Sometimes, just look at the boots of a man to know his story. The Joaquín Cortés is written to the beat of a farruca, ranging from a courtyard of Cordoba to the streets of Manhattan. In the middle, the whole world.

Veins leads the journey; and so in his taconeo the scent of a candle under the stars can be seen. But yours is something else: The precision of a metronome, with the unbridled passion of an entire people his, pouring in stabbings on stage.

Rugen guitars, palms come from far away and the man who dances in the center makes the earth tremble with his loneliness heard. What strange alchemy is the art that makes us see the love, rage, desire and hope for a coup heel.