The Royal Academy of Language links the term “flamenco” to a historical region of Europe. “Native of Flanders, ” it states in its first definition. The second one reiterates the same idea: “Belonging to or relating to Flanders.” Even the third one: “Refers to a pictorial style that developed in Flanders from the 15th to the 17th centuries.” You have to wait until the fourth definition in the RAE dictionary for flamenco to be described as linked to a popular artistic phenomenon. “Used to refer to a cultural expression,” it states succinctly. He adds: “It is a traditional Andalusian folk genre, often associated with the Romani people.”

Wikipedia doesn’t beat around the bush and gets straight to the point: “Flamenco is a genre of Spanish folk music that developed in Andalusia.” Yes, okay. But where does flamenco come from? What kind of substrate does it feed on? The origins of flamenco are one of the most intriguing anthropological and cultural mysteries in the history of the Iberian Peninsula. It is known that it originated on the fringes and is the result of a syncretic blend of Romani, African, and Moorish laments. The Lament of the Persecuted.

Ahí, en el sustrato andalusí, es donde el escritor Antonio Manuel Rodríguez Ramos ha indagado durante años para articular una hipótesis alternativa sobre la génesis del flamenco. And it has done so by following the ancestral trail of the words and expressive turns of phrase that have shaped an oral culture rooted in memory and transmission.

In Arqueología de lo jondo, the author argues that the persecuted Moors found refuge in flamenco through a surprising phenomenon of invisible resilience that encoded a culture that had been severely harassed. According to Antonio Manuel, the very name “flamenco” combines two words of Andalusian Arabic origin. “Falah” means “peasant,” and “mencub” refers to “the dispossessed.” “The throat and the soul are the places that are hardest to plunder. “That’s why the word ‘flamenco’ is the most flamenco and the most Moorish of all,” the writer argues.

*Arqueología de lo jondo* was published by Almuzara in 2018, but it is now in its seventh edition and has inspired a four-episode documentary series on Canal Sur. The book has been presented in Mexico, Italy, Morocco, and Cuba, and has been showcased in dozens of towns throughout Andalusia and Spain. To a certain extent, the work is a continuation of *La huella morisca* (Almuzara, 2010), a revealing essay on the hidden traces of Andalusian culture following the fall of Al-Andalus.

With the Christian conquest, the Andalusians were forbidden to speak their language, wear their traditional clothing, eat their food, or pray to their god. That is why they concealed their identity in their daily lives and in their cultural traits. In flamenco, too. Antonio Manuel gives two authentic examples:¡ay! and¡olé! These are two interjections that are intrinsically linked to flamenco. The first evokes pain and demonstrates, in the writer’s opinion, that flamenco harbors a trauma: that caused by renouncing one’s true self. “Olé” refers to the Arabic name for God: Allah. And it shows that traces of the sacred linger behind much of Flemish etymology.

There are many examples. For example, soleá, the supreme style of flamenco. According to the author, the word comes from *salat*, which means “prayer” in Arabic. The ” martinete,” a fundamental form of flamenco song—sober and dramatic—is often accompanied by a monotonous rhythmic tapping on the anvil. Antonio Manuel argues that the word also comes from the Arabic marratain, which literally means “twice” and refers to the second call to prayer. Siguiriya is said to derive from sukar (“sugar” in Arabic) and, according to the writer, reflects the state of intoxication or mystical ecstasy that the singer reaches when he dares to perform one of the most heart-wrenching styles.

Farruca, jaleo, zambra, and zarabanda are flamenco concepts that are “unquestionably” associated with Andalusian origins, according to Rodríguez. Many lyrics contain shocking expressions that are hard to decipher. For example, there are tangos that end with what appears to be a vindication of the “calabacín.” And, in fact, in the author’s view, it conceals the combination of two Arabic words: qalb (“heart”) and hazim (“sad”). The exclamation “¡agua!”, which is frequently used at flamenco festivals, does not refer in any way to the liquid element but rather stems from a phonetic alteration of “aqua,” which means “louder” in Arabic.

The book offers an archaeological exploration of the Moorish traces embedded in flamenco. “It’s a statement of principles and a method,” he explains. “It aims to incorporate etymology as one of the disciplines that would help trace the origins of flamenco.” And to decipher the coded words, one must do so from a “holistic perspective” that takes into account not only history but especially “undocumented memory.”

Experts have traditionally dated the origins of flamenco to the 18th century and have not delved into itsearliest roots due to the lack of documentary sources. What the professor from Córdoba proposes in this work is precisely to draw on other types of “anthropological” and “memoir-based” sources, without which, in his view, it is impossible to formulate a reasonable hypothesis about the origins of flamenco culture.

“I think that’s the book’s greatest contribution,” he says. “In other words, a method that allows us to dig beyond what is apparent and find words that take refuge in Spanish sounds, but which, in reality, come from other words that have been preserved in formaldehyde.” Antonio Manuel intends to bring “coherence” to all of that material.

Arqueología de lo jondo suggests “three origins” for flamenco terms. The first stems from religion, particularly mysticism, and this is where the soleá, the seguirilla, and the martinete fit in. Other words derive from the “pain” and “tragedy” of the expulsion. The term “flamenco” itself is said to have originated from this group. And finally, a group of expressions directly related to music, which would include, for example, the taranta, which, in his view, derives from taranim or tartil, both of which mean “recitation.”

“This book has had a tremendous impact, both in substance and in form,” says the author. “I didn’t want to write an academic book.” The work has caused quite a stir among traditional flamenco scholars. He has received scathing criticism, but also heartfelt praise. Rocío Márquez, María José Llergo, Argentina, Rafael de Utrera, and Laura Vital have joined the writer at many of his book presentations.

From the very beginning, Manolo Sanlúcar supported his theories about the Moorish origins of flamenco. And he said: “Antonio Manuel, our brother in Andalusian sorrow, seeks us out in history to express our truth and set it on its feet.” And for the poet and flamenco scholar José María Velázquez-Gaztelu, *Arqueología de lo jondo* is a work “created with love and respect—excellent, lucid, and revealing.”

Antonio Manuel wants to gather “new research” to facilitate the ethimological identification of flamenco. “Arqueología de lo jondo” has served to question the national-catholic vision of Spain and proves that there has been “a cultural permanence of resistance to oblivion”, states the author. And he concludes: “Flamenco is made of life, and I think it would be a grave mistake to turn it into a relic.”