My approach to the flamenco. (Eng, Esp, Ita) 

Naples. Palapartenope. While I prepare nervously the old audiocassette recorder that my father had given me, suddenly I hear the six open strings playing, one by one. An unusual tuning, but I already knew what he was going to play. A song I knew by heart, note by note. Paco de Lucia was sitting there, a few meters away, the smoke of the stage looked like I was having an appearance. Finally, I could hear him, see him, but above all live him. I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. That November 27…

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