Manva Negra

You have said that Lucero is a very personal album. What sound or musical detail from it most often takes you back to the most difficult moment of its creation — and why?

There is a very specific sound that always takes me back to that place: the breath before I start singing, when we decided to leave it unedited. It’s not an effect, it’s real fragility. Every time I hear it, I remember that I was singing from a place with no defenses. That breath is the exact point where the truth of Lucero begins.

You combine flamenco roots with urban sounds and other influences. Was there ever a moment when these “musical languages” refused to combine — and how did you find a solution?

At first, yes, they repelled each other. The solution was to stop thinking in terms of genres and start thinking with the body: what rhythm my chest needed, what silence the lyrics required. When the body leads, the languages understand each other naturally.

What small character trait or habit saved you during the most difficult period working on Lucero — and became your hidden creative resource?

The obsession with repetition. Going back over and over the same verse, the same rhythm, traversing the story until I was as precise as possible in words and sound, even if it hurt. I wasn’t seeking perfection, I was seeking truth. That habit, almost stubborn, became my creative refuge without me even realizing it.

In an interview, you mentioned your involvement in producing your own tracks. What is more important to you — the honesty of the sound or the way the song is presented to the listener? And what production decision confused you most often?

For me, honesty runs through everything. Form only makes sense if it comes from there. When an artist steps on stage and can move people from who they are, a real connection happens.
As a producer, what confused me most was when a technical decision “beautified” something that needed to be uncomfortable. I learned to defend the uncomfortable. And that, too, is beauty.

Imagine one of your songs as a living landscape. What place in Spain would it remind you of — and why that one specifically?

A summer sunrise in my land, Murcia. As a child, my grandfather taking the sheep out to pasture while singing. That’s where my love for music began. Among mountains, nature, and affection. Everything I do takes me back to that place, because what I lived and planted there is what sounds in all my songs today; I always carry my roots with me.

What incorrect or simplified thesis about “folklore” related to your music irritates you the most?

The idea that folklore is something old, closed, or decorative. Folklore is alive, it’s conflict, it’s present. It’s not nostalgia: it’s active memory.

Were there moments during the creation of the album when you consciously decided to hide a personal detail — a line, a sound, a fragment of a story — for your own inner comfort?

Yes. There were phrases I never included. Even though I have always defended unflinching lyrics, some words were too hard to hear, not just for me but for the people involved in the story. Out of respect, I decided not to include them. They are still people I loved, even if they are no longer in my life.

Has there been a song that came about thanks to a fan story or letter? Can you briefly share that story?

Everything is based on my story and precise moments in it. There were many similar messages from people who felt guilty for not hating those who hurt them. That contradiction is one of the major cracks in the album, which I recount without filters.
Also, the greatest thing that has happened to me was receiving messages saying that Lucero had saved their lives. There is nothing more important than that.

If you recorded a mini-album in another culture, what aspects of your Spanish roots would you take with you, and what would you allow the new environment to change in your sound?

The quejío, the sense of rhythm, and the importance of silence. And I would let the new environment transform the rhythms, textures, even my phrasing. My roots are not an anchor: they are a base from which to move.

What unexpected sound or element appeared in the studio during the work on Lucero — and why did you decide to keep it in the lyrics or arrangement?

In “Hijo De Dios, ” which was recorded live, there are a couple of accidental hits, almost noise, that seemed out of place. We kept them because they broke the comfort of the arrangement. Lucero didn’t need to be polished, it needed to be true.

Do you see a risk that the industry might try to turn your story into a simplified “message” for promotion — and how do you plan to confront that?

Yes, that risk exists. That it becomes a digestible message. My way to confront it is not to repeat the story as a slogan and to let the music remain complex.

What specific feeling would you like to leave the listener with in 20 years — if your music were perceived as part of the new, contemporary folklore?

Companionship. That someone listens to one of my songs and thinks: I am not alone in this. And that, even if they have listened a thousand times, it never stops making them feel, vibrate, and connect with their deepest self, because in this fast-moving world, there is no greater gift than to make someone vibrate, even if just for a single moment.

FOTKAI often captures not only big concerts but also “behind-the-scenes” moments, where audience, artists, and space intertwine. If you could tell the story of your music not through sound but through images, what moment of your life or career would you like to capture and show alongside a song?

The moment just before stepping on stage, when there is still no applause. That suspended instant where everything is about to happen. That is where I gather my strength and carry with me my angels who always accompany me. But the moment I would always capture in this project is on stage; that is where I am most pure and real, and where I feel no one can stop me. Going on stage is like a release of everything I have felt and feel at its fullest intensity.