children. I believe he found peace and a renewed
sense of family with Gabriella, which makes me very happy.

Ouds
I think it was a few weeks after we parted in Denver that I got what was
only my second phone call from Paco. This one was from Madrid. Paco
called me to ask how to tune the oud. That was it. I told him, he thanked
me, and we said goodbye. When we had been traveling together, René told
me that Paco never really communicated when he was not with you or in
the same city. René used to write letters to Paco all the time, and Paco never
replied to them, but when he was coming to the States, he might make con-
tact. So I hardly expected to hear from Paco once he was gone, and this call
struck me as funny, bizarre, and in a strange way, quite wonderful. Here I
was teaching Paco something, even if it was only how to tune an oud.

Postscript:
Months later, after Chris had recovered his oud, I decided to see if I could
find another Karibyan. Through our grapevine of friends, we did find
someone who had, not one, but two Karibyan ouds, but he was not inter-
ested in selling one, at least not until we told him it was for Paco de Lucia.
At that point he agreed, still with some reluctance, to sell one of them for
$800. I bought the oud and shipped it to Paco as a gift.

33
Pierre

This story only involves Paco peripherally, but it had its own sense of adventure,
and my favorite part of it could not have happened without Paco’s help.
I had a friend named Pierre who was something else. Tall, handsome,
with a French accent, Pierre was a true rogue, but I had no idea of the
extent of his roguishness when we first became friends. Pierre loved fla-
menco and was an expert in art history. I met his wife first, when I was in-
volved with a transformational learning group called Lifespring in 1974,
but that’s an entirely different story. At the time Pierre had very little
money, and his prized possession was a Porsche. After I bought my house
in San Anselmo, Pierre started looking to buy, and he found a house in
my neighborhood. To purchase it, he borrowed $9000 from me, promising
to sell his Porsche to pay me back.
Pierre and his wife Susan moved in soon after, and true to his word,
he paid me back within a couple of months. For the next few years, Pierre
was my neighbor and we became good friends. And I watched in awe as
he remodeled and expanded his house, had a well put in – so far no big
deal, right? Then there was a station wagon for his wife, a BMW for him,
a Ferarri, a power boat and a sailboat and half interest in an airplane.
At one point, Pierre and I traveled (first class) to Spain together.
Through Paco’s connections, Pierre had made contact with some of
the administrators at the fabulous Prado museum. He was looking for
artwork for a Japanese consortium of businessmen. From the Prado,
Pierre learned about a house in southern Spain where they stored extra
paintings – paintings by first class artists of various famous lineages,
but not, let’s say, A-list works or works of the masters themselves. So
you might find a painting by a student of Velasquez, but not an origi-
nal Velasquez in this collection. We traveled to Malaga and took a ride
out into the country to a two-story house that appeared to be aban-
doned. We had a key, I believe, or a combination to get in. Once inside,
it was clear that nobody lived there. It was simply a glorified storage
facility where the weather conditions were apparently conducive to
the preservation of oil paintings.
Instead of furniture, the place was crammed with original works of
art spanning centuries. It was incredible. Paintings hung on all the walls,

34
but were also piled on the floor against every wall, both upstairs and
downstairs, and against shelves placed in the middle of each room. I had
no idea how many there were, or who painted them, or what they signi-
fied, but Pierre knew. He kept telling me, “This painting is of the school
of…” and he’d tell me the name of a painter who I might have heard of,
and often artists whose name I’d never heard before. I wish I had known
more, and I also wish I’d had a week or more to snap pictures of these
rare, secondary works because many of them were spectacular.
At the time, Pierre had been working as an art dealer in one of the
top dealerships in San Francisco. On the side, he had been selling vari-
ous works of art to individual investors, promising a high return on their
investment within short periods of time.
And here’s where it gets really interesting. Pierre had sold me a Cha-
gall print, promising to sell it in a few months for a profit. He was good
to his word – with me. However, there came a day when some FBI agents
came to my house to ask questions about Pierre. It turned out that he had
been arrested for art fraud. Of course, I knew nothing about any of this,
but I did recall when we traveled to Spain, he had taken a short side trip,
which I later suspected was to Switzerland to do some banking.
The paintings from Malaga? Apparently he brokered a deal between
the Prado and the Japanese investors for the whole lot. I don’t know any
of the details. However, I did come to know that his activities, which paid
for his various extravagances, were the result of a Ponzi scheme he had
been playing. This is how it worked: First, he would sell a piece of legit-
imate artwork, promising to sell it for them in a few months for a profit.
He had a very genuine manner and real expertise in his subject matter,
and so his victims didn’t question him. To get the really big scores, he
would fulfill the promise he’d made on the first purchase, upping the
ante for the next. For instance, I was able to ascertain that he sold a Renoir
print that was worth a few hundred dollars for several thousand. It
wasn’t an innocent scam, either. He bilked people of their life savings.
After his arrest, Pierre held a press conference that was covered in the
San Francisco Chronicle with a picture of him, his genuinely innocent wife
(who knew nothing of this until I told her and proved it to her), and their
two gorgeous children. He professed his innocence at the press confer-
ence and then skipped town. Pierre was a French citizen, and he merely
had to fly to France, where there was no extradition, to get away with all
his crimes. I was left holding a little bit of overpriced artwork, but he ac-
tually went easy on me. He did take off with one of my guitars that I had
lent him (my Bernabé ), but in the end I thought I had gotten off nearly
unscathed, and had actually enjoyed some adventures with him.
35
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

On the advice of my friend and attorney, Steven, I did a legal at-

tachment of the artwork he had in his home. Nobody else considered
doing that because people assumed it was all fake, but they were wrong.
Through the court, I obtained numerous paintings that were worth very
little, to be sure, but also original prints from Toulouse-Lautrec, Salvador
Dalí, two Chagalls, a Rembrandt etching and what seemed to be an origi-
nal Miró, although we were never able to authenticate that one.
Pierre once taught me an interesting principle of selling art that
illustrated how he took advantage of a trait of human nature and people’s
egos. When Pierre would sell legitimately in the gallery, he would take
three works of art and display them in a quiet private room. The pro-
spective buyer would be seated in a very comfortable chair and offered
wine or other refreshments. The scene was very intimate, exclusive and
relaxed. Pierre would then present each piece of art, but his intention
was to sell only one of them – one that was actually worth less than the
other two. He would tell the buyer what the first two were worth, then
sing the praises of the third. Finally, he would ask, “So what do you think
this painting would go for? What price do you think you’d pay for this
wonderful piece of art?” And inevitably, the buyer would come up with
a number reflective of the high values of the other two paintings. Pierre
would respond, “You have a very keen eye for art. Very keen indeed,”
and name a price very close to the one the buyer had suggested – a price
far higher than it necessarily should have sold for, but not so high that
anybody would see it as illegitimate.
The next time I returned to Spain, I told Paco about what had hap-
pened and about Pierre’s scams, but he didn’t seem worried. Apparently,
the deal with the Prado had been done without any apparent hitches,
and, in fact, Pierre had gained their respect for his knowledge of the histo-
ry of Spanish painters and their various artistic lineages.

36
In Spain with Paco

While I was in Spain, I often spent time just hanging around Paco’s apart-
ment in Madrid. Paco’s lifestyle, when he was home, involved lounging
around his apartment in his pajamas until about 4pm, at which time he
would often go out and grab a bite to eat somewhere within walking dis-
tance. (His driver’s license had been revoked a couple of times because he
was a pretty wild driver.) I spent many days just hanging out with Paco
and his wife Casilda in their penthouse apartment. Mostly we just talked,
sometimes we watched soccer games on TV. In fact, when Real Madrid
was playing in their stadium, you could hear the roar of the crowd in Pa-
co’s apartment, which was within a few blocks of the stadium. Sometimes
Paco would grab his guitar and practice a little, depending on what he
was working on. If he had a new project or new piece he was composing,
he would practice it during the day, often making comments about how
difficult it was while making it look easy.
Casilda was always gracious and friendly with me. She and Paco
would offer drinks (water or wine, sometimes coffee) and snacks, which
ranged from cheeses and delicacies like blood sausage to the delicious
seasonal sweet treat, freshly made turrón.
Sometimes friends or family would stop by to visit, and we would sit
around and talk. Or, I should say, they talked. Unless I was asked a direct
question, I tended just to listen. My Spanish was pretty good, but often I
couldn’t keep up with all of what they were saying, especially when they
were all talking at once – or so it seemed. So I just enjoyed being there, or
sometimes had conversations with Casilda, who would often get bored
with what the men were talking about.
I remember one time when Paco had to go out for some reason and
there was no good excuse for me to go with him. I don’t remember the
exact circumstances, but Casilda suggested that we go see a movie. She
invited a friend to join us, a very beautiful woman who happened to be
the ex-wife of a famous matador. I remember going to the movie and
being completely entranced by the woman, but keenly aware that you
don’t mess with matadors or their women – and I included ex-wives in
the “don’t-mess-with” category. The woman was very open and friendly,
though, so the temptations were there, and I even had the sneaking suspi-

37
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

cion that Casilda was trying to set something up. I saw more danger than
reward in the prospect, though, and that made me hesitate until it was too
late. In retrospect, I think I probably saved myself a lot of embarrassment
(what if I had misconstrued the situation?) or, worse, pain.
But the matador’s ex-wife is not the real story. What was most remark-
able about going to the movies with Casilda, and even being left in their
apartment alone with her, was that for Paco, an Andalusian male, the idea
of his wife alone with any man who was not family was simply unaccept-
able. This all came as news to me, though. Being a sort of hippy American
sort, it never occurred to me that being alone with someone’s wife was an
issue of any great consequence, especially if you were already friends.
I learned the truth of it the next year when my friend Chris tried to
visit Paco to retrieve his oud. Chris actually called me from Madrid to tell
me that Casilda would not let him into the apartment, because Paco wasn’t
home. He was upset and worried about getting his oud back. I called Casil-
da to let her know that Chris was a friend, and it would be all right, but she
said, “No. I cannot let him in if Paco is not here.” I didn’t press the issue.
I was as surprised as Chris was, and although Chris did ultimately re-
trieve his oud, the next time I saw Paco, I asked him about it. “I am from
Andalucía,” he told me, “and Andalusian men are very jealous. It would
not be proper for my wife to be alone with anyone who was not family.
That is why our friend Chris could not come inside.”
So naturally I asked, “But what about me? I’ve been alone with Casil-
da, even gone to the movies with her? How is that different?”
His answer was, “Because you are family.”
For the first time, I knew that Paco’s feelings for me were the same as
mine were for him. He was much more than a musical idol, or a casual
friend. He was a brother, a mentor, and an idol and a friend. We got along
great. We laughed. We talked a lot of philosophy and psychology. When
we were together, life was an adventure. And, of course, Paco trusted me
absolutely. He knew that I was intensely loyal.

Marcia, Paco and I in Spain

In 1976, Marcia and I met in Madrid. She flew from Paris to meet me, and
we spent a couple of days hanging out with Paco at his home before fly-
ing down to the south to meet up with our friends Chris and Charlyn.
Hanging out with Paco was pretty boring for Marcia at first. People
would visit and talk, but because Marcia didn’t speak Spanish, she was
left to while away the time. Marcia wasn’t the type to just hang around
38
doing nothing, but that was about what was going on. Finally, on the
first day, Paco said, “Let’s go out to dinner. I will take you to a place that
serves pajaritos (little birds).” We had a small entourage that night, includ-
ing a famous matador and his wife, who sat at one end of the table. Paco
sat to their right, and Marcia and I were toward the other end of the table.
There were a few other people in between, although I don’t remember
who else was there. I think Paco’s brother Pepe might have joined us. In
all, I think there were about eight of us.
The pajaritos came, and I realized with some shock that they were lit-
erally little birds. Little finch-sized birds cooked whole in a gravy of some
sort. Well, I thought, when in Rome… They weren’t bad. You simply
crunched the little avian bodies whole, tiny bones and all. I can’t say I’d
go out of my way to have them again, but I could tell that Paco consid-
ered them a delicacy.
At one point, the mood of the table was shattered when the matador
turned and slapped his wife hard in the face. I didn’t hear what he said
to her, but I could tell it wasn’t anything nice. Marcia and I were shocked
and deeply offended. Certainly, we could never accept or condone such
violence against a woman, and I, for one, instantly lost respect for mata-
dors as a class. Conversation eventually returned to normal, and nobody
said anything about what had happened, but for me, and I know for Mar-
cia, it pretty much ruined the rest of the dinner.
The next night, Paco and his friends – which might have included one
or more of his brothers or cousins – decided to go out to some nightclub,
somewhere that wasn’t a flamenco place. They invited us to go, but I
think I was tired that night and wanted just to return to the hotel. We had
spent most of the day with Paco and company, and I think I had become
sort of bored of it and expected no improvement if we all went out some-
where, unless flamenco was involved. Marcia was game, but concerned
about going with these guys without me as chaperone and translator. I as-
sured her that they would take good care of her and there was nothing to
worry about. I knew Paco would treat her with great respect. I also knew
that Paco could communicate in English far more than he let on.
What happened that night is for Marcia to relate, but suffice it to say
that it was the beginning of a long, deep and intimate friendship between
the two of them.
The next day, we headed south, to meet Chris and and our belly
dancer friend, Charlyn. We were headed to Granada and the Alhambra.

39
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

The Alhambra
Our side trip to southern Spain was a fun romp that included the famed
and fabulous Alhambra and a couple of days in the Moroccan city of
Tangier. The high point of the Alhambra trip was trying to take pictures of
Charlyn in belly dance costume, which to the Spaniards of the time was
like dressing in your underwear. We weren’t sure how the guards would
feel about taking pictures in such a scanty outfit, so we sought out some
more out-of-the-way locations. Even so, the guards discovered us and
told us to cease and desist. While Marcia continued to snap photos, I ap-
proached the guards and started spinning a malarkey story about how we
were with some TV station or National Geographic or something. It was
pretty spontaneous. Chris just stood by and tried to look important.
The guards really didn’t buy the story, but our delaying tactics
worked. While Marcia continued to shoot pictures, Chris and I were es-
corted back to a guard station, where we told our story again. Again, they
weren’t convinced, but by the time we got back, Charlyn was dressed
and Marcia was packed up. Mission accomplished. The guards just let
us go, apparently not sure it was worth pressing the issue, although they
remained skeptical and kept their eyes on us. We were done with the pic-
tures, though, and returned to being ordinary tourists.
Visiting Tangier was quite wonderful. We caught some great street
music and enjoyed exploring the old section of the city. At one point, a
couple of guys came crashing into Chris from opposite sides and tried
to pick his pocket, but Chris was an old hand at travel and had his hand
protecting his wallet, so they came up empty. The only other notable part
of our Tangier visit is that I got a really serious case of food poisoning,
which laid me up for a day or two.

