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Sevillian Steel in Print and Metal

By Phil Elmore

If one knows where to look, there are a lot of knife
fighting texts on the market. Many are fairly straightforward
systems variations on the same theme of individual defense with the
knife, using various postures and applying varied degrees of complexity.
Some are more scientific than others; some are more martial than others;
some are more practical than others.

Among
these texts are a few that make for enjoyable reading regardless
of technical content. This is thanks to the lore imparted real
or imagined glimpses into actual or fictitious blade cultures, the romantic
patina of which grow slowly but surely on the brain of many a

Walter Mitty wistfully perusing the pages of such literature. The
Sicilian Blade is one of these. It paints a picture of Sicilian
culture as proud, quick to redress wrongs with violence, ever-armed, and
mui macho. On its pages, crude hand-drawn illustrations depict
vest-wearing, mustachioed Sicilians fencing each other with lockblade
stilettos, defending their honor with flashing steel.

I am not immune to the draw of such books, though I try to
recognize the difference between the romantic and the pragmatic. The
well-worn lockback stiletto pictured here is my own blade, ground to
hair-splitting sharp, its handle smooth with mile after mile of travel.

When you consciously look away from the practical and to the
stylized, you must constantly keep in mind that you are allowing
yourself something. You are taking a break from the constant doom and
gloom and preparations for the End Times that sometimes characterize
martialist survivalism. You are playing at something. You
are recreating. You are consuming the intellectual equivalent of
dessert.

Sevillian Steel

It was with this sense of self-indulgent whimsy that
I purchased James Loriega’s Sevillian Steel: The Traditional Knife Fighting
Arts of Spain. I will be honest with you. I know relatively
little about Spanish culture except for snippets of Romany lore I picked up
from a friend in college, who knew a Gypsy girl in high school and spoke of
her more than once. I cannot, therefore, confirm any of the historical
assertions contained in Mr. Loriega’s book. I have no way of knowing if
the Spanish knife school he describes really exists or not, nor can I truly
comment on the historical Spanish literature cited (because I am not fluent in
Spanish). Whether fact, conjecture, or
some blend of the two, the book was nonetheless entertaining.
That is all I wanted of it and that is how I approached it from the beginning.

Sevillian Steel. Knife sold separately.

Loriega, a student of
Ronald Duncan (among
others), first relates a little of Spain’s history where knives are concerned.
He lists some of the different names used for the knife, including cuchillo
(any fixed-blade knife), punal (a stabbing knife), daga
(dagger), and navaja (the folding clasp knife). “The term
Sevillian Steel,” he asserts, “…is one that is used by the knife combat
enthusiasts of these regions when referring to the weapons and fighting
systems that originated and evolved in Andalusian Spain. …That
Andalusia became a major cradle of knife combat is hardly surprising given the
fact that prior to 1492 it was one of the major crossroads of the known world.
…[T]his part of Spain had at one time or another been invaded by the most
hostile warrior cultures ever to tread European soil.” The rest of this
section of the book is devoted to the history and use of the navaja, including
historical manuals relating to it.

The author indulging himself far from fabled
Andalusia.

The Spanish clasp knife has a certain flair.

Loriega describes a knife fighting school he says he found in Spain and
introduces three styles or classifications within the “arts of Sevillian
Steel.” These he identifies as the baratero style, a rudimentary method
concerned only with “street survival;” the gitano style, a stylized art that
he says originated with the Gypsies; and the sevillano style, the most sophisticated
and fluid of the three. He goes on to describe the design
characteristics of the navaja, relates more terminology, and provides photo
sequences detailing how to open and close a Spanish clasp knife.

Text and images contained in Sevillian Steel.

The text contains three chapters on the styles and tactics
of the baratero, gitano, and sevillano methods. Footwork, feints,
ranges, and even “rules of engagement” are covered. These are brief
sections, largely conceptual in nature, with few if any technical
illustrations. Photo sequences involving specific techniques follow in
chapters on offensive and defensive use of the navaja, as well as one on
targeting (“Finding Flesh”). There is a chapter on the woman’s navaja
(the salvavirgo, defender of a woman’s virtue) and one on carry modes.
One method described involves using a spring-clip open-top pistol magazine
pouch in order to carry the clasp knife inside the waistband, the handle
projecting above the beltline.

Line drawing at
right is an illustration by Loriega depicting targets.

