photo: public domain ↗On 20 January 1894, Cádiz's Salón Edison played two of 'the celebrated malagueñas of El Mellizo' off an Edison wax cylinder for the city's assembled bourgeoisie — sixteen years before anyone is confirmed to have recorded him, and historians still argue whether the voice on that cylinder was even his. Enrique Jiménez Fernández, a Cádiz slaughterhouse worker who also delivered the killing blow at bullfights, never entered a studio; he reportedly scoffed that professional recording turned singers into tinned tuna. What survives instead is reputation: three soleá styles, two siguiriya styles, a reshaped alegrías and cantiñas, and a towering signature malagueña. The oft-told story that he built that malagueña from Gregorian chant drifting out of a Cádiz church has no period documentation behind it — a legend, not a fact. What he actually built on, more soberly, was family and rival cantaores.
Cádiz's own flamenco dictionary is blunt about where the tientos came from: 'también se le atribuye la creación del cante por tientos, sobre la base de los cantes de El Marruro' — Spanish for 'the creation of cante por tientos is also attributed to him, on the basis of El Marrurro's cantes.' El Marrurro, a Jerez singer from the San Miguel quarter, is named by some sources as the tangos-tientos style's true originator, by others as Mellizo's overlooked rival claimant to the same creation — the flamenco literature never fully settles which. Either way, Mellizo's tientos are agreed to be built on El Marrurro's cantes, not invented clear of them.
listen forNeither man left a note on wax: El Marrurro sang before recording reached Jerez, and no cylinder confirmed to hold Mellizo's own voice has surfaced. What survives instead is a paper trail — multiple flamenco reference works place the same claim side by side, El Marrurro's tangos-tientos feeding directly into Mellizo's tientos as flamenco's slow, guitar-anchored form of confession. Later singers who learned it from Mellizo's own line still hold that unhurried, dragging pulse, tercios stretched long over the beat — the shared inheritance the sources argue over, even lacking a shared recording to prove it.
In 1846, the writer Serafín Estébanez Calderón sat in on a Triana gathering and described a young gitana singing a malagueña so unlike the known style that the room proposed naming it after her: 'La Dolora.' Genealogists later identified that singer as Dolores Jacoba Ortega Díaz — the woman who would become Enrique el Mellizo's mother-in-law. Flamencologist José Manuel Gamboa states the connection plainly: 'de La Dolora de Cádiz parte la concepción de la malagueña del Mellizo' — Spanish for 'the conception of Mellizo's malagueña starts from La Dolora of Cádiz.' No document places Enrique in the room, but the family tie is real and the timeline holds.
listen forThere's no recording of La Jacoba's voice, and none confirmed of Mellizo's either — but Estébanez Calderón described her malagueña's shape in close detail: a soaring, 'muy corrido' opening, a deep dip toward the older Polo Tobalo style, then a rising close. That same three-part arc — bright opening, dark middle, lifted ending — is exactly the structure later singers reproduce as the malagueña doble and chica del Mellizo. Listen for the fall and rise inside a single verse; flamencologists argue that shape is the family fingerprint, passed from mother-in-law to son-in-law.