Chris Carnes
Chris was a great guide to the flamenco scene in southern Spain. He had
spent many years studying there, primarily with the great Diego del Gas-
tor – a local legend who never really became a superstar, but was known
as an original and soulful flamenco guitarist who not only played won-
derful solos, but also was a master at accompaniment of cante and baile
(singing and dancing). Diego also influenced many American students
who brought his musical style back with them. None was more adept at
Diego’s style than Chris, who had spent many years with the master. In
fact, many years later, Chris was the only American invited to come to
Spain for a celebration of guitarists and singers that took place in the late
‘80s or early ‘90s, because he was adept at playing accompaniment for
the old time singers – an art that took practice and awareness of the quick

40
tonal changes those singers would make. It was a subtle language passed
from the singer to the guitarist, who had to make changes instantaneous-
ly. The old-time singers were more subtle than many of the more modern
ones, and for that reason Chris’ talent and experience were becoming less
and less common as time passed and the old-time singers also passed.
Chris was not only a great friend, musician and guide to the history
of flamenco and of the culture of the south of Spain, he was also responsi-
ble for three major introductions, each of which had a tremendous effect
on me. The first was to guitarist Pedro Bacán. Pedro was an excellent gui-
tarist, and one I interviewed for my Guitar Player Magazine piece. Pedro
had married an American woman, and at one point they came and stayed
in my house in the States, as Paco had before, and we had some great
parties. Pedro also helped me find a guitar that I treasure to this day. But
that comes later.

Barba
The second introduction Chris made was to the guitar maker, Francisco
Barba. Chris played a Barba guitar, and everybody loved it. It had great
sound and played like a dream. So when we were in Sevilla in 1976, Chris
suggested that we go by Barba’s shop. At the time, Barba had a five-year
waiting list, and I was interested in getting on that list. In fact, five years
was a modest time to wait because Barba was not yet as famous as he
would eventually become. Some of the more famous makers at the time
had waiting lists up to 11 years. Beyond that number, it became some-
what absurd to even have a waiting list, so that was about the maximum I
had heard of.
Barba was happy to see Chris, who brought his instrument with him
to show its maker. I said that I loved Chris’ guitar and that I would like
get on the waiting list to buy one of his guitars. He laughed and said,
“Come back in two weeks.” We asked him what he meant, and he an-
swered, “I have a guitar just about completed. Come back in two weeks
and I will sell it to you.”
For the next two weeks, Chris and I explored Sevilla together. Chris
took me to see the great Manuela Carrasco dance, still just at the be-
ginning of her rise to fame. We even visited her at home to explore the
possibility of bringing her to the States for a tour. After two weeks, we
returned to Barba’s shop to pick up my guitar.
Barba had done something innovative with the guitar. Because fla-
menco guitarists tap on the face of the guitar, all flamenco guitars have
what is called a “tap plate,” which in modern times is a clear or colored
piece of plastic that is affixed to the front of the guitar, sometimes only
41
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

below the strings and sometimes both above and below. What Barba had
done is to put beautiful wooden tap plates on my guitarm which really
gave the instrument a unique and natural look. It cost me $300, making
it one of the lowest priced guitars I ever bought. And it was the guitar I
played for many years as my favorite. Today, Barba’s guitars are worth
thousands. Another reason to give thanks to Chris.

El Moro
The third introduction from Chris was not to a person, but to a place. He
told me that it was the most amazing antique store he had ever seen, and
he told me how to find it. His directions had to be quite specific, because
this place was on a residential street and had no sign. In fact, it had only
a plain doorway in a giant white wall. The place belonged to El Moro, an
old man who seemed to have been there forever. He had long, white hair
and beard and sat in a chair in his office like a spider tending his web.
People from all over the area came to him to buy, sell and barter.
When you entered El Moro’s shop, there was nothing at all to indicate
that you were entering a business. In fact, the street door –­literally a hole
in the wall –led into an unlit room full of junk. Just piles of absolute junk.
The only light came from the entrance behind you and a door up ahead. It
was oppressive and unsettling. What was I getting myself into?
There was a pathway through the junk that led into a brightly lit
room with a ceiling at least 30 feet high. Ahead was a large, wide stair-
case. To the right of the staircase was a hallway leading to a large room
on the right, and almost directly to the right was another spacious room.
In the entry area there were several big, glassed-in display cases, some
large enough to contain furniture. To the left, as you entered, was a long,
narrow office where El Moro sat serenely at the far end.
I thought of Alice in Wonderland. Had I walked through a rabbit hole
into another world altogether? Was El Moro the Cheshire Cat?
As I stood there, stupified, El Moro called to me and invited me to
look around, spreading his arms in a wide, expansive gesture. I think the
sound of a human voice reawakend me from the dream I was having, and
so I did as he had suggested. I started shopping.
I immediately spotted a chest of drawers with wood marquetry in a
pattern that I loved. It created the optical illusion of cubes, crafted with
different colored woods. Just in the entryway, I discovered several other
treasures that I was pretty sure I would want to own if I could afford them.
I went to tell El Moro of my interest in the chest of drawers, and he
told me that he was pretty sure there was another one just like it, and if
42
I wanted to wait, he would send for it. I said yes, excited about the idea
of a matched set. And then he told me that, while I was waiting, I could
check out the upstairs. I had seen the staircase, but for some reason, I
hadn’t thought it led to anything.
So I went upstairs where I found gigantic rooms the size of the whole
block, because that was how big the building really was. For a moment,
the immensity of these rooms made me wonder if I had taken the red pill
– or was it the blue pill? The downstairs certainly didn’t reveal the entire
scope of the place. There were eight floors going up, although the final one
was more of an attic – but that is where I discovered some antique zodiac
tiles that I knew would be great for my home.
Many of the floors just contained old, but not antique, furniture and
light fixtures and so forth. Everything was carefully arranged. It must
have taken decades to amass it all. As vast and astounding as it was, the
best stuff I found was mostly on the ground floor. I did pick out a few
more items, then headed down. I have no idea how much time I spent in
the upper floors. Time had little meaning in that building.
By the time I got back to El Moro’s office, the matching chest of draw-
ers had arrived. From what I could surmise, El Moro had purchased it
back from whoever had bought it previously so that he could sell it to me.
At any rate, the time had come to talk prices, and I quickly found out that
El Moro’s prices were really reasonable – by American standards, anyway.
I ended up purchasing a whole long list of things, which his assistant
listed out on a piece of paper along with the price in pesetas. At the time,
I think it was 70 pesetas to the dollar, so the figures looked quite large –
most of them four figures or more.
I watched the assistant write each entry on the list, and when he was
done, he just wrote a figure down at the bottom – the total. Just like that.
El Moro told me that he was a savant. He could add up any column of
figures instantly, and if I didn’t believe it, I could use a calculator to prove
it. I tried the calculator, more out of curiosity than suspicion, and just as
El Moro had told me, the figure was spot on. It was like Rain Man, only
that movie wouldn’t be made for another 12 years.
El Moro’s shop provided one surprise after another, and its outer
humility and near invisibility was stunning. A year later I returned and
purchased a load of other great antiquities and items, which El Moro was
going to ship (as he had the first batch). However, this time the Spanish
government got involved, claiming that at least some of the items I had
purchased were antiquities that were not allowed to leave the country. In
the end, I never got the second shipment. Long, annoying story...

43
Bill’s Contract and Santana

After Marcia returned to the States, she helped me convince Bill Graham to
listen to Paco’s music and to recognize what a talent he was. And because
of our efforts, Bill decided to offer a managerial contract to Paco. Bill ap-
proached me to be his emissary and stated that I would be Paco’s manager,
working directly under him. Moreover, he offered me an incredibly gener-
ous 25% of all money he earned through Paco if I wanted the job.
I had a lot of ideas for how Paco could become even more popular
in the States, starting with getting him to perform on Saturday Night Live,
which at the time was a great place for new talent to be seen. With Bill’s
clout, it seemed like a realizable dream.
I had my trepidations, though. Bill was a great man, and very gener-
ous, but he was scary when he was mad, and the idea that I might make a
mistake or do something that pissed him off was immensely frightening.
Moreover, it might affect my friendship with Paco, and I imagined little
me being squashed between the massive egos of powerful men like Bill
and Paco. It was a plausible scenario, but one I was ultimately willing to
risk if Paco was interested in the deal.
I think it was probably late 1976 when I flew over to Spain with Bill’s
contract in hand and presented it to Paco. One problem with the contract
was that it only guaranteed him about $5000 per concert at the beginning.
Bill had explained that he would have to build Paco slowly and that big-
ger paydays would follow, but working for less was the price for getting
there. Paco wasn’t impressed with that. “Why should I play for so little
when I can go almost anywhere in the world and be paid $30,000?”
The other problem was that Paco asked some friends what they
thought. Most of them had never heard of Bill Graham, and many of
those who had thought of him as some kind of slimy rock & roll promot-
er. They didn’t trust him, even though they knew next to nothing about
him. But Paco had to listen to all views, and in the end he decided not
to sign the contract. I have to admit that I was relieved, and I know he
appreciated how I had been looking after his interests and offering him
what could have been such a great opportunity. In fact, years later, after
he had learned more about Bill, he told me that he regretted not working
with Bill and that, in fact, I had been right to bring him the offer.

44
Santana
While I was on the trip to offer Paco the contract, I got word from Bill that
Carlos Santana was playing in London and that he wanted to meet Paco.
Bill offered to fly both of us to London, and we accepted.
In London, we had some time to kill, so we walked around the city. As
we were passing a small music shop, the owner came running out with a
guitar in his hand. He was a Spaniard and had recognized Paco.
“Paco de Lucia. Please, please play something on this guitar for me,”
he said in Spanish, handing Paco an off-the-shelf guitar.
This was typical. Whenever people recognized Paco, they always want-
ed something, but the Spanish were the worst. They were very demanding,
and often acted as if they somehow owned Paco. But we had nothing better
to do, so Paco asked the man to bring out another guitar for me. He had
taught me the accompaniment to one of his rhumbas, “Rio Ancho,” and so
I played the backup while he played the piece. What was amazing was that
the guitar he was playing was really a cheap model – nothing like what he
usually played – and he made it sound like a grand concert instrument.
It was uncanny how good it sounded when he played. For my part, I was
back in that uncomfortable, but exhilarating place of trying to stay with
Paco as his rhythm just drove the music forward. This was only the second,
and last, time I ever played with Paco in public. He had much better musi-
cians for that purpose, including his brother Ramon. Still, it was a thrill for
me, as it was for the shopkeeper and the small crowd that gathered while
we were playing.
Later, we popped into a movie theater and watched some of the original
animated pornographic cartoons. They were really funny, and we were both
laughing at how raunchy and imaginative they were.
When we got back to the hotel, Paco got a call from his family. His
wife, Casilda, was ill. It wasn’t an emergency, but it was something mys-
terious that the doctors hadn’t yet figured out. I could tell he was worried
when he placed the receiver back in its cradle.
“What’s the problem, Paco?” I asked. He told me the situation. “Do
you need to return to Spain?”
“No. Not yet. I am waiting to hear what the doctors say.”
It was the night of Santana’s concert, and I could tell that Paco was
torn between his concern for Casilda and his promise to meet Santana.
In the end, he said, “I think I need to stay here by the phone. You go, and
offer my apologies.” Of course, this was in the days before cell phones.

45
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

I was sad not to share this experience with Paco, but I did have an
amazing time. I was invited to come backstage and hang out with the
band. Of course I told them of Paco’s situation. I was on stage when they
played, just in the wings where I could see the band and peek into the
audience. I had been on many stages in my life, starting very young at
my mother’s performances, but I had never been on the stage during a
major rock & roll concert. It was amazing. There were young girls crush-
ing themselves up against the edge of the stage and all kinds of dancing
and screaming and excitement. It was fun to see it from that perspective,
because, of course, I had been on the other end so many times at the
Fillmore, Winterland, the Avalon Ballroom and so many other places. I
saw all the great San Francisco bands many times – the Grateful Dead,
Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin and Big Brother, Country Joe and the
Fish, Quicksilver Messenger Service… And also The Who, Jimi Hendrix,
Cream on their first American tour where Clapton blew me away, The
Mamas and the Papas, and oldies like The Coasters, Roy Orbison… the
list goes on. So this was a thrill of a different kind – not to mention that I
was a big Santana fan.
There was a big dinner after the show. The whole band was there,
but not Paco. I enjoyed hanging out with Carlos and the band, but soon I
decided to go back and check on Paco.
He hadn’t heard anything yet, so I sat with him and we talked, and
then he started playing his guitar some while I read a science fiction
novel. We were sharing a room, and for some reason it never occurred to
us to question why we didn’t have separate rooms. In retrospect, it seems
quite odd, but at the time, I suppose, we were sufficiently used to each
other that it never occurred to either of us to question it.
We played a little impromptu game – another example of Paco’s mis-
chievous side. Whenever he would start to play, I would turn to watch.
Then he would stop and I would go back to my book. He would play
only if I was pretending to read. He would watch me, a sly smile on his
face, and I would watch him over the edge of the book. It wasn’t as if I
hadn’t sat with him while he played countless times, but he was just goof-
ing with me and I played the game with him. It still makes me smile.
The next day, we packed up to leave. The word on Casilda was en-
couraging, and Paco was able to connect with Carlos for a brief meeting.
Then we were off for Madrid once again. Fortunately, Casilda’s mysteri-
ous illness turned out to be something benign. Potential crisis averted.
Not long after, Paco and Santana did finally connect and even performed
on stage together a few times. Although I wasn’t there, I was glad that
they finally connected.
46
Mediterranean Sundance

Whenever I listen to “Mediterranean Sundance,” I’m transported into a

sea of emotions and odd tensions. Every moment of that piece resonates
with me because I was present when it was recorded.
I was in Spain visiting Paco when he informed me that he was sched-
uled to fly to New York to play with “some jazz guitarist.” At the time,
neither of us knew anything about Al Di Meola. I had once had a jazz
instruction book that featured a portly, balding guy with a cigar in his
mouth, and that’s the image that came to mind. Needless to say, I wasn’t
too familiar with jazz guitarists at the time.
Paco was nervous about this upcoming trip. He wasn’t sure what to
expect, recording with an unknown jazz guy. He had previously played with
jazz fusion guitarist Larry Coryell in Japan, but, as far as I know, had not yet
recorded with any guitarist but his brother Ramon and flamenco guitarist Ri-
cardo Modrego. He asked me if I would be interested in going to New York
with him, as a friend and, as I interpreted it at the time, moral support.
Of course I said yes, and I booked a ticket. The travel date was
still a few days away, and Paco offered to let me stay in an apartment
he rented. This was not just any apartment, but his secret hideaway,
where he could go to be completely alone, or, as was often the case,
to take women. Paco was not a faithful husband, and, in fact, seemed
determine to have sex with as many females as possible. I never knew
if Casilda was aware of his behavior, but if she did know, she never
gave any indication.
The secret apartment was a small studio that featured little more than
a bed, bath and a few items of furniture. It was, however, cozy and at-
tractive. Not a place to do very much, but a good place for self-reflection
and/or sex. I stayed there two nights and spent the days with Paco.
On one of those nights, Paco decided to take me to a dance club. It
was not a flamenco bar or a tablao, but a popular nightclub where a lot
of young people gathered. There were theater-style seats overlooking a
dance floor, and we settled into a couple of seats just to watch what was
going on. It was dark among the seats, so for the most part, people didn’t
notice or recognize Paco.