“Knifeless and unarmed defenses” are the topic of the last
portion of the book, which includes defense against the blade using everything
from coats and canes to chairs and scissors. Loriega touches on some of
the conceptual framework of knife defense, including kicks and using your own
body (and even your blood) in a self-defense scenario. Chapters on first
aid, selecting a knife, and what would seem some sober advice round out the text.

Esparcia Rosewood Montera Clasp Knife

As with any review, regardless of how seriously I take the
subject or how knowledgeable I am of the topic, I try to experience the
material as fully as possible. In the case of Sevillian Steel,
this meant I had to obtain a Spanish clasp knife, examples of which were
nowhere to be found in my accumulation of blades. I went straight to
WorldKnives.com,
where I purchased an Esparcia Montera clasp knife with rosewood handles.
I received excellent service and fast shipping.

Esparcia Rosewood Montera from WorldKnives.com.

I selected the Montera because it is aesthetically pleasing
and one of World Knives’ most popular clasp patterns. It seemed
representative of the navajas depicted in Loriega’s book (though it lacks the
pronounced clip point typical of those knives). Wielding it certainly
does evoke the Andalusian imagery contained in Sevillian Steel.
While I’m not about to engage in any honor duels with passing Gypsies (my
devotion to The Martialist knows certain limits), I suspect this would
be the knife for such an activity.

Spine and clasp release contrast nicely with heavy
brass bolsters.

My clasp knife is a hefty blade six inches closed with a
four and three quarters inch 440 stainless steel blade. The blade is a
modified clip point with a long, unsharpened false edge, suitable for both
thrusts and slashes. It has some “belly” thanks to its subtle sweep and
performed reasonably well in testing against paper, cardboard, and plastic.
It had just an okay edge out of the box, so I sharpened it to suit me.
This included reshaping the tip, which was a little dull thanks to the shape
of the edge bevel. The blade locks open with some vertical play but feels reasonably secure despite this.

Clasp release raised. Moving it pulls the clasp
mechanism off the “teeth.”

The rosewood handle scales are a deep red-brown, polished
and lacquered for a smooth feel. Overall fit and finish where the brass
bolsters, steel clasp spine, and release lever meet and mate is relatively
crude but functional. Pins are uneven but ground flush. The whole
affair feels handmade.

The curved, tapered handle feels comfortable and natural in
my thick mitts. The handle material feels a little slippery, thanks to
its smooth finish, but it isn’t too bad. Point of balance is just below
the bottom of the brass “neck.”

The curve of the Montera fit my hands pretty well.

The clasp mechanism does not facilitate fast or casual
opening. One name for a traditional Spanish folder like this, according
to Loriega, is caraca, a term referring to the ratchet sound of the
lock mechanism. Teeth on the blade tang scrape against the clasp as the blade
is opening, producing an audible rat-tat-tat noise. One imagines
this is supposed to strike fear in the hearts of those who know what it means,
like the “click” of an Italian switchblade.

To open this stiff mechanism requires two hands, a maneuver
illustrated in Loriega’s book. Closing such a knife is trickier.
The thumb release must be held open for the entire arc of the blade, or the
knife will lock partially open as one of its teeth engage the clasp. To
close the knife while keeping your fingers out of the way takes some doing.

Opening the knife with two hands as described in the
text.

Manipulating the thumb clasp takes some doing.

Carrying the clasp knife presented some problems. Mr.
Loriega’s text contains an illustration of the blade tucked in one’s sash, but
of course I don’t wear a sash unless I’m attending my Kung Fu classes.
The Montera can be carried simply shoved into the beltline or secured IWB with
a magazine pouch as described in the text. I found that this particular
knife fits well simply sitting in my back pocket, too, as the length and curve
of the knife keep it oriented diagonally across the width of the pocket.
It prints fairly obviously this way.

The knife shoved into the beltline.

Montera fits the pocket well but prints badly.

Ultimately, this is not a very practical carry knife.
It has character and it has style, but progress in knife design has made the
difference between old and new quite evident.

Sevillian Style

While I don’t know how much of this text to believe, I
enjoyed reading Sevillian Steel and enjoyed even more my own practice
with the Spanish clasp knife. These are undeniably facets of what makes
foreign knife cultures fascinating. Both book and blade have an aura,
and atmosphere of exotic locales and romantic altercations. Real or
fictional, it would not be advisable to attempt living in such a world.

It is, however, fun to visit.

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