
Before 1977, flamenco percussion relied solely on hand‑clapping and dancers' footwork. But that year, at a party in Lima, Peru, the cajon entered the scene.Spanish guitarist Paco de Lucia and Brazilian percussionist Rubem Dantas attended an event at...
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Hello, welcome to Witness History with me, Stefania Gotzer. Now, if this is one of your favorite podcasts already, you can skip ahead a little bit. But if you are listening for the very first time, welcome. I want to tell you a bit more about us. We look at a moment in history told by the people who were there. We use incredible archive and hear amazing stories. New nine minute episodes drop every weekday. So if that sounds like your thing, hit, subscribe wherever you get your BBC podcasts and turn on your notifications so you never miss an episode. But for now, let's get to the story. I'm taking you back to the 1970s, when a soiree in Lima, Peru, revolutionized modern flamenco. But first, this was the sound of Flamenco before 1977. Hand clapping or palmas, footwork, customettes, and of course, the guitar. And although it was already lovely, that year a new instrument joined the ensemble. Do you know its name? It's the cajon, the drum box. It's a rectangular wooden box that you sit on and play with your hands. The front panel is thin and the back panel has a round hole in the middle to let the tone resonate. Today, the cajon is seen as a staple in flamenco, but it's not originally from Spain, it's from Peru. So how did it cross the Atlantic and carve out a place for itself in such a traditional art form? We'll hear the story from a percussionist who was at the center of it. And to spice this up even more, he's not Peruvian nor Spanish. He's from Brazil.
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I'm Ruben Dantas, a musician, and I love music.
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Rubem grew up in Salvador da Bahia, a city in the northeast of Brazil that is a melting pot of cultures.
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Bahia is in Caribbean, Bahia is Europa. Bahia is incredible. In Bahia, you have both Europe and Africa, and that's an advantage. There's culture from everywhere. I played the Brazilian bass drum, the triangle, and I experimented with bird calls and dry, flamboyant pods. Percussion allows you to do that, to make music out of plant leaves or even water.
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About 80% of people in Salvador are of African descent, and their music dominated the scene in the 60s and 70s.
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It was a time when you could hear all sorts of music, but none of it was from Spain. Then one day an Italian guy showed up. He was an incredible guitarist. One time I heard him playing something that sounded so different. I asked, what's that? And he said, it's flamenco. I asked, what about the percussion? What do they use? And he told me There were only guitars, palmas, the dancer's footwork, and the vocals. So I said, what? No percussion instruments? Well, I'll go to Spain one day and introduce percussion into flamenco.
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And so he did.
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I came to Madrid with one of the most impressive groups that in Yoruba culture, one of the many African nations represented in Bahia. I decided to stay in Madrid. The day the group was flying back to Brazil, I went to say goodbye. I stopped at a bar in the airport to get some water. And there I met Paco de Lucia. I didn't know who he was. I only knew one song that the tour bus driver was. Would play every once in a while. Entre Dos Aguas.
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Andre dos Aguas by Paco de Lucia, a virtuoso flamenco guitarist.
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I loved it. I thought it was incredible. He wrote his phone number on a napkin, but he didn't write Paco de Lucia, and he wrote Francisco Sanchez Gomez. Who's Francisco Sanchez Gomez?
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Rubem would end up playing with Paco. And in March 1977, they were on a tour across South America with other artists when they landed in Peru.
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When we arrived, we went to the hotel and there were musicians playing. The guitarist was sitting on an instrument. I had never seen that instrument before. I was moved because the first time I saw the kahon, I was taken back to my childhood, because when my father died, I moved in with my grandmother. She had an impressive table that my grandfather had built for her. And most of the time you'd find me tapping on it. My uncle would act as a dj. He would put a record on and say, play to this tune. And I would. That table had the quality of an instrument. It was incredible. So when I discovered, I was almost scared by how exciting it felt.