47
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

Mostly I watched as young Spanish guys tried to seduce young Span-

ish women. What I observed was that Spanish women were very good at
playing hard to get, and Spanish men, in reaction, became very good at not
taking no for an answer. The process of getting a yes answer from the wom-
en turned out to be a sort of comedic affair where the guy would approach
the girl and ask her to dance, or make some comment as an opening gam-
bit… I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the body language was
a hoot. The girl would always say no at first, or simply turn away. Some-
times, the guy would retreat as if he had accepted her refusal, but always
he would return and ask again, only to be refused again. This could go on
for thirty minutes or so. Sometimes the guy would give up, but persistence
did sometimes lead to success, and the girl would acquiesce, and they
would hit the dance floor. It was much worse when the girl had girlfriends
with her, which was often the case. The other girls would heckle the would-
be suitor and sometimes whisper things to each other and giggle. I was
glad I wasn’t trying to meet any women there, because I was quite sure I
would have had no chance at all. Paco, on the other hand… But that night,
he just sat with me and we watched the show together, occasionally whis-
pering our observations of the little dramas taking place.

New York – Paco’s Happiest Time

Finally in New York, we were in a cab on the way to our hotel when Paco
said he was reminded of a story from his past, a little-known story of his
early years, before his fame had grown to international stardom. Paco had
started very young, and was a veteran of travel and performing. He had
traveled the world with the famed dancer José Greco at the tender age of
14, where he learned a considerable amount of self-reliance.
“I was traveling to New York with a friend of mine,” he told me, “but
when we landed at the airport my friend said, ‘Paco. You go to the hotel
and I’ll meet you there. I have something I need to do first.’ My friend
had most of the money. I had almost nothing. But I did as he told me and
took a cab to the hotel where we had reservations. I waited for hours, but
he never showed up. I stayed in the hotel room, not sure what else to do.
Finally, the phone rang. He told me, ‘I’m in Mexico. I won’t be coming
back to New York. Take care of yourself. Good luck.’ And that was it.”
When I asked Paco what he did, he smiled. “I played poker. I was
about a month in New York, and all I did is play poker, which made me
enough money to stay there.” I think I must have looked quite shocked
because he laughed and added, “It was the happiest time of my life.” And
I quickly understood. Paco could have played the guitar anywhere and
blown people’s minds, made money, and probably received all kinds of
offers for places to live and gigs to play. But the pressure of being Paco
48
de Lucia, virtuoso musician, was something he felt his whole life. As a
musician of his caliber, he knew that he owed something to the world – to
share his gift. But just for that month, he was just a guy from Spain who
was a pretty savvy poker player.
Years later, I watched Paco play in a friendly poker game, and I quickly
understood that his story made sense. He was a very keen observer. He had
an innate understanding of human psychology, and he had a masterful poker
face. The way he quietly studied the table, you could see the machinations
going on. And I think it was this story that gave me a clearer idea about who
Paco really was, and why we became friends, because I never treated him dif-
ferently and rarely asked anything of him. Even when I gave him something
or did something to help as we traveled, I never did it with the expectation
of anything in return. In the years I spent off and on with Paco, I saw how
people always wanted something from him – from autographs and photos to
any number of favors. I never asked for his autograph or asked him to pose
for pictures with me. In fact, the only time I got his autograph was on a check
when he was paying me back some money he had borrowed from me. I con-
templated keeping the check as a memento, but then thought, Nah, I’ll just
cash it. I took very few pictures, with a camera at least. I took a lot of pictures
in my mind, which is part of what I am remembering today.

Recording Session
The hotel Al had arranged for us was a nice one, near Times Square. Very
elegant. As we were standing in line to register, Paco turned around to
face an older, very proper and impeccably dressed, gray-haired woman.
To my astonishment – and hers – Paco reached out and very sincerely
picked her nose with his little finger. Just out of the blue, he picked her
nose. And amazingly, instead of being offended, she started thanking him
over and over while pulling out her compact and looking in the little mir-
ror to be sure she didn’t have any remaining boogers. I don’t know many
people who could have pulled off such a stunt, particularly in a fancy
New York hotel, let alone someone as elegant as that lady was. I still file
that moment in the “random acts of weirdness” file.
After we had checked in, Al came to get us and take us to the studio.
With a shock, both Paco and I simultaneously realized that this was a
young guy, not some grizzled old cigar-smoking jazz veteran. We still had
no idea how he played, but we already knew that our original preconcep-
tions were dead wrong.
Al hadn’t been expecting two of us, and he was driving a small sports
car with not much room in the back. Somehow, we crammed me and Pa-
co’s guitar in behind the front seats and off we went to the Electric Lady
49
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

recording studio – the one made famous by Jimi Hendrix. I was perched
uncomfortably behind the seats with Paco’s guitar, pretzeled beneath the
roof of the car, watching as Al careened down the busy streets of New
York, feeling every pothole. What relief when we finally arrived and I was
able to squirm out of the car and uncoil my body.
We went inside the studio, and in the hallways I saw artwork depict-
ing Jimi Hendrix and other rock-themed murals. I had been in recording
studios before, and always found them to be wonderfully womblike, and
once we entered the studio itself, I instantly felt relaxed by the low, soft
lighting and familar setting. Paco, on the other hand, seemed a little ner-
vous and anxious to get started.
Al introduced us to the recording engineer and then he sat down to
teach Paco the opening riffs of the song and to talk about the structure of
the piece overall, indicating where they would play the composed part of
the song (at the beginning and the end) and where they would improvise
– which comprised the majority of the piece.
Paco learned the little riff that opened and closed the song effortless-
ly, and they practiced the timing of it a few times. At that point, rather
than rehearse more, Al decided to just start recording. Best to be safe and
record everything in case they nailed it on the first try. With Al’s musi-
cianship, that was entirely possible.
The first run-through was rough, however. Al played brilliantly. His
improvisations were amazing and transporting. And that was part of the
problem. Paco had rarely played with another guitarist who could play as
fast as he did, and certainly not with someone who could improvise like
Al. Paco was like a car at the starting line of a race that could not get into
gear before the other cars had left it behind.
For the rest of the day, they recorded take after take. Each time, Al played
a completely different improvisation. He never repeated himself at all. From
not knowing who Al was before that day, I certainly knew him then. He was
a masterful player and a phenomenally talented improviser. And although
Paco was starting to get the hang of it, he was still not quite nailing it.
We tried a few things. Paco thought that the rhythm of the piece was
not flamenco enough, and asked me to sit between them while they played,
pretending to clap in the flamenco rhythm to offer a visual cue of a famil-
iar sort. Sitting there while they played, with their Neumann microphones
above me to gather the ambience as well as the guitars, I was sweating
bullets. The fake, silent clapping wasn’t difficult, but I was terrified that my
chair might creak or I might accidentally hit my hands together and clap
audibly – ruining what would inevitably turn out to be the perfect take.
50
Fortunately, our little experiment with me sitting between them only last-
ed a couple of anxiety-ridden takes, and I was off the hook. Once I was
safely back in the booth, I was comfortable and happy again. However,
with each take, I was emotionally connected to Paco, willing him toward
perfection and wincing at every misstep. I had butterflies in my stomach
each time they played through the piece.
Paco had grown up smoking hashish in his hometown of Algeciras,
which was a Mediteranean coastal town on the opposite side of the Strait
of Gibraltar from Morocco. So we thought perhaps getting him stoned
would help. Night had fallen. I don’t remember eating anything all day,
though we probably did have a food break at some point. All I remember
was the music, all of which was magical, but up until that point was not
magical enough. It was getting late, but we thought to try that one last
tactic before calling it a night. Somebody managed to get some Thai Stick,
a very powerful brand of pot in those days, and Paco smoked it.
They started recording again, but in some ways, the stoned-out-of-his-
mind Paco was even worse. After two or three attempts, we decided to pack
it in and reconvene in the morning. Paco and I took a cab back to the hotel.
Back at the hotel, I visited Paco’s room to say goodnight. He was
lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and I could practically see musical
notes floating around in circles above his head. He was blasted. We talked
for a while about the recording sessions, about Al and how amazing he
was, and about the next day, what to expect. I had absolute confidence
in Paco. I had heard the moments in his playing with Al that just had to
be built upon. When he asked me what I had noticed, I was able to give
him encouragement and point out what seemed to be working. It wasn’t
much, but he appeared to calm down.
The next day, we had some breakfast in the hotel and then went for
a walk in Times Square. Paco told me that he liked to look at people’s
shoes, which was the last thing I tended to look at. So I spent some time
with him, standing on a corner watching shoes go by. It was a decidedly
different way to see the world.
When the time came, we returned to the studio and Paco and Al got
back to work. I don’t remember how many takes they did that morning,
but I don’t think it was too many. I know it was still daylight when they
nailed the perfect take.
Of course it started like every take before it, with the composed riffs
and with Al’s brilliant improvisation, but when Paco began to solo, I
could feel it. I sensed it early…this could be it. If only they could keep
the momentum and Paco could focus and not hit any bad notes or get
51
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

thrown off by what Al was doing. I was holding my breath. Paco played
brilliantly, imaginatively. And Al did some amazing improvisations in the
background while Paco played his solos. Al’s guitar wove in and out in
syncopated rhythms and accents as Paco’s improvised, and for those few
minutes it was as if the two of them were perfectly in tune musically. It
was masterful, and unlike any other take before it. My heart was pound-
ing. This was what they had been looking for. This was it! At one point,
when Al did something particularly beautiful, Paco yelled “Ole,” and it
was perfect. It was flamenco. It was live and spontaneous. And when they
hit the last note, Paco let out his breath saying, “Whew…” and that, too,
was so spontaneous that we all decided it had to stay on the recording. It
was a wild ride, that take, and it was perfect.
There was absolutely no doubt at all that this was the one they had
been looking for. There was no need to do it again. I could see Paco’s
relief on his face. It was palpable, and I shared it.
I couldn’t imagine leaving the studio and leaving that amazing piece
of music behind, so I asked Al if I could get it on cassette. (Actually, I
wished that I could get all the outtakes, too, but that wasn’t reasonable.)
This was before the days of YouTube and social media, so there was little
to no danger of it getting out, and so I was able to leave the studio with a
rough cut of “Mediterranean Sundance” on a cassette tape. I listened to it
over and over again for weeks after that, and it never failed to amaze me.
To be perfectly honest, I have no real memory of what happened
next, or how I got home, or whether I returned to Spain or not. I think
we probably went out to dinner with Al, but if we did, I don’t remember
that either.

52
Back to New York

I was with Paco in New York one other time, and this time it was the dead
of winter. I remember two specific events from that trip. The first was an
amazing dinner reunion, and the second was one of the funniest Paco mo-
ments I ever experienced.

Sabicas
I truly do not remember how or why I was in New York with Paco. René
Heredia was also there, and possibly his girlfriend. The only grand oc-
casion I remember was a special dinner party at a large Spanish restau-
rant. The guests of honor were Paco and Sabicas. Before Paco, Sabicas
was clearly the kingpin of solo flamenco guitarists. His fast hands had
delighted many thousands worldwide in his time. By now, however,
Sabicas was quite old and was suffering from emphysema. Still, it was a
thrill to meet him.
The restaurant was quite huge, and they had put tables together to
seat at least 30 people. When Paco, René and I arrived the tables were
already pretty full. I don’t remember the name of the restaurant – maybe
Costa del Sol. Most of the people there were Spanish ex-pats living in
New York. It was quite a scene.
There was a stage at the end of the room on which sat a flamenco gui-
tarist. I’ll call him Juan, because, although I have reason to remember him
well, I don’t remember his name anymore. I spotted Sabicas fairly quickly.
I had never met him, but I had seen pictures and, of course, marveled at
his music when he was in his prime. An empty seat had been saved for
Paco to the right of Sabicas in the middle of the table, on the left side if
you were facing the stage. I found a seat directly across from Paco, which
turned out to be a fortuitous location for what eventually occurred.
We started with food, but the eating part almost seemed like an
obligatory chore. I have no memory of what we ate. Juan played during
the meal. His manner was arrogant, his playing competent, but there
was nothing original or particularly remarkable about it. To me, he was
a relatively skillful, but uninspired player. As the dinner portion of the
evening wound down, someone started passing around Cuban cigars,
which were technically illegal, which in itself made them desirable. I had
53
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

always heard about Cuban cigars, and although I had once dabbled with
smoking in college, I had decided early on that tobacco was not my drug
of choice. Simply put, I was not a tobacco smoker, but my curiosity for
new experiences more or less required that I experience what a Cuban
cigar was like. I found out with my first puff.
As the smoke entered my system, things instantly started to go hay-
wire. It was intense to the point where I went light-headed almost imme-
diately. After struggling to act nonchalant and hide my distress, I decided
that a retreat to the bathroom would be a good idea. I didn’t want to be
sitting among all those people while all the blood somehow disappeared
from my head, so I made my way to the bathroom to hide out and recov-
er. As I was about to rejoin the party, partially recovered, Paco entered the
bathroom. The moment he laid eyes on me, he smiled and said, ¿Te parece
un poco verde, no? “You look a little green, no?” I nodded and flashed my
usual smile of embarrassment, and Paco said, Es muy fuerte, el cigarro cu-
bano. “The Cuban cigar is very strong.” I could tell that he was vacillating
between concern and laughter.
Enough oxygen had returned to my brain that I was able to return to
the table. By this time, people were happily puffing on their cigars and
waiting. For what? An air of anticipation had descended on the room.
Juan had stopped playing. There was a silence that begged to be filled.
Who would break that silence?
When Paco came back to the table, somebody handed him a guitar.
The silent anticipation evaporated only when Paco started to play. Sabicas
looked on with an approving expression from the seat to his left. Paco
played very beautifully, but very simply. He played standard flamenco
pieces, and none of his own compositions or anything with exceptionally
fast picado runs. It was material that almost any decent flamenco guitarist
could have played.
After Paco had played two or three traditional compositions, Sabicas
got up from the table and went to the backstage bathroom, which was
up to the left of the stage. When he had gone, Paco began playing pieces
from his real repertoire. I don’t know if anybody had said anything to
him, or if he just started playing his material, but it was a stark contrast
with how he had been playing up until that point.
From my vantage point on the other side of the table, I saw when
Sabicas came from the bathroom and stood by a half wall to the left of
the stage. He stopped and leaned against the wall and listened. He stood
there the entire time that Paco was playing. When Paco stopped, Sabicas
reentered the room and sat down. Paco played a little more – again just

54
plain vanilla flamenco - and then the party began to break up into conver-
sations and slowly people began to stand, socialize, pay their respects to
Sabicas and Paco, and ultimately leave the party. When Sabicas left, the
party was truly over. I might have thought Paco would play some more
and keep the party going, but it was clear that the party was over. The
energy had dissipated.

