On January 30th, María Terremoto released her second album, Manifiesto (Universal Music Spain). A few days later, she sits in the sun at a hotel in Les Corts, Barcelona. This is her fourth interview of the day, with one more to go before she catches her flight back home to Seville after a week of promotion. She is actually returning from a much longer journey: one of losing herself and telling the story. Singing it, in her case, in an album where she proclaims her artistic identity and recounts the loss of her father (Fernando Terremoto, Jerez, 1969 – 2010) and grandparents, the whispers of gossipers, the pressure of belonging to one of the most important flamenco dynasties in history, and the experience of getting on stage and feeling nothing.
It is a walk through her struggles in recent years, but also through her joys: her partner, the birth of her children (her green eyes light up when she talks about them), or the delight of singing in the 3,000 Viviendas neighborhood, as reflected in her Miraíta music video. With deep roots in her Jerez and family heritage, she embraces the current movement that pushes flamenco a little further and makes bulerías seem like they were invented just yesterday. Three days ago, she presented the album in Jerez, her homeland, and on May 24th, she will be at the Teatro Isaac Albéniz in Madrid for the U Music Festival. She faces the present, she says, with great eagerness «to sing and to express myself.»
How was the concert at home? What did your family say?
Very good. Every time I go to Jerez, I get terribly nervous, but I enjoyed it a lot, and I hope my audience and my homeland were happy with it. I feel immense pressure when I sing there, and sometimes it’s not worth it because I suffer so much, but it turned out well. Everyone ended up crying. My family is not the type to flatter me, and I don’t want them to, but I can tell they are proud of me.
Regarding the styles you chose for your album, Miraíta, you call it a rumba, but it sounds more like tangos
Yes, they are tangos, but we wanted to call it rumba because it has a slightly livelier touch than a typical tango. We called it rumba because I am expressing joy, but in reality, it’s somewhere between a tango and a rumba.
You sing petenera.
It’s a song form that many flamenco artists have an absurd superstition about, which I don’t share. I think it’s a beautiful, melodic, and rich style. It has a lot of depth and is closely related to the Mexican petenera. I wanted to move past that silly superstition that limits us from embracing such beautiful and grand flamenco styles.
It’s one of the nods to non-purism in your album.
Exactly. I don’t consider myself part of purism; I consider myself part of purity.
Explain that.
Purity is the truth of something—whether it’s flamenco or a loaf of bread. A loaf made with sourdough is much purer than a processed white bread from Mercadona. Purity is truth. But purism, in my opinion, is a group of people who limit me and my generation from doing what we want.
I sometimes feel that purists operate in the shadows and don’t come forward. Do they confront you directly?
Oh, of course! The world is full of Petetes.
What’s that?
It comes from El libro gordo de Petete, a term we use down south for people who think they know everything.
My mom says they are from Tolosa—’to lo saben’ (they know everything).
Exactly! Or maestro Liendres, someone who “knows everything but understands nothing.” But honestly, in flamenco, true fans do know a lot. I wouldn’t say purists are ignorant. They are devoted flamenco enthusiasts, but they restrict artists. Maybe I’ll get criticized for saying this, but I don’t care. I’m a young woman, and I’m going to do what I want. I see myself as part of purity.
And what do they say? “You didn’t sing it like…”?
Like my grandfather, for example. Or they say, “That soleá isn’t from such-and-such place…” And I’m like, “Come on, give me a break.” I must sing with knowledge and respect; without awareness, it would have no soul. But no one should clip anyone’s wings. Singing petenera doesn’t mean I stop being part of the Terremoto family.
In the first song of the album, A la muerte, you sing: “If you leave me alone, what will I do?” What do you do when you lose your father at ten?
It’s complicated. I don’t want to offend any group, but a father figure is very important, and I didn’t have one. That verse is dedicated to my mother: if you leave me alone, what will I do? I say that death came to my house and took everything, leaving only my mother and me. My maternal grandfather and my paternal grandfather also passed away—they were the pillars of my life. A la muerte is one of the hardest songs for me to perform because I am speaking directly to my mother. It’s a first-person dialogue between us. It’s for my father, but I think… if they take my mother, what do I do?
In the radio program Nuestro Flamenco, you mentioned considering quitting flamenco.
I reached a point where I didn’t know who I was; I felt lost. That led me to question many things, including my career in music. It’s because of that pressure of coming from a family of singers and feeling like I had no choice but to do this. I felt lost and suffocated. It made me rebellious—toward myself and flamenco. I was filled with doubts, both artistically and personally.
Did you consider quitting flamenco altogether?
I considered not singing at all.
When was this?
Two years ago. I was working. And it was about getting on stage and not enjoying it, for years, feeling empty and having to do it just to please an audience. But I didn’t feel like myself at all. I need excitement, and that environment often doesn’t let you grow because of its demands. I would step off the stage, go home, and then back to the Bienal again, performing just for the sake of performing, with no real meaning, nothing to say. It was emotional and vital emptiness, all of it. It’s very hard to get on stage knowing that what you’re about to do, you’ve already done 20 times—the same ending here, the same lament there. You fall into a loop, into a monotony that takes away your desire to perform.
