OlÃ‰ Yes indeed-there was Nila and Nana and Meda and Sarita and Lupe and Lola. . . and Terry and Marilyn and Laurie and Toby and Phoebe. Italy-born, Brooklyn-raised, Spanish-dancing Jose (nÃ‰ Costanzo or Gus) succumbed to every temptation that came his heel-tapping way (""only the sanctimonious can really condemn it"") and believes in clinching and telling, though the telling is decorous, childlike, and blissfully repetitious and ungrammatical (where was Harvey Ardman's ""with"" when Jose needed it?). Anyway, Jose did reserve enough gusto to work up from Mme. Veola's dance classes (practicing in the cellar) to partnering the legendary Argentinita to his own Barcelona-born company--determined to turn authentic gypsy/flamenco from a nightclub attraction into a theatrical art form. Did he make it? Well, ""the audience went literally insane"" in Seville, and ""they quite literally went out of their minds"" in Copenhagen--and then came Ed Sullivan, a couple of movies, and palship with Sinatra and such. And the beat goes on, despite unreliable gypsies, touring nightmares, alimony nightmares, the death of a loyal-to-a-fault, alcoholic business manager, and the approach of age 60. Plastic castanets in the neon moonlight.