The Rude Guitarist

After everyone had left, the four of us still lingered. Juan, the guitarist,
had asked Paco to stay, and right in front of us he asked Paco (in Spanish,
of course) to ditch us – meaning René, his girlfriend and me – and come
to his home, which was nearby. Now, obviously René, who was Spanish,
understood what he was saying, but so did I. It was a pretty rude thing to
say in any case, especially right in front of us, as if we weren’t even there.
And of course Paco said, No. Están conmigo. “No, they are with me.”
I was quickly getting the idea that Juan was quite self-centered and
thought he was hot shit. I had no idea what Paco was thinking at the time,
but he allowed Juan to lead us outside, where we followed him into the
frigid New York winter night, trudging for blocks through the snow-cov-
ered sidewalks and through a few narrow alleys until we finally arrived
at his home, a small, nondescript house. Fortunately, it was warm inside,
which at that point was the only thing I cared about. I had on several lay-
ers of winter clothing, but I had rarely experienced cold like that before.
Inside, Juan offered us some red wine and then proceeded to regale
Paco with some tales of his own, which I had tuned out. He ignored us
after the obligatory effort at hospitality, and he didn’t even ask us to sit
down. In his defense, I don’t think there were many chairs in the room,
and so we all were standing around while he did most of the talking.
After a short time, when he seemed to realize that he wasn’t getting
any real response from Paco – mostly monosyllabic answers and various
bland platitudes – he brought out one of Paco’s albums. If I remember
correctly, it was Fuente y Caudal. He asked Paco to inscribe it for him.
Escríbeme algo bueno. “Write something good for me.” Saying that, Juan
handed Paco the album cover and a ballpoint pen.
Paco placed the album on a nearby table and began to scribble on a
part of the cover where the writing would be distinctly visible, finally
signing his name with a flourish. I watched with a bit of disdain. I had
never asked for Paco’s autograph, except for when I met him, and that
was for my mother, and the time he paid me back by check, but that
didn’t count.

55
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

When Paco handed the album and pen back to Juan, he took it ea-
gerly and began reading Paco’s inscription. As I watched, his face went
through an amazing transformation from self-satisfaction to outright
horror. He read the inscription out loud, clearly in shock. Para Juan, el
hombre que menos me gusta en el mundo. “For Juan, the man I like least in
the world.”
Juan turned to Paco saying, “You can’t write this. You can’t…” He
quickly lapsed into incoherent muttering while he tried desperately to
rub out the inscription with a cloth, a sponge – whatever he could find,
but Paco had pressed hard into the album cover with the ballpoint pen.
That inscription was not ever going to disappear.
I had to stifle my laughter. I mean, I did feel a little empathy for poor
Juan, but he had brought it upon himself with his self-important, self-cen-
tered and rude behavior, and I saw this as his just desserts. It was Paco’s
way of sending a message, although I’m not sure the real meaning of it re-
ally sank in for Juan. At any rate, we didn’t stay much longer. We trudged
back out into the winter weather, leaving a crestfallen guitarist behind.
It was funny, cruel and sad all at once, but in some way I felt vindicated
that Paco obviously revered his friendships with me and René more than
some selfish, mediocre musician with delusions of being his friend.
The next day, I asked Paco why he had played such bland music with
Sabicas, but had played his unique and original music when Sabicas was
not present. He said, “Out of respect.” Then he elaborated.
“Sabicas is the master. He came before me. He paved the way. Out of
respect, I would not show him up in front of others. It is respect for my
elders, which is the Spanish tradition.”
As a young American, I had no concept of respect for elders. My gen-
eration had rebelled against authority and our parents. We had pushed
boundaries in the ‘60s, and I had been part of that movement. What Paco
said had a profound effect on me. I realized that rebellion and new ideas
were important, but so was respect for those who had come before us.
Once again, I learned an important lesson from Paco that has remained
with me ever since.

56
Traveling with Al

Al and I kept in touch after the “Mediterranean Sundance” recording

session, and in late 1977 he asked if I wanted to go to Spain with him to see
Paco. Of course I was all over it. Al said he had always wanted to visit Rio
de Janeiro, and would l like to go there first, and I was all over that, too.
In Rio, we had a pretty good time. Al wasn’t as adventurous as I was,
and stayed close to the hotel and the beach for the most part. I, on the
other hand, did some wandering around the city. I had recently had some
experience with gem cutting, including the faceting of precious emeralds,
so I decided to make a field trip to H. Stern & Co, one of the largest gem
dealerships in the world. I posed as a gem dealer in the U.S. who was
looking for some precious and semi-precious gems to import.
I was led into a high-ceilinged room completely walled in Brazilian
rosewood – a precious hardwood, and one that is used in most classical
guitars as well as “negras,” or hardwood flamenco guitars such as con-
cert guitarists like Paco played. Seeing huge walls of incredible rosewood
was mind-blowing, but I couldn’t help but wish that all that precious
rosewood was still growing in the forests, or at least being used to make
musical instruments instead of paneling.
I was presented with bags full of semi-precious, high-grade aquama-
rines, amethysts and topaz, plus trays full of high-quality emeralds. I did
purchase some of the aquamarines, which I later incorporated into a stained
glass window in my house, along with some amethysts. My little masquer-
ade was fun. It got me into the city and away from the tourist section.
While we were in Brazil, Al taught me a riff that he was working on
for his next album. It was really amazing playing this repetitive musical
sequence while Al improvised all around it. Quite a thrill.
One of the funniest things on the trip took place on our way to the air-
port as we departed for Spain. We were running close to the wire to catch
our plane, and the two-lane road was backed up for miles in our lane, with
sparser traffic in the other. On our side it was bumper-to-bumper as far as
the eye could see. Our taxi driver was apparently something of a daredevil,
though, and he was determined to get us to the airport on time. So he just
started speeding down the wrong lane at what seemed like the top speed

57
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

his taxi could manage. If another car came toward us, he would somehow
swerve out of the way or force his way into the original lane. Several times
I found myself tensing up as an oncoming car would get closer and closer
and our taxi would dodge it at far too close to the last second. However,
mostly I was calm. For some reason I had confidence that this guy knew
what he was doing…that nothing bad would happen. Al, on the other
hand, was white as a sheet, his hands gripping the seat. I had to laugh,
although at the time, I don’t know that he appreciated my sense of humor. I
still razz him about it occasionally to this day.

Madrid
Miraculously, we made it to the airport on time, and off we flew to Ma-
drid to see Paco. We met Paco at a recording studio, where he was laying
down some tracks. We stayed and watched the recording session until it
ended. It was amazing watching him work, and his engineer was incred-
ible, too. At one point, Paco hit a sketchy note in a blisteringly fast picado
run. After he had completed the take, he said that they would have to
do it again, but the engineer said, “I can punch it in. Just play that part
again.” He queued up the music and Paco played along with the previous
recording up through the point where the bad note was. Like a flash, the
engineer punched in and out again, capturing that one note in a cascade
of notes. When he played it back for us, that sketchy note was gone. There
was no trace of the switchover. Listening to it, you would never know
that it had been corrected. However, what happened next was a royal
mess. As Al reminded me, “We recorded a piece of mine, and if you can
remember the engineer completely F’d up the splicing of the 2-inch tape
so bad that Paco and I lost patience and abandoned finishing the track. I
eventually re- recorded both parts myself back in New York for my third
record Casino. The piece we attempted was “Fantasia Suite for 2 Guitars.”

Buying Guitars with Paco and Al

Al was interested in buying a flamenco guitar. He liked playing acoustic
as well as electric, but he only had steel string guitars. So Paco took us to
the guitar shop of the Conde brothers, the disciples of the great Domingo
Esteso. The Hermanos Conde (also expressed as Conde Hermanos) gui-
tars were the successors to Esteso’s legacy. Paco had a long-time loyalty
to the Conde Hermanos brand because when he was just getting his start,
they were the first ones to build him a custom guitar and give it to him.
Even though he was given many guitars in his career, he only played
Conde Hermanos guitars in concert.
Faustino Conde, the nephew and direct disciple of Domingo Esteso,
helped us personally, showing us the very best guitars they had in the
58
 Madrid: Paco and
Al jamming in the
recording studio.

59
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

shop at the time. The three of us – Paco, Al and I – sat roughly in a circle,
trying out guitars. I decided that since I was there, I might as well shop for
a great guitar, too. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to be shopping
for guitars with Paco and Domingo Esteso’s successor, and I wasn’t going
to pass it up. One of the guitars was especially sweet. The label inside said
that it was built in the Esteso shop in 1930, and the initials on it were D.E.
– Domingo Esteso himself. It was a tight guitar, in perfect shape and with
a beautiful sound. It was appropriate that Al would get to try each guitar
first, and Paco would sometimes play them for Al to listen. Al passed on
the 1930 Esteso, however, and once he did, I claimed it. It was really a sweet
guitar and, being an original Domingo Esteso, it was a piece of history.
What happened next was funny, and a little tense. Once I decided
that I wanted the guitar, Al became interested in it again. He started
making noises that he would like to try it again. He asked Paco to play
it again and said he wanted to buy it after all. But I wasn’t having it. I
said, “Al, you can afford any guitar you want. You passed on this one,
and I chose it. I’m not giving it up.” We went back and forth just a little,
but in the end Al gave up and chose another guitar. I was kind of sur-
prised at myself, because when I’m with musical giants like Paco and
Al, I tend to be in service to them whenever I can, but for once, I did
something for myself. Al did choose another guitar to his liking, and we
all walked out happy, although I remember that Al did make one more
offer on the Esteso after we walked out.
After a few days of hanging around and visiting, Al returned to New
York, but I stayed on a little longer. It was a real pity that the recording
Paco and Al did in the studio on that trip never got used.

Too Many Guitars

I was thinking of traveling to Sevilla to visit Pedro Bacán, who I had met
through my friend, Chris Carnes. By that time, I was also Pedro’s friend. I
remember going to see Charlie Chaplin’s The Dictator in Spanish with him
and his wife. The Dictator lampooned Hitler, who had been Franco’s ally,
and so this was the first time the people of Spain had been allowed to see
the movie. It had been banned during the Franco era. It was amazing how
they reacted to the movie with such applause and uproarious laughter.
I called Pedro from Madrid to see if he was there, as he sometimes
traveled to play in different places. Pedro knew I was interested in fla-
menco guitars, and he told me about an old guitar belonging to a family
in Lebrija, a small village south of Sevilla. The guitar had been in the fam-
ily for many years, but it had been a long time since anybody had played
it. The guitar had sat in a closet, unused, for more than a decade, and the

60
family was interested in selling it. For a fan of flamenco guitars, this kind
of discovery can be exhilarating. Many of my flamenco friends used to go
to pawn shops in the States, sometimes discovering extremely valuable,
rare flamenco guitars built by famous makers. Most often, the owners and
the pawn brokers knew nothing about flamenco guitars and treated them
like any run-of-the-mill folk guitar. Our friends were the envy of all of us
when they would discover such a rare treasure. The idea of an old fla-
menco guitar passed from one generation to another held the promise of a
great discovery. When Pedro asked if I was interested in seeing the guitar,
of course my answer was yes.
By the time I arrived in Sevilla, Pedro been to Lebrija and back to re-
trieve the guitar on the basis of possibly having a buyer for it. When I saw it,
I knew it was something special. It was definitely old. It had wooden tuning
pegs and a slightly smaller body than modern flamenco guitars.
The label inside indicated that it was from the “Violin and Guitar shop
of the widow of Manuel Ramírez.” You can see a picture of it on page 80.
I knew a bit about Manuel Ramírez. He was the brother of the famous
José Ramírez, who had started the Ramírez line. But, while Manuel didn’t
start a franchise, he did have two exceptional disciples – Domingo Esteso
and Santos Hernández. At that time, the Esteso line was still one of the fin-
est in Spain. As I have noted already, Paco de Lucia exclusively played the
Conde Hermanos guitars in concert. Santos Hernández, on the other hand,
was known as probably the greatest maker of flamenco guitars ever. He was
very secretive about his art and never took on disciples. His guitars were
played by many famous guitarists, both classical and flamenco.
Knowing that the guitar had been built after the death of Manuel
Ramírez (for the widow), it was likely that one of those two disciples had
built it, but which one? The answer was in front of us. There was one addi-
tional item stamped onto the label: the initials “S.H:” This old guitar was a
Santos! I decided to purchase the guitar, knowing that the initials S.H should
identify the guitar’s maker, but I wanted to get confirmation from the experts.
Flamenco guitar makers didn’t always stamp their initials on the
main label of the guitar, but traditionally, they would stamp their initials
on the inside of the guitar face. You needed a light and a mirror to see
those initials. I took the guitar to the Ramírez shop in Madrid to examine
it. We found the initials SH stamped on the underside of the guitar’s face
as I had hoped. It definitely was built by Santos Hernández.
The experts at Ramírez were able to help me further by pinning down
the approximate date when it must have been built. Manuel Ramírez died

61
in 1916, and his disciples continued to build guitars for his widow after
his death. Domingo Esteso set out on his own in 1917, but Santos Hernán-
dez continued to build guitars for the widow until 1920, placing the con-
struction date of my new guitar between 1916 and 1920. It’s amazing that
to this day it still has a rich, deep tone and plays very well, although the
fingerboard is somewhat narrower than that of more modern guitars and,
at nearly 100 years old, it must be handled carefully.
While I was at the Ramírez shop, I ran into a guitarist who knew Paco
personally. We got to talking and he made me an offer that I couldn’t
refuse. I’m not sure of his name after all these years. I think it was Pe-
dro. He was a minor professional…nobody famous, but still a working
flamenco guitarist living in Madrid. As a working professional, Pedro
was entitled to a custom-made, special Ramírez guitar. It was a once-in-
a-lifetime offer that Ramírez extended to professional players. It wasn’t a
gift, but it was a guitar made with special care – a “professional” guitar.
Pedro was actually at the Ramírez shop to pick up his once-in-a-lifetime
flamenco guitar, but because I was a friend of Paco’s, he offered to let me
buy it instead. I was embarrassed by the offer, which seemed overly gen-
erous. I told him that I wouldn’t feel right taking his one and only special
Ramírez, but he winked and told me that he could probably get them to
build another for him. He seemed confident about it.
The offer was too good to refuse. I had already bought the Domingo
Esteso and the Viuda de Manuel Ramírez by Santos Hernández, but this
was a great opportunity to get an exceptional Ramírez, which in Spain
would cost $1000, but in the States would instantly be worth at least
$3000 instantly. Not that I was considering selling it, but it was hard to
ignore the facts.
I was able to play the instrument at the Ramírez shop, and it was, as
advertised, a beast of a guitar. It was just amazing. It blew away the stan-
dard models that were available in the shop. I would have been a com-
plete idiot not to buy it. The problem was, now I had three guitars to take
back home with me. Traveling with one guitar had enough challenges.
Travelling with two highly valuable, irreplaceable guitars, including an
antique Santos and an original Esteso, was an even bigger challenge. But
traveling with three such guitars was simply impossible. I was reluctant
to ship any one of them, so I approached Paco. I knew that Paco was plan-
ning a trip to the States in just a couple of months, so I asked if he would
be willing to bring my Ramírez with him. He agreed. He tried the guitar
out, too, and pronounced it to be very special, indeed.

