The first time I heard the Gypsy Kings, I was somewhere down, deep, in Andalucía, southern Spain, the land of past conquerors, sultans, conquistadors.   It was hot there, always this searing heat, which during the day danced wildly, reflecting itself off the sand and water, the light fracturing itself into pieces, falling on all those willing or not.   At night, the air cooled considerably, the only light now offered faint by the moon.  Still the previous days' warmth and tomorrow's promise of the same remained, felt through the soles of feet traipsing the sand, wandering the surf, both warmer then than the air above.