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The cajon is thought to have developed in the 17th century, when Peru was a Spanish colony and slaved Africans worked the coastal plantations. Out of this mix emerged musica criolla, or Creole music. Peruvian musician Luis Torres explains a bit.
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There are many theories about the Cajon's origins. One is that Afro descendants began plaguing the wooden boxes used to transport goods on ships in reuniones.
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And that's what Rubem heard during his visit in Lima. First at the hotel, and later
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there was a party in the Spanish embassy, and everyone was there.
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Here's what Paco de Lucia told the Spanish public network Radio Television about that night.
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Chabuca Granda, a very famous Peruvian singer, came with a black man who played the cajon caitro. I grabbed the guitar and played with him. And I immediately saw that the cajon was the percussion for flamenco. It had the high sound of a dancer's heel and the low sound of the soul.
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He told me I needed to play the cajon right away, and I said, I'm already playing it. Paco.
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Here's a taste of what Paco and Ruben could have heard that night. It's Peruvian musician Kaitro Soto playing and singing toromata.
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He was impressive, a master in his genre, a composer, and he had such a voice.
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Both Rubem and Paco claim it was their idea to buy kaytroskajon that night. But they do agree that it was Paco who ended up paying.
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I said, I'm playing that tomorrow. They said, what? And I was like, yes, yes. But I have no money with me now. So after a negotiation, Paco paid him 12,000 pesetas. I played the cajon on our following concert. We next played in Chile, and people there already thought that cajon was part of flamenco.
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It spread like wildfire. Six months later, every flamenco house in Spain have a cajon.
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Since then, the cajon has traveled across the world, being introduced in different genres like jazz and blues. Along the way, it has been modified. Flamenco Percussionists, for instance, have introduced snare wires inside. They call it cajon flamenco to differentiate it from the original. But Rubem is not very happy with this.
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It doesn't belong to flamenco pestejo, jazz, nor samba. It's just the cajon. I would love to end with that cajon flamenco. A cajon is a cajon. Leave it alone.
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And what happened to Kaitro's cajon?
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It's right here in front of me, but it's at its limit now. I'm waiting for some technology that can fix it, because I can't sit on it.
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That was percussionist Ruben Dantas sharing the story of how a Peruvian instrument revolutionized Spanish flamenco. He was speaking to me. Stefania Gotzer for Witness History from the BBC World Service. Please let your friends know about Witness History. And if you are interested in hearing more personal stories about music, why not listen to my episode about the Mexican song that captivated lovers during World War II? And while you're listening, make sure you hit. Subscribe wherever you get your BBC podcasts. Thank you for listening. Bye.
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Imagine being here. Scientists have made the atomic bomb. The first one was dropped on a Japanese city this morning. Here, during the meeting, Mr. Mandela was informed of the government's decision regarding his release. And here, witnesses have spoken of a wall of water that swept coastlines in Sri Lanka, Indonesia, hear from the people who were there. He heard me praying while he was shooting and he just stopped and he said, I'm not going to. I'm going to leave you here to tell the story. Knowing that you have a spy and that you're following a spy. It doesn't get any cooler than that. Witness History brings you first hand accounts.
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Merkel gets up and says, I'm going. And Tusk says, I'm locking the door.
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Host: Stefania Gotzer
Air Date: July 21, 2026
Duration: ~9 minutes
This episode of Witness History explores the unexpected journey of the Peruvian "cajón" (box drum) across continents and into the heart of Spanish flamenco. Through first-hand accounts—primarily from Brazilian percussionist Rubem Dantas—the episode reveals how this humble instrument forever altered a centuries-old musical tradition.
This brief but lively episode weaves a fascinating cross-cultural tale of innovation through the eyes of those who lived it. With warmth, nostalgia, and humor, Rubem Dantas and Paco de Lucia's stories show how musical traditions can adapt and thrive—enriched by unexpected influences and fueled by creative risk. The cajón’s journey from Peruvian folk to global stages also invites a reflection on authenticity, tradition, and the universal language of rhythm.