62
Albuquerque

The next time Paco came to the States after I had left my Ramírez in his
care, he was scheduled to play a gig in Albuquerque. Since he had no
concerts scheduled anywhere closer to the Bay Area, I flew to meet him
in Albuquerque. When I caught up with him, I asked about my Ramírez.
He shook his head and looked a little sorrowful. He apologized and told
me that he had forgotten to bring it. I was disappointed, but not overly
surprised, and I didn’t get upset. After all, I rarely asked favors of Paco,
and in my mind it was a bit presumptuous to ask him to carry my guitar
along with his own baggage and entourage. I figured that I would collect
it the next time I was in Spain.
In Albuquerque, I had come with a couple of friends and a brand-
new video camera. Personal video cameras were pretty rare in those days
in the ‘70s, but my friend Pierre had brought a very early VHS camera
from Japan, and ultimately sold it to me when he got bored with it. I
wanted very much to record Paco playing, because in those days there
just weren’t any ways to see him play other than in person.
The manager of the theater where Paco was playing was cooperative
because we were with Paco, but didn’t want us setting up in the audience.
He let us set up in the projection booth, however. The booth wasn’t as
close as I would have liked, but it offered a clear view of the stage, and
with the zoom we were able to get a decent recording although the sound
wasn’t great. It wasn’t anything professional, but it was the one and only
video of Paco playing that I had access to at the time.
Toward the end of the first half of the concert, Paco’s fake fingernail
flew off and landed somewhere among the seats. It was possible, but dif-
ficult, for Paco to replace the fake nail during the short intermission, but
that was what I found him working on when I went backstage. Remark-
ably, my friend Victor rewound the tape and was able to find the moment
where the fingernail had broken and flown into the audience. With the
tape as a guide, he actually located it among the seats. He brought the
nail backstage and offered it to Paco, who was effusive in his gratitude
and amazement at Victor’s resourcefulness.
It was now a simple process to reattach the fingernail with some glue
and sand off any rough edges. Flamenco guitarists are used to using dif-
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 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

ferent types of nail polish or fake nails because playing flamenco simply
wears your nails down if you don’t protect them somehow, so this was
mostly business as usual. But finding the nail that was already shaped
properly saved a lot of time and effort. Victor had saved the day, but that
was Victor. He loved solving problems and helping others.

The Wrong Ramírez

I returned to Spain later that year and went to visit Paco. I asked him
again about my Ramírez, and he said he’d go look for it in his attic. Paco
had a lot of guitars that had been gifts from major guitar makers, and
apparently he had more than one Ramírez like the one I had left with
him. So he came down with a Ramírez and I tried it out. It was not the
same guitar. I could tell. It simply didn’t have the touch and the sound
of the one I had left with him. He went and brought another down, and
this one, too, was inferior. At that point Paco said that these were the only
two Ramírez guitars he had, and that one of them had to be it. I think he
did allude to the fact that he might have other guitars “somewhere else,”
and so I was convinced that my guitar was among them. I remembered
at least part of the serial number of my guitar, and neither of the ones he
showed me matched it. I decided not to settle for an inferior guitar, even
though by “inferior” I was referring to some really fine guitars. They just
didn’t have the magic of the one I had bought.
My outward certainty was shaken by a lot of doubts, which I still
have to this day. Maybe I was wrong to refuse. Maybe I had idealized my
guitar, and one of the ones he showed me was mine. I could have mis-
taken the serial number... and even if neither them was mine, a Ramírez
in the hand is worth two in the attic – so to speak. I was being stubborn.
I even entertained the suspicion that Paco had realized how fantastic my
Ramírez was, and was trying to pawn off an inferior one on me, keeping
the good one for himself. In the end I said, “If you ever find mine, let me
know. I’m certain neither of these is mine.”
That’s where we left it. I never did get my Ramírez, and its fate re-
mains a mystery to me, but one that I know will never be solved. I never
brought up the subject again.

64
In Sevilla with Paco

I visited the wonderful city of Sevilla several times during my travels in

Spain, and on one of those occasions I had the opportunity to witness an
historical event – the wedding party of the famous flamenco duo, Lole y
Manuel.

Lole y Manuel
Lole y Manuel were a phenomenon in Spain from the moment they
recorded their first album, Nuevo Día. Lole, born Dolores Montoya Ro-
dríguez, was the daughter of a powerful, well-known gypsy singer who
went by the name La Negra. In fact, Lole’s whole family were flamenco
puro. When Lole hooked up musically with Manuel Molina Jiménez
in 1972, they became the force behind a new wave of modern flamen-
co. Their music was new, fresh and innovative. Manuel’s sparse and
rhythmic guitar playing, with its powerful, syncopated chords, was the
perfect accompaniment for Lole’s sultry voice. They were thought of as
“hippies” by some, but nobody could argue that the music they made
was beautiful, evocative and poetic, and it helped usher in a new “nue-
vo flamenco” movement.
Lole y Manuel appeared briefly in the 1987 film Siesta, starring El-
len Barkin. Their music was also featured in several films; their amazing
song, “Tu Mirá” was featured on the soundtrack of Quentin Tarantino’s
film Kill Bill: Vol. 2. The refrain of y tu mirá se me clava en los ojos como un
espa… (“Espa” is a typically Andalusian way to slur the word espada or
“sword.”) The meaning is, “and your gaze pierces my eyes like a sword.”
Their songs often featured very poetic lyrics full of beautiful imagery and
deep meaning.
(Although Lole and Manuel split up in 1980, they had a daughter,
Alba Molina, who inherited her parents’ talent and has become a huge
star and a fantastic flamenco singer like her mother.)
And so, one day in Madrid, Paco said, “I have been invited to the
wedding of Lole and Manuel, and I think that I must go. Do you want to
come to Sevilla with me?” Duh! A gypsy wedding with one of the greatest
living flamenco families? Are you kidding?

65
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

I remember entering a great open space and seeing nothing but Gyp-
sies standing around drinking red wine, smoking, singing, dancing, play-
ing. Where the men were dressed in gray and black and the older widows
in traditional black, the younger women were like flowers, bursting with
color, their hair done up with ornate combs and flowers. Some of Lole’s
family and friends were sitting as a group, singing enthusiastically and
joyfully. Guitarists were playing, including the fabulous young guitarist,
Raimundo, whom Paco had once told me was his favorite new guitarist.
The scene was magical, and I could tell that Paco was as entranced by
it as I was. This was the real deal. No performance for anyone but them-
selves, just unbridled joy in the expression of their musical heritage. From
time to time, somebody would step out and dance for a while, and the
jaleo (shouting and encouragement) would rise to a new level.
Of course, Paco was greeted warmly by many, but he wasn’t mobbed
as I had expected. Sometimes the greeting was warm, but slightly formal.
He was greeted briefly by both Lole and Manuel, and I was introduced to
them, too. We heard La Negra sing, and it was like going back a hundred
years into the heart of flamenco. I was in flamenco heaven when Paco
leaned in close and said, “We have to leave now.” And I was thinking,
but these are Gypsies. This party is just getting started… because Gypsies
were notorious for partying for days at a time... or until the wine ran out.
I wanted to stay and soak in the experience. But Paco repeated, “We have
to leave now before they kick us out.”
I knew that non-Gypsies were not allowed at certain aspects of a
Gypsy wedding, in particular the showing the bloody sheet. The tradition
was that the matrons would enter the marriage chamber and recover the
sheet, which should be stained with blood to prove that the bride had
been a virgin at the time of consummation. This was a long, deep-rooted
tradition, and only Gypsies were allowed to witness it. I was clearly not
a Gypsy (despite some marketing hype that my mother had cooked up
in her biography as a flamenco dancer), and neither was Paco, who was
actually half Spanish and half Portuguese.
Still, I didn’t want to leave yet. It wasn’t even near dark yet. I said,
“Couldn’t we stay a little longer?”
Paco replied, “No. It’s best that we leave before they are put in the posi-
tion of asking us to leave. It would be…uncomfortable for me and for them.”
Paco was revered in Spain, but not being a Gypsy was seen by some
as a deficiency. I had even heard a few people criticize him for not being
pure Spanish. They would say, “He plays very well, but his flamenco is
not authentic. He is only half Spanish.” (or, “He is not a Gypsy.”)

66
 Paco was aware of the criticisms, and for the most part they didn’t
concern him too much, but on the subject of Gypsies in particular, I think
he did have a sore spot. He was aware that flamenco was the art of the
Gypsies and that he could never be one of them. Many Gypsies loved
him, but still, he was not universally accepted and it was an impossibility
for him ever to be one of them.
To me, having been exposed to the music of many of the original
Gypsy performers, I always thought that I could feel Paco’s music in my
heart, whereas the Gypsy music tended to hit me right in the gut – vis-
ceral and intense. Gypsy flamenco could feel like a party or a tragedy.
It could alternate between wild joy and intense suffering. Paco’s music
always felt uplifting and full of grace, lyrical, perfect and in some ways
pristine. Gypsy music was often raw, sometimes unpolished, and im-
mensely human. When Paco played, it often seemed like something more
than human; it was pure genius. Fortunately, I never had to decide which
was better. The old time flamenco and the places that Paco took the art are
both a part of my flamenco soul.
So when Paco said we had to leave, I did understand what he was
saying, not only in respect to Gypsy tradition, but in recognition, once
again, that he was not one of them. I understood now why it was nec-
essary to make a gracious retreat long before the moment arrived when
we would no longer be welcome. I did ask him if it was because of me,
and if I left, could he stay, but he said no. He said that he was no more a
Gypsy than I was, and they would have kicked him out, too, when the
time came. And so, reluctantly, I left with Paco with the sounds of voices,
guitar chords and clapping following us for a while down the street.

Camarón
It was late in the afternoon when we left the wedding ceremony, and Paco
led me silently through the streets of Sevilla as if he had a destination in
mind, but he didn’t tell me where we were headed. I didn’t care. I was
full of flamenco rhythms, the Sevillian sunshine and Paco’s company. It
was a perfect time.
We came to an old wooden doorway, which led into a courtyard. Paco
opened the door and peered in. Sitting in the courtyard were three young
men, and one of them was singing a mournful flamenco song in a slightly
hoarse voice, while one of the others was playing guitar. The third was
clapping to the rhythm. When they saw Paco, they stopped. Paco said
hello to Camarón de la Isla, who now sported a full beard and long hair.
He looked tired.

67
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

Paco and Camarón were linked in history. Like Paco, Camarón was
a prodigy, a singer who as just a boy could rend your heart with his voice
and his uncanny depth of understanding of the nuances of flamenco cante
(song). In many ways, Paco and Camarón made each other, because the
early albums they made together were revered throughout Spain and
helped introduce these two geniuses to the flamenco world. Almost all
of their recordings were billed on the album covers as Camarón de la Isla
con la colaboración especial de Paco de Lucia. “Camarón de la Isla with the
special collaboration of Paco de Lucia.” This always struck me as quite
an odd way to bill the two, as it seemed to indicate that the album was
Camarón’s, with Paco was a guest star of sorts. But musically, it was clear
that what they recorded was a true collaboration of two geniuses of their
respective arts – voice and guitar weaving a tapestry of musical brilliance.
Our meeting with Camarón was awkward. They talked for a few
minutes – mostly small talk like, “How have you been?” “Fine. You?”
“Life goes on.” That kind of thing. I could tell that there was something
missing... something not expressed. I knew Paco too well not to notice
his discomfort. After only a few minutes during which we had barely
ventured past the doorway, we turned away and began walking again. I
hadn’t said a word, nor had Paco introduced me. As we walked away, I
could tell that Paco was suffering.
“That was Camarón,” he said. “It is very sad. He has gotten into hero-
in and the wrong people. He is letting everything go. I love Camarón, and
it breaks my heart to see him like this.” And for the next half hour or so,
we just walked and said nothing more.
Paco and Camarón recorded their first collaboration album in 1969,
and their last was in 1976, but their friendship, which at one time had
been very close, became estranged. Camarón died in 1992 of lung cancer,
which was something Paco mourned on one of his albums where he not
only played, but sang about his feelings about the great singer who had
been his friend. On that sunny day in Sevilla in the mid ‘70s, his mourn-
ing seemed already to have started.