What other options were you considering?
I was very blocked. I tried with my dear Pino Saglioco, for example, but in the end, it didn’t work out. But from all that searching, Manifiesto was born, and I think it was absolutely necessary. I had a hard time because… there were moments during summer festivals, which end late, when I would go on stage at 2 AM and see people sleeping. And I thought… «Do I really have to sing for someone who is snoring? What is this?» I felt completely empty, very empty, really bad, I promise you.
You mentioned in Nuestro Flamenco that you were considering singing in English. What do you listen to in English or from other genres?
Beyoncé, Ella Mai, Bruno Mars, Muni Long, Celine Dion, Whitney Houston, Aretha Franklin… I could go on like this for an hour.
And do you see yourself singing something like that one day?
Why not? Yes. What I’m saying now is that I’m focusing on my present, and I don’t want to anticipate anything because many times, I’ve imagined one thing, and when it actually happened, it was something else. I don’t want any more disappointments. What I do know is that with this album, I’ve closed one door, and I’ve opened another—to leave it open.
In the soleá Soñé que la nieve ardía, you talk about dreams and impossible desires. What is your impossible desire?
«Soñé que la nieve ardía» is deeply personal—I don’t talk about it much. I have felt completely lost, in moments of confusion and absolute madness. And I dreamed that the snow was burning, that fire was freezing… things that will never happen. In this case, artistically speaking, I dream that I am getting there, but I’m not. That’s how I feel.
“Murmuraorx.” Why do you call it that?
This «X» is used to avoid specifying a gender—men, women, and everything that exists now. It’s murmuraores and murmuraoras, because there are so many people who love to talk without being asked for their opinion. And here, it’s a clear and direct message for everyone who has been affected by what people will say. In my case, it used to affect me a lot, to the point where I finally said: «I don’t care anymore. Talk as much as you want—I’m going to keep walking my path straight and keep singing.»
Do you believe in your own talent? In Reina – Bulerías, Coronación, it seems like you finally put on the crown.
This might come across as arrogant, and I’m not like that—anyone who knows me knows I’m not. But I believe in myself more now, and I feel empowered in my body, my being, and my decisions. For me, this is more of a personal coronation than an artistic one—though that too, because I feel confident in what I do musically. It’s a personal coronation of feeling secure in what I do, knowing that if I’m here, it’s because I’m worthy, not just because I come from a flamenco family. And of finally stopping underestimating myself—which I’m still working on because it has been very hard for me to trust myself. Really, really hard.
Your album features Yerai Cortés, one of today’s rising talents. Who else do you think is promising in your generation of flamenco?
Juan Tomás de la Molía. Watch out for him. Aside from being like a brother to me—I adore him—he is dangerous, and he’s going to be a star in dance. I’m sure of it. He’s going to go very far.
How are your kids?
Very well. They have been such an important part of my life, making me mature earlier than expected. I have lived very fast, but I think it’s because life planned it that way. Thanks to them, I’ve matured and found strength. They have been part of my fight. I can’t wait to see them and smother them with kisses.
Where are they in the album?
In Pintan mi vida en color. In the Levante—that one’s for my kids.
Do they already sing and dance?
Look, my son is going to like football. I come from a football family too—my grandfather played for Betis and the Spanish national team [Antonio Benítez Fernández, who passed away in 2014]. My son wakes up kicking a ball. But my daughter sings. My daughter sings so well for her age—she can hit the notes perfectly. And honestly, it’s not just because she’s my daughter—if she couldn’t sing, I would straight-up tell you, «She’s not cut out for it.» I try not to pay too much attention because I was like that. My mother tells me that when I was six months old, I hummed a song my father had composed. I sang before I spoke. And my daughter is pitch-perfect, and she sings beautifully—it’s almost scary. I think she’s going to love it. But I want her to take it naturally, without ambition, because that scares me a little.
Are you afraid she’ll struggle under pressure?
Yes, the world is very complicated, and it worries me. But well, there’s still a long way to go—she’s so little. If one day she chooses this path, I’ll be here to support her. But for now, there’s a lot of time ahead… let her keep singing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. That’s her hit.
Now, in internet language, manifesting also means focusing on what you want and visualizing it. What do you manifest?
I want to manifest that we all find ourselves, value ourselves, and stand up for ourselves. With this album, I want every woman who has felt like me—empty, weighed down by obstacles—to know that she is strong and worthy. That she can overcome anything. The key is to trust yourself and shed all the darkness inside you.
Did you use the feminine on purpose?
Of course, absolutely. I speak in general, and I don’t align with any particular movement. I believe in equality, and I don’t like to get into these topics. But I do think that women need to support each other and continue fighting for our rights. I am a woman, a Romani, a mother, and a worker—imagine how many things I have to fight for.
Cover photo: Lucía Ramos
Photography: Assiah Alcázar
