TO truly understand the fire of Andalucía, you first have to meet its demon.
His name is the duende.
He is not a friendly spirit. He is a dark, irrational force that lives in the blood and the gut.
He doesn’t care for technique or perfection; he cares only for heightened passion—those moments when life gets desperately, dangerously intense.
When a matador kills a bull with a single, death-defying thrust, or when a flamenco singer tears their voice apart in an ecstatic frenzy, the gypsies don’t say “bravo.” They say: “The duende has arrived.”
If the duende ever took human form, it was in the body of Lola Flores.
Born in Jerez in 1923, Lola was more than just a singer or a dancer.
She was a hurricane of jewellery, sweat, and rhythm who embodied the very soul of Spain.
But to enjoy her music—to really feel that duende—you need to speak her language.
The one and only Lola Flores
A Crash Course in Caló
Lola’s world was painted in the slang of the Spanish gypsies. It’s a dialect full of grit and flavour, and you won’t find these words in your average textbook.
First, there is you and me. When a Spanish gypsy refers to an outsider—a non-gypsy—they call us payos.
Then, there is the lifestyle. Lola did not just party; she lived for the juerga. A juerga is not a polite dinner party.
It is a ‘good time’ in the rawest sense—a spree involving flamenco, endless nights, and the implication that a significant amount of alcohol will be consumed.
READ MORE: LIFE IN SPAIN: The Deceiver of Seville, Mozart and the modern bullring
And you can’t have a juerga without parné. Every language has informal words for money, and Spanish is no exception. You might hear euros called pavos (turkeys) or simply pasta (dough), but the old-school gypsy slang is parné.
If you have enough parné, you buy tumbaga. This is the perfect word for Lola’s aesthetic.
We might call it ‘bling’—gaudy, over-the-top gold and jewellery that catches the light and the eye. Lola dripped in tumbaga. She was a spectacle of gold and lace, a living icon of excess.
Lola with El Caracol
The Maria Mystery
Before we get to the love story, we must address the name. Lola was born Maria Dolores Flores Ruiz.
You may have noticed that just about every Spanish woman over the age of 30 is named “María.”
It is a beautiful tradition honouring the Blessed Virgin, but it creates a logistical nightmare: how do you know which María you are talking to?
The Spanish solved this by focusing on the role of the Virgin. A girl named ‘María of the Rosary’ becomes Rosario. ‘María of Mercy’ becomes Mercedes. ‘María of the Snow’ becomes Nieves.
Lola’s name came from ‘María of the Sorrows’ (Dolores). But even Dolores was too long for a woman who moved at the speed of lightning.
It was shortened to Lola, a name that would eventually need no surname at all.
READ MORE: LIFE IN SPAIN: The Frank Sinatra incident in Malaga
The Snail and The Whirlwind
In 1943, Lola met her match. His name was Manuel Ortega Juárez, but the world knew him as Manolo Caracol.
In Spanish, a caracol is a snail. But Manolo was no slow-mover. He was a sevillano powerhouse, a gypsy flamenco singer with a voice like cracking gravel. He was already a star, but he was happy to play second fiddle to the Lola sensation.
They were electric together. They were both children of the duende—passionate, volatile, and devoted to the juerga. For years, they toured Spain, a travelling storm of jealousy and genius. They were the “power couple” of the 1940s, living a life of “tumbaga” and tragedy that kept the gossip columns full.
But the duende demands a price. Manolo died in a freak car accident in 1973. Lola, the survivor, lived on into the 1990s, becoming the matriarch of a dynasty that still dominates Spanish music today.
She died of breast cancer at 72, but she never really left. Whenever you hear a voice crack with emotion in a smoky bar in Jerez, or see a dancer lose herself in the rhythm until she seems possessed, you know she is still there.
The duende has arrived.
Here are the words of the irresistible “Maria de la O”:
For my fingers, bands of gold,
for my whims, bank notes untold.
For my curves, embroidered tresses,
woven shawls and silken dresses.
The moon always keeps a loving vigil over me.
The moon always weeps to see what’s become of me.
My payo is as smitten as a spinster with a kitten:
he puts more riches in my hand than a sultan could command.
Stare, gypsy girls, stare! You are envious of me.
Glare, gypsy girls, glare! I can’t help your jealousy.
Play, gypsy girls, play, you’ve no idea what you do.
Sway, gypsy girls, sway! It is I that envy you.
Maria de la O, with your man-enticing curls,
you’re the only one who knows you’re a wretched gypsy girl.
I’ve got everything I need, yet forgotten how to laugh.
I somehow missed the seed when I filled my hands with chaff.
His waist was as slender as a young water poplar
I longed to surrender when dancing the coplas.
Ugly money, dirty silver, I’ve a thirst you’ll never slake.
I was dearly loved in Huelva, but I spurned him for your sake.
Maria, shoulder your cross!
You can’t leave the path you trod.
You must struggle with your loss,
punished by God, punished by God.
Click here to read more La Cultura News from The Olive Press.