68
Algeciras

On one of my trips to Madrid, Paco asked me if I would like to visit his

hometown, Algeciras. He was thinking of taking a week-long holiday at
the beach with another friend named Victor, who was half of a very fa-
mous pop duo named Victor y Diego. Of course I said yes, and we drove
from Madrid down south to Algeciras. I’m pretty sure that Victor did the
driving, because, as I’ve previously noted, Paco was wild and might not
have had a driver’s license at the time.
I don’t remember much about the drive itself, but when we arrived
in Algeciras, we were greeted by a trio of guys whom Paco introduced to
us as his childhood friends. He later told me that he considered them to
be his only true friends, because they had first known him, not as Paco
de Lucia, but by his real name, Francisco Sánchez Gomez. I found myself
wondering what that made me, but by that time, I knew that my relation-
ship was Paco was a real friendship – that I was more than just a friend,
but family.
Over the years, I’ve forgotten a lot of things, names especially, and so
I don’t remember the names of Paco’s childhood friends, but I will never
forget my experiences with them – one of them, in particular.
We arrived in the afternoon and, after doing the greeting thing,
we went to drop off stuff at Paco’s “house” in Algeciras. I am being
very generous calling it a house, but that’s what Paco called it. In real-
ity, his “house” was a bare concrete structure just off the beach which
contained one room with six single beds, and a sort of entryway with a
laundry-style sink featuring a short hose. I also remember a small, funky
bathroom off the “bedroom.”
This spartan structure was right next door to a real home where
Paco’s brother Ramon lived. So Paco would sleep in his “house” and then
go next door to mooch off his brother. It was an arrangement that seemed
to work for everybody, somehow.
The schedule we fell into over the few days we were there was
like this: The nights were spent at a local bar, where Paco, Victor, some
of Paco’s friends, and I, would sit and talk and drink. Somewhere in
the course of the evening we’d have dinner, though I can’t remember
anything about dinner. There was sometimes music and dancing at the
69
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

clubs, but we never danced and generally paid little attention to the
music. During those long nights, I often nursed a scotch on the rocks
for hours because I had learned long ago that trying to drink with these
guys didn’t work out all that well for me.
For the first night or two, I also found that I didn’t understand much
of what they were saying, so I got very bored and started staring at
various things, like a ring I was wearing, or the drops of water dripping
down my glass. At one point, I asked Paco to translate some of what they
were saying. He taught me about four slang expressions, mostly bor-
derline obscene, and from then on I understood most of what they were
saying. Those four regional slang expressions seemed to constitute about
75% of their conversations.
We would leave the bar at something like 7am and head back to
Paco’s place to sleep. I could only manage to sleep until about noon, but
the others slept until about 3 or 4pm. I had time to wander around the
beach and read some. I was also, as the days wore on, more and more
sleep deprived. Once Paco and Victor were awake, we walked over to
Ramon’s house where his wife fed us toast with lard on it. I had never
had lard before, and, being tired and not feeling very well, I had to force
myself to try it. Fortunately, it wasn’t bad at all. But that was breakfast,
along with some coffee. I could have used more, but I stayed with the
program – Paco’s program.
To make matters worse, the rest of the afternoon was spent drinking
the Spanish version of a wine cooler and playing soccer on the beach. At
one point, Paco told me to go out waist deep into the surf so he and his
friends could kick the soccer ball at me as if I were a goalie. Of course,
having no experience as a goalie was the first strike against me, and
standing waist deep in water that was surging in and out were strikes
two and three. They thought it was very funny watching me hopelessly
try to block their kicks, but fortunately they tired of it and I was allowed
to return to the beach and pretend that they hadn’t pissed me off.
There was food somewhere in all this. I remember some cheese and
bread in the afternoon, and then it was off to the bar again. Again, there
must have been dinner at some point, but I don’t remember where it fit
in. For Paco, this was a vacation, but for me, it was mostly boring.
One highlight of the trip was when a group of teenagers recognized
Paco and Victor and came crowding around, asking for autographs. Paco
was easily recognized, and apparently so was Victor, who wore his long,
wavy black hair over his high forehead, a thick black mustache and round
black-rimmed glasses.

70
 Paco and I came up with the idea of pretending that I was a member
of Santana’s band, and so I was also signing autographs. It was pretty
dumb, but kind of fun to get to experience the star treatment. One of the
older kids was skeptical and said that I didn’t look like any of Santana’s
band, but I replied that Santana had recently changed a lot of band mem-
bers, which was true, and that I was one of the new ones. He reluctantly
accepted that explanation, especially considering that Paco was reinforc-
ing the story. I suppose I could feel ashamed to some degree, but I think
all those kids got a good thrill out of it, and I doubt anyone will ever care
about my autograph when they have Paco’s.
Another highlight – or perhaps low light – of the story had to do with
Paco’s childhood friends – one in particular. He was a large, hulking guy
who from our first meeting seemed to take a shine to me. He was always
talking to me, putting his arm around my shoulder as we walked and
being very intimate. It seemed as if he was coming on to me, but never
overtly enough for me to be sure. This went on for several days, and as
my sleep deprivation increased, so did my forbearance. At one point,
he was harassing me as we walked down the street next to a high wall
made up of what looked like cinderblocks. I don’t remember what I said,
but it was probably something like, Basta! (“Enough!”) Then I lashed out
a karate-style side kick at the wall next to us. To my surprise, the wall
actually teetered a little, and for an instant I was afraid it was going to
fall. That might have done wonders for my legend with Paco, but I’m not
sure what the consequences would have been. As it was, Paco, who was
walking just ahead of us, turned around as I yelled, just in time to see my
surprising kick. He could see that I was furious. He knew me well, and
understood that I was emotional about something.
Paco came and led me away from the group. Still fuming, I told him
how I had been frustrated and tired of what seemed to be his friend
coming on to me for the past three days. “They are just joking with you,”
he said. “My friends have a very strange sense of humor. Come. Let’s go
back and join the others.” And so I went back, and his friend, who had
been harassing me since day one, came up and, smiling, said he hadn’t
meant anything, but was just messing with me. Ok? We shook hands and
he pretended to embrace me again, then laughed. And I lightened up,
realizing that I was just being tested a bit. And, in fact, they were all quite
impressed by my kick, which had also surprised the heck out of me, and
so it all ended quite well, with us all laughing about it.
The kick? Yes, it surprised Paco, and I think in a good way. Even
years later, Paco delighted in telling the story of me kicking the wall in
Algeciras. He would always say, Muy poderoso! “Very powerful!”

71
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

Our soujourn in Algeciras ultimately came to an end, and when we

finally piled into Victor’s car to begin our return trip, that same guy who
had been messing with me came up to see us off. I was sitting in the back
seat and the window was part-way open. Paco’s friend lifted up his pelvis
and pulled out his cock and balls, sticking them into the open part of the
window. This time, I had to laugh. It was gross, but it was how these guys
were, and it told me a lot about how Paco was. Thankfully we started to
drive off right then, leaving Paco’s friends and their genitals behind.

72
The Montoya Show

The next year I returned to Sevilla, and among my most memorable

experiences was a show put on by Lole’s family, including her mother,
Antonia “La Negra” Montoya, her husband Juan and his sister Carmen,
Carmen’s husband Manuel “El Morito” and Carmelilla, their daughter,
plus a whole cast of young ones.
The show was put on in an historic theater in Sevilla and was pre-
sented in two parts. The first half of the show depicted a Gypsy village
on stage. There were traditional Gypsy tents, a fire pit, and people on
stage weaving baskets and doing other tasks that were part of Gypsy life.
Meanwhile, members of the family would dance and sing in a well-cho-
reographed, though seemingly spontaneous series of performances. The
first performance featured a five-year-old girl, one of the youngest in
the family, coming out and dancing an amazing bulerias with her family,
including Lole and La Negra, doing palmas (clapping) and yelling encour-
agement behind her. It was astounding. She was great, and demonstrated
an incredible mastery of the art. Lole and La Negra and others sang and
Carmelilla, who might have been 18 at the time, danced beautifully and
dramatically. The two guitarists were powerful and everything about the
show was amazing.
I had been invited to hang out backstage, and so I got to spend time
with the family. I didn’t take many pictures, however. I really didn’t want to
act like a tourist as I mingled with this Gypsy family, snapping pictures of
them instead of just being among them... with the exception of the younger
kids, who flocked to me and posed and mugged for the camera.
I went backstage during the intermission, but at one point I had to use
the bathroom, which was through the lobby on the far end of the theater.
Now, I knew firsthand how much Spaniards smoked. In fact, it was custom
to offer a cigarette to others if you were going to smoke, and since I didn’t
smoke, I would decline, which caused great confusion. “You don’t smoke?
That is very strange,” they would say with a certain judgment in their tone of
voice. It was somewhat inconceivable that someone who was in their compa-
ny didn’t smoke. In fact, the only time I accepted a cigarette was when Paco
introduced me to a famous matador and his protégé. The protégé offered me
a cigarette, and I decided that one time that it would look bad for Paco if I
said no, so I accepted a cigarette and smoked some of it for appearances.
73
On these pages are the front
cover and inside pages of the
program for the Montoya
family’s show and pictures of
the Montoya kids mugging
for the camera.

74
75
 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

Back to the concert at intermission. Inside the theater proper, smoking

was not allowed – a pretty modern stance in the late ‘70s in Spain – but
in the lobby area, it was permissible. So when I exited the backstage area
into the public area I was greeted by what looked like a volcanic eruption
– the result of a few hundred Spaniards who had been denied the oppor-
tunity to smoke for more than an hour. I was afraid I would get lung can-
cer just getting to the other side where the bathrooms were. The smoke
was so heavy that it was hard to see, and it seemed that every single
person in the lobby area had a cigarette in their hands or in their mouths.
It was astonishing. I tried to hold my breath as long as I could.
Fortunately, I survived the round trip and made it safely back, and
soon after it was time for the second half of the concert. During this half,
the Gypsy village set had been cleared. Now the main performers sat in
chairs against a black background. It was stunning in its simplicity, and
once again, the Montoya family simply took over with their powerful
singing and dancing, with the guitars’ driving rhythms behind it all and
beautiful dancing by Carmelita.
This was one of the best flamenco concerts I have ever seen. I felt so
fortunate to have been there, and even more so to have spent time with
the artists.

Los Montoyas
Shortly after that concert, the Montoya family came out with an album that
featured La Negra, Lole and Raimundo Amador (who wasn’t part of the
family, but might as well have been), along with other family members.
It was an amazing album. On the first side were several strong, powerful
pieces of pure flamenco playing and singing. The entire B side was one con-
tinuous flamenco party so full of energy and authenticity that you almost
felt as if you were there. In fact, shortly after the album was released I was
visiting Paco at his home, and he pulled out the record and started playing
the B side so we could listen to it together, and then he grabbed his guitar
and started improvising with it. I had never seen Paco do anything of the
sort before, and I enjoyed every moment of it. It was clear that Paco felt the
music and was inspired by the atmosphere of a genuine flamenco party.
You could hear the yelling, the clapping, the singing and guitar, and also
the taconeo, the beating of the dancers’ feet as they pounded out the rhythm
of flamenco. It remains one of my absolute favorite flamenco albums.

Raimundo
Paco had once told me about a guitarist he had run into by accident one
time in the Barrio Santa Cruz area of Sevilla, where the young guitarist

76
had been playing and passing the hat. He said, “Raimundo is my favorite
new guitarist. Very, very good.”
Later, I got to meet Raimundo Amador, the guitarist Paco had men-
tioned, and who I’d heard play with the Montoya family. He was, indeed,
a powerful young guitarist, with emphasis on young. With my friend
Chris, we went to visit with him and pass along Paco’s best wishes.
Raimundo was extremely talented, modern, and full of enthusiasm.
He was a fan, not only of the great flamenco guitarists, but of Chick Cor-
reia, Herbie Hanckock, Bob Dylan and Frank Zappa. He definitely had a
vision of a new flamenco movement, and what he wanted more than any-
thing was a Les Paul electric guitar. Part of me wanted to say, “I can get
you one,” but another part of my mind selfishly thought, “No. Don’t ruin
him. He should be playing and evolving flamenco, not playing electric
guitar.” I always like to help others, and it’s a special feeling to be able to
fulfill someone’s dreams, but I shuddered to think of the loss to flamenco.
As it happened, Raimundo didn’t need my help. He ended up start-
ing a band called Veneno (poison), which broke up after moderate suc-
cess, and then started the band Pata Negra, which had great success and
recorded six albums between 1981 and 1995. In these bands, Raimundo
and his brother Rafael explored the fusion of flamenco, pop and blues,
and became among the top groups of the nuevo flamenco movement.

77
Top Ten Flamenco Guitarists

After my first professional success interviewing Carlos Montoya for Gui-

tar Player Magazine, I decided to propose another article, this one consist-
ing of interviews with ten top flamenco guitarists in Spain. They liked
the idea, (perhaps especially because I was traveling on my own dime, so
there were no expenses to cover). So, in 1978 I flew to Spain on a mission.
Of course, I started with Paco, who also opened some doors for me to
interview other guitarists, and I ended up doing ten interviews with top
guitarists of the time, including Manolo Sanlúcar, Pedro Bacán, Paco Cep-
ero, Serranito, Enrique Melchor, and Paco’s brother, Ramon de Algeciras.
I also interviewed Manuel Molina (Manuel from Lole y Manuel) and the
young hotshot, Raimundo Amador. Finally, I interviewed Agustine Rios,
whose uncle was the influential guitarist from Moron de la Frontera, Di-
ego del Gastor. Agustine was living in the San Francisco area at the time.
Also through Paco, I met Amalia, a young photographer who accom-
panied me and took all the pictures of guitarists in the Madrid area. (I
took the rest of the pictures.) I didn’t know this at first, but Amalia was
the daughter of José Ramírez III, who ran the Ramírez guitar family busi-
ness. At that time, Ramírez was arguably the most famous guitar brand
in the world among classical players, and boasted a who’s who of famous
players, including the most famous of all – Andrés Segovia. Many flamen-
co guitarists also prized the Ramírez line.
I liked Amalia a lot. She was really fun to hang out with, and I had
a casual fantasy about marrying her because, well… guitars. The closest
I got to that was beating her at arm wrestling, which clearly wasn’t very
close. Still, she was a fine photographer and a friend and guide for the
short time we spent together. No free guitars, though. (I learned later that
Amalia joined the Ramírez company officially soon after I met her and
today is running it. Go figure.)

78
Máximo Moreno

At the time I was doing my interviews for the magazine article, Paco had
just completed his album of Manuel de Falla’s music, which was set in a
double album with a stunning cover. On one side it showed a very realis-
tic drawing of Paco’s left hand holding a chord. The back image was his
right hand over the sound hole of a guitar. Inside the fold was a drawing
of Paco and de Falla. I loved the images, especially those of Paco’s hands,
and I asked him about the artist. Paco told me that they had been drawn
by Máximo Moreno, who lived in Madrid. With Paco’s help, I arranged
to visit Máximo in his studio. I was astounded to learn how many album
covers he had done over the years, including one of my favorites, Lole y
Manuel’s second album, Pasaje del Agua, a double album featuring some
amazing artwork that extended across the entire front and back.
I told him how much I loved his work, and he offered to sell me the
three original colored pencil drawings for Paco’s album, as well as the
original artwork for Pasaje del Agua. He also pulled out a detailed draw-
ing in shades of gray, showing Paco’s face inside the sound hole of a
guitar with the strings of the guitar in the foreground. He said it had been
intended for one of Paco’s albums, but the publishers decided not to use
it. I understood why. It made it look as if Paco was in jail inside the guitar,
and knowing how Paco sometimes felt trapped by his responsibility as
a guitar virtuoso, I knew that there was some accuracy to the image. I
knew, also, that it would make a depressing album cover. However, I
bought all four pieces, and Máximo ripped a beautifully and realistically
drawn onion from a sketch pad and threw that in for good measure.
To this day, I have tried, through many moves and changes of climate,
to preserve these rare images. One day, I’d like to find a good home for
them that would further honor my love of flamenco, and especially Paco.

79
 More Pictures

My Barba My Santos

The Santos label

With Paco’s wife Casilda in Albuquerque

Interviewing Carlos Montoya. His wife, Dinner at El Greco with Curro, Carlos Mon-
sister and Rosa Montoya in the foreground. toya, his wife and sister, and Rosa Montoya.
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Belly Dance Music

My 1978 trip to interview guitarists turned out to be my last time in Spain.

