I was already an accomplished American guitarist by the time I first heard Vicente Amigo nearly fifteen years ago. When he attacked the strings with his explosive "Spanish strum" I thought to myself, "where the hell have I been all this time? How have I never heard this before?"
So I immediately packed my bags and hopped the first ocean freighter to Cadiz. I lie many wave-tossed nights with my headphones lodged in my ears, listening, cataloging, organizing, learning this music... down to the last detail.
"Did you know skilled flamenco musicians can produce a three-octave melody by simply clapping their hands?
WTF?
"It's true, dude."
Such was my Atlantic crossing. I dreamt of nothing but the guitar. Little did I know of the disappointments and struggle that lie ahead.
In Cadiz, being a good guitarist is nothing. Being a great guitarist remarkable only in the sense that your playing doesn't make Andalucians wince in displeasure. Being a virtuoso gains you an opportunity to apply for apprenticeship.
I still don't know why they accepted me. I was always afraid to ask.
But they put me in a class with a bunch of bookish teenagers. I had proven my technical skills, but my new judges found my heart severely deficient in vitamin "F". Nobody in Cadiz had the slightest hope or care that I pass the final exam. To them, I was just the next Ry Cooder, Carlos Santana, or George Harrison: They, too, thought they were good enough to cross the culture barrier.
I had such a long way to go.
