It's the evening of April 18th, 1961. The atmosphere in RCA Victor's Webster Hall studio is as informal as a smoky café cantante in Madrid some forty or fifty years ago. Carlos Montoya, in shirt sleeves, his necktie loosened, with guitar in hand, is seated comfortably on stage. In the hall proper—a large ballroom that has accommodated as many different kinds of functions as there have been fraternal organizations in New York City in the last fifty years—sits an audience of several hundred aficionados, especially invited to hear a program of Flamenco selections never recorded before by Carlos Montoya. Within the glass-enclosed control room adjoining the ballroom, tape machines begin to roll and the concert/recording session begins.
It is in this type of setting that Carlos Montoya feels he can be heard on records at his very best—the atmosphere is less formal than a regular concert recital; the feeling is more spontaneous than a regular studio recording session.
Montoya is certainly at his best; each moment of the program is heard on this recording—every selection is a first take; there are no tape splices; no repeat takes are necessary. Above all, there is a wonderful \"live\" quality about this album—Montoya is occasionally heard tuning his guitar between selections; the audience enthusiasm is spontaneous, down to the last ole. The mystery of Carlos Montoya, the essence of his success (he can give a Flamenco piece concert stature while retaining its Tipico quality—its immediacy, its tremendous \"beat\"), all of this has never been so clearly revealed on records before. Is it any wonder, then, that Carlos Montoya has won aficionados the world over?