Somehow I never made it back after that. In part this was because I sold my
house in 1980 and moved to Maui, Hawaii, where I lived until 1991. I still
made it back to the Mainland a few times to see Paco when he was playing
in the Bay Area, but the trip from Maui to Spain was both too long and too
expensive for me. In addition, I was starting my professional career as a
writer, and it seemed that my “flamenco days” were slowly fading out.
In the late ‘70s, I did some recording with an Iranian kanun (or qanun)
player named Jalal. We had first met when I was purchasing a kanun from
him. The kanun is a fascinating instrument that is played flat on the lap,
or on a stand, and consists of multiple courses of nylon strings. There are
multiple bridges that sit on a skin base (similar to a banjo in some ways),
and along the opposite edge are various metal tabs that can be flipped up
or down to alter the tuning of each individual course of strings. The kanun
has a distinctive sound and, with its ability to change tunings while play-
ing, it can play the various quarter tones that are part of Arabic music,
and even change scales while playing.
During our visit with Jalal to purchase the kanun, my friend Freddie
and I played some flamenco and an original duet I had composed. In those
days, we were always ready to play given any excuse. Jalal liked my play-
ing and asked me if I would consider recording on one of his albums. I had
a lot of hesitation because I didn’t know any Middle Eastern music, and be-
cause it is very difficult to play the subtle quarter tones used in many of the
Arabic scales, especially on a nylon-stringed guitar. But Jalal shrugged off
my concerns and told me that he could teach me the songs and that there
were plenty of them that didn’t require quarter tones.
On the first of two albums on which I recorded with Jalal, I composed
an original piece of music that used a flamenco tango rhythm, but for the
solo section I wanted to use some music that Paco had recorded on one of
his albums. I probably should have sought permission from his recording
label, but instead I just called Paco and said, “Hey Paco. I’m recording on
a belly dance album, and I want to use some of your tango falsetas.” He
said, “That’s great. No problem.” It was no easy task to play Paco’s music
and make it sound as good as he did, but the piece came out pretty well.

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 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

My tango was very complex. I had layered in several other instru-

ments, and mixing it later on was difficult. It happened that Al Di Meola
was in town, and I called him up and asked if he’d like to come to the
studio and help us with the mixing. He was fresh off the release of Elegant
Gypsy, which not only featured “Mediterranean Sundance,” but also was
one of the best produced albums of the year. With Al’s help, we wrangled
my tango piece into shape. It was a real gift having Al’s ear and knowledge
to help us with the task, and I’ve always been grateful for his generosity.
In 1980, just before I moved to Maui, I recorded again with Jalal. This
time it was a double album and I co-produced it. I brought in some talent-
ed musicians for this album, including a great sitar player named Krishna
Bhatt, my friends Solomon and Armando, and Rosa Montoya. I composed
a buleria that was all original and ended with a rendition of a traditional
Middle Eastern song. It was, without doubt, the peak of my flamenco
career, and I recorded it while sick as a dog.
While waiting for the microphones to be placed and everything to be
set up for me to begin playing, I was bent forward, literally hanging over
my guitar, barely able to sit up. My girlfriend (soon to be wife) Marsha
was plying me with herbal teas. Then, when it came time to perform this
long, complicated and challenging piece of music, I played it flawlessly,
with just one flubbed note early on. It was pretty astounding that I was
able to play it nearly perfectly while I was so sick, but somehow I nailed it.
We decided to try to punch in the one wrong note, which occurred
near the beginning, and so I began playing from the beginning again.
We passed the point where the bad note had been, but I just kept play-
ing through the entire piece, just as flawlessly as the first time. In fact,
the second take was so perfect that we ended up keeping both takes and
achieved a unique sound with the guitar doubled. With the one bad note
dropped just at the right time, the rest of the notes were so nearly perfect
that you couldn’t really tell that it was two different recordings of the
same music. The doubling added a new dimension to the sound. After-
ward, we added clapping (me and Rosa), some dancing and several other
instruments to the end part of the song, including more guitar by me,
kanun from Jalala, dumbek by Armand and sitar by my friend Krishna. I
called the piece “Gracia” (Grace).
Soon after recording and mixing the double album, I left for Maui
where I was to live for the next 11 years.

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Maui

Marsha and I settled down on Maui, where we bought a small house in

Haiku, partway up the dormant volcano that was Haleakala. I still played
flamenco and classical guitar, but it was just about at that time that I be-
gan to work with computers, and soon I was writing product reviews – at
first for free, and later for money. Over the years, my career as a technical
writer and product reviewer grew and began to take over my life. I also
studied with and became friends with the great writer, Theodore Stur-
geon. Over the course of three years, Ted taught me about writing and
told endless stories about my favorite science fiction writers, all of whom
he knew personally.
I had stopped traveling to Spain, and so I saw far less of Paco, but I
did manage to make it back to the Mainland a few times when he was
playing, and for one wonderful week, he came to me.

Spreading the Word

On one of my trips to Spain, I had purchased numerous copies of Fuente y
Caudal and Almoraima, and I was in the habit of giving them away to peo-
ple to share Paco’s music. Today, a simple search of Paco’s name will turn
up tons of YouTube performances and more, but in those days, turning
people on to Paco’s work was more of a person-to-person exercise.
I had a couple of friends who were flamenco dancers who also lived on
Maui, and together we sometimes performed at parties and in public places.
When Chris Carnes was visiting, he would join us. One day, we were play-
ing in a mall in Lahaina when a man walked by, stopped, and listened until
we had finished playing. The man was George Benson. George lived on
Maui at the time and had a house nearby. George was a very nice man, and
he appreciated our performance, even if it wasn’t world class. I guess it was
because we were sincere and the only flamenco game in town, so to speak.
On another occasion, I was playing with my friend Chris Carnes and
we ran into George again. This time, he asked us to come to his house
and visit sometime, and later in the week we took him up on the offer. I
brought a copy of Almoraima with me and asked George if he’d like to hear
it. Of course he was curious. He had never heard of Paco at the time. So I
handed the album to him and he placed it on the most expensive-looking
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turntable I had ever seen. I’m sure it was worth thousands of dollars. His
speakers were equally impressive, and so the house was soon filled with
the dynamic sounds of Paco’s playing. After the title cut, George stopped
the music and looked at me in wonder. His mind was completely blown,
and he told us that he had never heard anything like it. Of course, I had
brought the record as a gift, and so I left it with him to enjoy.
Later in that visit, he told us some of his stories and even played
guitar and sang for us. His voice was amazing... soft and rich, quiet and
simultaneously full. His wife and kids came in and we had a wonderful
time with all of them.
Chris and I visited George another time when he was having a party.
He asked us to play some flamenco, which we did. There was a beautiful
young woman at the party who asked me to come over. She told me how
much she had enjoyed the music and asked if I might want to come over
and visit her while she was on the island, handing me a piece of paper
with her phone number on it. The woman was Maureen McCormack,
who had played Marsha Brady on The Brady Bunch. I was flattered, but
unfortunately never made it over to pay her a visit. Too bad.

The Trio
Meanwhile, Paco had begun playing with John McLaughlin and Larry
Coryell, who was soon replaced by Al Di Meola to form the famous Guitar
Trio. When I heard that they were going to play in San Francisco in Decem-
ber of 1980, I decided to fly back to hear them and to see Paco and Al. I had
not heard the trio yet, but I knew they would be something special, even
as I worried that playing jazz fusion might take Paco too far away from his
flamenco roots. I was worried that he would stop composing the amazing
solo guitar pieces that he had produced in Fuente y Caudal and Almoraima,
which I thought of as the pinnacle of solo guitar composition.
And so I was in the audience and backstage that night at the Warfield
Theater in San Francisco when they recorded the now legendary album,
Friday Night in San Francisco. I don’t remember spending a lot of time with
Paco, but I do remember him telling me how difficult and stressful it was
playing with Al and John. Before the gig in San Francisco, the trio had
played various concerts in Europe, getting used to each other and refining
their collaboration. But for Paco, it was hell. He talked about having head-
aches and backaches and breaking out in hives from the anxiety of trying
to play with these improvisational masters.
Flamenco is not an improvisational art when performed live. Al-
though singers may vary aspects of the song, dancers and guitarists gen-

84
erally stick to a very practiced and precise performance. From Paco’s own
website: “Flamenco is not improvised: everything is carefully rehearsed.
Every falseta, every step of the dance, although it may appear sponta-
neous is based on conscientious preparation.” Of course, in parties, danc-
ers and singers especially may improvise, but even then they are impro-
vising along known elements of the art. In the hierarchy of flamenco, the
singer is at the top, the dancer second, and the guitarist third. Guitarists
must follow the changes of the singer and the steps of the dancer. When a
guitarist plays a solo, it is almost always based on falsetas that have been
practiced again and again. The only improvisational part sometimes in-
volves playing the practiced falsetas in different order or randomly.
Paco had somewhat varied from the fixed nature of flamenco with
“Entre Dos Aquas.” Although the structure of the piece never varied, Paco
often improvised a bit when he played it, so that often when he performed
it there were subtle differences. But to improvise in the way that he had
on “Mediterranean Sundance,” and later with the trio, was entering an
extremely unfamiliar realm. Imagine learning to drive for the first time be-
hind the wheel of a high-powered Ferrari, going 200 miles per hour along a
twisting, changing road. That was Paco’s challenge, and it took a toll.
Despite Paco’s anxiety, he more than held his own. Lacking training and
harmonic knowledge, his innate musicianship and incredible finger tech-
niques gave his solos a particular power and distinctively flamenco sound,
and the audiences always cheered when he played. For me, listening to
him play with Al and John, I always had a feeling of anticipation, like I had
experienced during the recording sessions on “Mediterranean Sundance.” I
heard him occasionally hit a note that I was pretty sure he hadn’t intended,
but somehow he never let that wrong note remain wrong. He adjusted and,
to those who didn’t know him, it sounded intentional. I knew he was some-
times struggling, but I don’t think many in the audience knew it.
That was the first time I saw the Guitar Trio, but definitely not the last.
I remember making another trip to the Bay Area to see Paco a year or
so later. At the time, Marsha and I had been separated for about six weeks.
Our relationship had taken a wrong turn somewhere and I wasn’t sure I
wanted to go back. But when I told her that I was going to see Paco, she
begged me to bring her along. We weren’t enemies, by any means, and so I
said she could go, but I didn’t hold out any hope of reconciliation.
What happened next was remarkable. When we got on the plane,
even before it started taxiing for takeoff, the magic returned between us.
Suddenly, our six week separation was history and we were back in love
with each other.

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We stayed at my father’s house, where my stepmother Elaine was asking

us about children. She was very family oriented and she wanted me to create
a family of my own. She even put a doll on the bed she had made up for us,
which in retrospect, we both believe was some kind of voodoo, because the
night of the concert we returned and conceived my son, Max. There was
no doubt about it. When we had separated, Marsha had removed her birth
control. I knew that and so, before anything else happened, I said, “You
know you could get pregnant, right?” She said, “Yes.” “You’re all right with
that?” “Yes.” And so we had unprotected sex for the first and only time, and
bingo…Max became a part of the family. So I have both Elaine and Paco to
thank for it. I even gave Max the middle name Francisco in honor of Paco.

They Come to Maui

I don’t remember the year, but Paco, Al and John were scheduled to play
a concert in Honolulu. I believe their next stop was Japan, but they had
some extra time between concerts and they chose to spend several of their
free days in Hawaii before their Honolulu concert date. They decided
to come to Maui, in part perhaps because both Marcia and I were living
there. And so I got to hang out with all three of them for several days.
I remember that we spent time on the beach and just hanging around.
Meals were hilarious affairs in which Paco and John tended to tease Al a
lot. They had adopted a strange habit of placing a napkin on their heads
when somebody was telling a story. I believe that they were mimicking a
priest taking confession. They thought it was hilarious. I thought it was
funny and completely odd and even joined in a few times. Al, on the oth-
er hand, didn’t seem to appreciate the levity as much, and over the few
days we were together, I could see that the relationship between the three
was uneven. Paco and John adopted a European solidarity with each
other and often teased Al for his New Jersey attitudes. It was harmless on
the surface, but I could tell that it was getting to Al, and I assumed it had
been going on for some time.
Paco loved to fish, so we rented a boat and went deep sea fishing. It
was a lot of fun and I could tell that Paco was really shedding the pres-
sures of the tour and letting loose. It was great time, although I think we
only landed one medium sized tuna. It was enough though.
During their visit, I talked privately with both Al and Paco about the
tensions between them. Al shared how it hurt him, and how he tended
to isolate himself from the group more and more often. Paco said that
he understood how Al felt, but that they were just joking around and Al
shouldn’t take it so seriously. Al continued to visit Maui for years after-
ward, at least once a year, and we spent a lot of time together during those
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Fishing
off
the
Maui
Coast

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 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

visits. And although the official reasons given for the breakup of the trio
was about seeking different creative directions, I knew that there had been
tensions between them for years. Of course I wanted to make peace and to
support my friends, but to a great degree my deepest loyalties at the time
were with Paco, and I tried to spend as much time with him as I could.
One noteworthy moment of their visit was when we went over to
Honolulu on the day of their concert and visited Waikiki beach. At that
time, video games were still pretty crude, especially handheld types. This
was before Nintendo came out with Game Boy, and so handheld electron-
ic games were simple LCD black and white button pressers. Each little
unit played just one simple game. During the time I spent with the three
of them, I occasionally saw one or the other of them whip out one of those
games and start playing in a slow moment. However, that day at Waikiki,
all three of them pulled out their little handheld games and started play-
ing. The image of the three fastest guitarists in the world in their bathing
suits, furiously pressing the buttons of these silly game units on beautiful
Waikiki Beach struck me as the ultimate irony. It is a moment and an im-
age I will never forget. I wish I had a picture of it.

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Sextet

As early as 1981, Paco had started traveling with his sextet, which includ-
ed his brothers Pepe and Ramon as singer and second guitarist, respec-
tively. He also had Carles Benavent on bass and Rubem Dantas doing
percussion. On different tours he included a saxophone player, a flautist
or a harmonica player. I saw him play with various versions of this group
several times, and always spent some time with him backstage. But the
days of him staying in private homes and partying all night were over.
After concerts he would return to his hotel, and so my time with him was
limited. Still, we always had time to catch up and talk about how life was
treating us. For the most part, however, these meetings were unremark-
able and far less exciting than our former adventures had been.
For many of those years, his future wife, Gabriella, was present – a
silent presence backstage, but, as I have already recounted, she finally
came out of her shell and I was able to visit with her while Paco was busy
greeting other fans.
One of the times when our meeting with Paco was remarkable
occurred when he was playing at a venue in San Jose, California. The
theater had an overall ban on smoking anywhere inside the building,
and this drove Paco nuts. By the time I arrived backstage before the
concert, he was already ranting against the fascist management who
wouldn’t allow him to smoke. His outrage was eloquent and, to me,
somewhat amusing, but he was seriously pissed off. Eventually, the
theater management acquiesced to Paco and installed some fog ma-
chines to cover up the fact that he was smoking on stage during the
sound check. I wish I could have recorded his rants, because they were
quite amusing and full of very colorful Spanish expressions. I also
thought it was a good thing that the management of the theater didn’t
speak Spanish.
During those years, I missed Paco terribly. His absence from my life
weighed heavily on me, and every time I did see him, I was aware that I
might not ever see him again. This became even more real to me when I
had a heart attack in 2007. At that point, I realized that either of us could
die in between the times when we saw each other, and so I placed great
value on every subsequent encounter.

