
August at Cardamomo. Heat that dances to bulerías.
While Madrid naps through the August heat, inside here flamenco boils — and the good kind.
We’re not giving you a list of names. We’re telling you what happens here every night: a dancer who leaves his soul on the stage, a singer who grabs you from the inside and won’t let go, and a guitar that sounds like Madrid.
This is flamenco with no safety net — the kind that’s born and dies in the moment. Every night is different, and every night is real. If you’re looking for the soul of the city when everything else is closed, you’ll find it at our tablao.
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