In Andalusia, the rock of Jaén and Cádiz shell, people speak constantly of duende, and finds out just appears effective with instinct. The wonderful cantaor El Lebrija, creator of Debla, said: "The days I do not know that I sing with duende rivals' Malena one day, the old gypsy dancer, played by Brailowsky heard a snippet of Bach said," Olé! Now that has duende, "and he became impatient with Gluck, with Brahms and Darius Milhaud. And Manuel Torres, the man of culture in the most blood I've ever met, listening to the same failed his Night of the Generalife, uttered this wonderful phrase: "All that sounds blacks has duende." There is no greater truth. Blacks
These sounds are the mystery, the roots that sink in the mire that we all know that all ignore it, but where it comes from what is substantial in the art. Sounds blacks, said the English people, and this agrees with Goethe, speaking of Paganini, gives us the definition of duende, "the mysterious power that everyone feels and no philosopher explains."
So then, the duende is a power and not an act, is a struggle and not a thought. I heard from an old guitar teacher: 'The duende is not in the throat, the duende salt inside the soles of the feet. " That is, not a matter of right, but to live authentically, or blood, that is, ancient culture, creating in place.
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