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 Paco de Lucia: Personal Memories of an Astounding Man

The last time I saw Paco, he was playing two concerts at the Greek
Theater in Berkeley, California. He always sold out in Berkeley, and so
they scheduled two concerts on consecutive days – both of which sold out
very quickly. I drove down from Oregon to the Bay Area with my wife,
Viola, and a friend named Grant Ruiz, who was excited to meet Paco for
the first time. Grant is a friend, a great person and a dedicated and in-
creasingly polished flamenco guitarist.
We spent time backstage with Paco after the first concert, and I took
the opportunity to tell Paco how much he had meant to me all those years
and to express how, to me, he was my brother. It was a very deeply emo-
tional statement, and he returned it with a hug and an acknowledgment
that he felt the same way. To punctuate his regard for me, when someone
popped their head in the door to say that the Spanish consul was waiting
to see him, Paco said, “Let him wait.” After a while, Paco allowed the con-
sul to come, but only to the doorway. They exchanged pleasantries, and
then the consul left. We never got up from our seats.
The next day, Paco had some free time and he suggested that we get
together, but we didn’t hear from him all the next day. Finally, that night
at the concert he told me that he had gone over to San Francisco and
gotten lost. Worse still, he had lost our cell number. I didn’t know it then,
but this was the last chance I would ever have to spend quality time with
him. I felt very disappointed then – it had been years since we’d hung out
together – but the disappointment today is far worse.
I am glad that I was able to tell Paco how much he meant to me that
first night. I didn’t know that it would be the last time I ever saw him,
but, as I said, I was always aware of that possibility, and this time was
that time. And this book is how I celebrate that friendship and relive
those times that made me love Paco more than I can ever express. I will
never see him again, but he lives in my heart and in my memories and
will do so until I, too, pass from this life.

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Rites of Passage

I remember two major events in Paco’s life that affected him deeply. The
first was the death of his father, Antonio Sánchez Pecino. Antonio was a
guitarist, as was Paco’s older brother, Ramon. When he was very young
– by some reports even as young as 5 – and thinking about becoming a
guitarist in the family tradition. Paco once told me of this decision and
what his father told him, “You must choose. You will either be a guitarist
or you will not. If you choose not to be one, you will not play at all. If you
choose to be a guitarist, you will practice and dedicate yourself to flamen-
co.” It was all or nothing. There are stories that Antonio would lock Paco
in a room and leave him to practice for hours – as many as 12 hours at a
time. Paco never confirmed that exact story for me, but he did say that he
was required to practice many hours every day. Historians have com-
pared Paco’s relationship with his father to that of Mozart and his father,
both of whom imposed very strict discipline on their sons, both of whom
became musical prodigies.
It’s a question I’ve often considered. Was Paco just a natural genius?
Was his prodigious talent, like Mozart’s, just a mystery that has no ap-
parent solution? I knew Paco well, and spent enough time with him to
observe not only his prodigious technical abilities, but his musicianship.
Watching him as he learned to adapt to playing with jazz musicians like
Al Di Meola, John McLaughlin and Chick Correa, it was clear that he had
a very sophisticated musical ear for someone who had never learned to
read or write music and had not immersed himself in anything but fla-
menco previously.
I also witnessed the evolution of his musical ability when he was
transcribing Manuel de Falla’s music to guitar. One time when I visit-
ed him, he was just beginning the project. He was working with piano
scores, painstakingly figuring out how to convert the notes on the page to
finger positions on the guitar. In essence, he was teaching himself to read
music. When I returned to Spain months later, he had completed a lot of
his transcription work, and he played some of the completed work for
me. It was complex and beautiful, and his approach to it really captured
the spirit of de Falla’s music, which Paco described as, “very flamenco.”
A similar experience had occurred many years earlier. It started when
Paco was in Berkeley, California for a concert. I was driving him around
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the city on the day of the concert and had Maria Muldaur’s “Midnight
at the Oasis” playing on my car stereo. Paco liked it a lot, especially the
guitar solo by Amos Garrett, a guitarist who had played and recorded
with dozens of other artists (150 according to Wikipedia), but was never
a household name. His solo on “Midnight at the Oasis” is one of his best
and most memorable contributions. Paco liked it so much that he asked if
he could borrow the cassette.
A month later, I returned to Spain and dropped by to visit Paco. He
pulled out a guitar and played Garrett’s solo perfectly. I thought this was
remarkable for two reasons. The first was that it was such a departure
from his flamenco tradition (and this was before he hooked up with Al Di
Meola and ultimately with John McLaughlin). And the second reason it
amazed me was that he played it perfectly, with every nuance, on a nylon
string guitar using flamenco technique. The original solo was played on
a steel string guitar, and I’m pretty sure Garrett used a pick rather than
his fingers. For non-guitarists, there are differences between nylon and
steel string guitars, especially in terms of bending notes and certain tonal
qualities, but Paco’s rendition was absolutely true to the original.
Paco’s father remained very involved in Paco’s life and his career
even after he became famous. In fact, all of Paco’s original compositions
were credited to Antonio Sánchez and Paco de Lucia. I believe that Paco
once told me that his father named many of his pieces, which perhaps
gave him composition credit. It may also have been a way to provide roy-
alty income to his family, but I’m just guessing.
I remember meeting Antonio Sánchez at a recording session in Ma-
drid. He was a very serious, even dour man. He was cordial, but not
social. He was all business and did seem to be paying very close attention
to everything that happened during the recording session. I would have
called him a producer based on what I saw. Paco’s mother Lucia, in con-
trast to his father, was gracious and very sweet. I only met her once, but
she impressed me as the opposite of her husband in many ways.
Shortly after Antonio’s death, Paco told me about how his father had
guided his life so strongly that, while he mourned, he also felt free for the
first time in his life. He felt as if a great weight had lifted from him. “Now
I become a man,” he told me.
The second event was the birth of his first child. On that occasion he
told me, with both pride and humility, “Now I AM a man.”

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Paco’s Innovations

Paco’s legacy is full of innovations, and as a flamenco guitarist, what he

accomplished was without precedent. He followed pioneers like Ramon
Montoya and Sabicas, but he went further, breaking boundaries both
musically and socially.
In his early days as a guitarist, Paco was clean cut and ostensi-
bly traditional, but as the ‘60s closed and the ‘70s began, he started
wearing his hair long, wearing more casual clothes – even jeans – in
concert, and crossing one leg across the other, holding the guitar low
on his lap. All of these changes were criticized by traditionalists, but
because of his immense abilities with the guitar, he became a trendset-
ter despite the criticism.
Paco would play with one foot tapping out the rhythm, perfectly, like
a metronome, never missing a beat. On some live recordings, you can
even hear it tapping in the background. His rhythm and technique was
revolutionary. The guitarist who was best known for blazing speed before
Paco was Sabicas. I was a fan of Sabicas before I had ever heard about
Paco, and so one day I took one blazingly fast run from Sabicas and an-
other from Paco and slowed them down until each note was very clearly
delineated. What I discovered was that the notes Sabicas played were no-
ticeably uneven when slowed way down, even though at full speed it was
hard to tell. In contrast, Paco’s notes were completely even. Even when
slowed way down, there was no variation or inconsistency.
Paco innovated musically in many ways. One of my favorite innova-
tions was in Paco’s tremolo, a technique where the fingers strike a treble
string so quickly that it sounds like a continuous note while the thumb
hits the deeper notes, creating a two-part melody. Before Paco, the bass
notes played with the thumb were very regular in rhythm and showed
little to no variation in loudness from one note to the next. It was a beau-
tiful sound, but Paco took it several steps further. He developed a tech-
nique that emphasized the downbeat of the bass notes and created a little
hesitation, so that the notes were more varied and expressive. He also
created far more complex melodies, both in the bass and in the tremolo
itself, with unique flourishes that had rarely been heard before, if at all.
His tremolo melodies were the most beautiful and complex of any that I
had ever heard before.

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With “Entre Dos Aguas,” Paco broke the mold of traditional flamenco
guitar solos. Originally recorded as an “album filler,” the original “Entre
Dos Aguas” was a largely improvisational piece that had no precedent in
any flamenco tradition. It was a happy accident in many ways, but one
that forever expanded the boundaries of flamenco playing, and which led
directly to the work of performers like the Gipsy Kings and “pop flamen-
co” players like Ottmar Leibert.
Paco also invented or discovered new sounds, new chords, new
rhythms, new techniques, and new ways to express traditional music. He
composed pieces in traditional forms that were astonishing in their in-
ventiveness. One of my favorites is his sevillanas on the album Almoraima.
I grew up with the traditional sevillanas, always the same melodies to the
point that I never considered composing anything new for that particular
cante. Paco’s new sevillanas falsetas were wonderful, inventive and musi-
cally complex, and yet they retained the essence of the traditional sevilla-
nas within them.
Paco also experimented with other instruments and with multi-track-
ing at times, and the title piece of Almoraima is a great example of that,
containing multiple guitars (including percussion on the guitar body),
oud, bass, palmas, and even a fingernail file.
After working with great non-flamenco musicians like Al Di Meola,
John McLaughlin, Larry Coryell and Chick Correa, Paco’s music began
to move into even more subtle and complex realms, and his later record-
ings showed him moving even further from the tradition into even more
explorations of rhythm, melody and harmony.
Moving in yet another direction, Paco recorded the classical works of
both de Falla and Rodrigo, whom he deeply admired. Again, in the world
of flamenco guitar, his ability to learn, painstakingly from piano scores
and other material, to interpret so beautifully these great works of classi-
cal music was further testament to his musicianship and versatility. When
I interviewed Paco in 1978, he spoke about the challenge of learning to
play de Falla’s music. “I don’t read music, but I wanted to do the music
of Falla. It’s not that I want to play classical music, but there is something
special and very close to flamenco about Falla. I have had many periods
of anxiety and nervousness since I have become so famous; fame can
eat you. You always have so much pressure to repeat your successes, to
find something that will sell so many records, and so on. But whenever I
listen to Falla, I feel relaxed. I feel almost as if I had composed it myself.
In order to arrange the music for guitar, I took piano scores and a chart of
the musical notes, and, note by note, I figured it out on the guitar. At first,
the sheer immensity of the task made me hesitate, but eventually I found

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myself enjoying th work and relaxing. I arranged most of the music for
two or three guitars and overtracked myself or played with my brother,
Ramón. I also used the rock-jazz group Doran on two of the cuts. I am not
trying to compare myself to classical musicians of any kind, but I hope
that my attempts can add a spirit of flamenco that I have found to be lack-
ing in other recordings of Falla’s music.”
The Sextet, too, was innovative. Paco formed a traveling band, not
of the traditional singer, dancer and guitarist, but with instrumentalists
and his brothers, Pepe and Ramón, as singer and second guitarist. On
some tours, he did bring a dancer, but not on all of them. He also brought
non-traditional instruments, such as flute, saxophone and even harmonica,
as well as the now popular cajón, which was originally developed by Peru-
vian slaves in the 18th century, but not until the 21st century did it become
a regular addition to flamenco performances.
I’m sure I’ve left out many of Paco’s innovations. These are what I re-
member seeing and experiencing over the years that I was his fan and friend.

Paco and de Falla from Maximo Moreno’s drawing inside the album cover.
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The Paco de Lucia I Knew

Paco was a real human being. He lived as he chose. He never embraced

fame and superstardom as something of a right, but more as a respon-
sibility to his fans, and often, as a burden he must carry. He never acted
superior, but was respectful of others, in his mischievous way. He always
tried to respond to his fans with humility and grace.
In some ways, Paco and I grew up at the same time – not always
together, but on our own parallel tracks toward maturity. We became
friends when we were both in our twenties, and we had experiences
together that I think changed us, although I can only speak for myself
as to the nature of those changes. I got to share his joy, his passions, his
anxieties, and his frustrations at different times. We often talked about
life, about philosophy, about music, and about our beliefs. At no point did
Paco ever act superior or treat me as less than a friend – not even when
had me waist deep in water, pelting a soccer ball at me. This was friend-
ship, too.
Earlier, I recounted the story he told me about being alone in New
York and playing poker instead of guitar for a month. Years later, Paco
told me another story that, again, revealed the simplicity that hid within
his complex nature. For several years, he lived in the Yucatán in south-
ern Mexico. His small house was next to a lake, isolated but for a nearby
native village. The people there were simple and did not know Paco as a
world famous musician, but as the man who gave them fish.
Paco told me how he loved to fish quietly on his lake. He had a small
boat that he would row out onto the water, and then he would sit and fish
and do nothing else. He didn’t need the fish he caught, so he would give
them away in the village. This was a quiet time of reflection for Paco, and
from the way he spoke of it, I believe it was an even happier time than his
poker junket in New York.
I often helped Paco in whatever ways I could. On the road, I would
take charge of logistics. I helped him obtain Chris’ oud, and later bought
him another oud that I would have given a lot to own myself. I was always
happy to be of service to him, but he never took it for granted. I was able
to pay my own way, and so we were equals in many ways, even though he
was my musical idol and I was always in awe of the musician Paco.
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 After his death, John McLaughlin wrote the following statement,
which eloquently expresses how I feel about Paco, and clearly indicates
that I was not alone:
“Paco was a real man. Real in the sense of true; to himself, to his
music and to everyone else. A man in that he was passionate, but had
true compassion and deep understanding of the human condition. All
this was revealed in his music and in his marvelous guitar playing. To
have worked and played music with him is one the greatest blessings
in my life. To say I will miss him is an understatement. In the place
where he lived in my heart, there is now an emptiness that will stay
with me till I join him.”
-John McLaughlin, February 2014
http://www.guitaraficionado.com/john-mclaughlin-and-al-di-meola-respond-
to-paco-de-lucias-death.html

I have shared most of my Paco stories. There are more concerts I attended,
conversations we had, places we went, but these are the ones I remember
most vividly. I hope you have had a chance to see him a little through my
eyes. Like John McLaughlin, I have an empty place in my heart, but I also
have a fullness that nobody but Paco could have given me. I am grateful.

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98
A Last Word

To put a coda on this story, I will tell you one last piece of advice Paco
offered me. I once asked him, “How do you play so fast?” He answered,
aprete el culo, “Squeeze the butt.”

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