Adventures of a Gringa

Guest Post: A Different Vision of Maracatu

This post originally comes from Zero Tres, written by Ernesto, a boricua living in Recife.

From the sugarcane fields to your feet

We walk the Olinda seaside and pick a restaurant. Overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, we order the cheapest dish on the menu. We are, after all, budget travelers; we can’t afford even the most inexpensive restaurant in the touristy historic center. There is a sign nearby with an ominous message, and the fact that it is translated to English makes the message even more worrying: “Danger – Bathers in this area are at a greater than average risk of shark attack.”

But there are threats on land as well. A parade of products interrupts our conversation, and we realize we made a grave mistake sitting outdoors. We are no more a target than the locals, but the hawkers are no doubt a nuisance. The flower vendor lightens the mood when he jokingly offers his product to us, heterosexual men.

The sound of approaching cowbells pierces through the evening air. Everyone notices him, the caboclo-de-lança[1], in full costume. The charismatic young man approaches each table with a smile; when our turn comes, we actually pay attention. He obviously wants money, but his honesty makes us smile. He had taken part in a maracatu de baque solto[2] in the historic center, but transportation hadn’t been arranged. Now he wanted to catch a bus home, but he also wanted to have a beer, and he was asking for a handout. We gave him a few coins and he walked to the next table, and the next table, and so on until the sound of cowbells fades away.

We are left to wonder whether he gathered enough spare coins to complete his bus fare, and save himself from the long walk home. We wonder whether the sound of cowbells will continue through the neighborhoods of Olinda, until this caboclo-de-lança reaches his home, wherever it may be.

During the months leading up to Carnaval, the caboclo-de-lança (and, therefore, the sound of these cowbells) becomes a part of the city’s daily life. The groups that perform maracatu de baque solto rehearse their traditional dance/theater, leading up to countless presentations during Carnaval itself. The tradition is also called maracatu rural[3], due to the fact that it was originally created in the rural, sugarcane plantations around Recife. That surname distinguishes it from the more African version, called maracatu de baque virado[4] or maracatu nação[5], which is predominant in urban Recife. Though today most of the maracatu rural groups are still based in those sugarcane fields, at least one is based in Olinda itself: the Maracatu Piaba de Ouro.

When I became a student of Mestre Salustiano a year later, I began to understand the situation. He explained that the costume for the caboclo-de-lança costs R$300 ($150USD), of which approximately half is paid for by the government. In the more popular groups, the rest of the cost is shouldered by the organizers. In the absence of funds, each member of the group must fend for him or herself. Due to the fact that the Brazilian minimum wage is R$465 per month ($235USD), it’s hard for me to imagine how a sugarcane worker is able to bear the expenses for this Carnaval hobby.

Mestre Salustiano passed away in 2008, but his city-based maracatu rural lives on, thanks in part to the additional popularity provided by Chico Science and the manguebeat movement at the end of the 20th century. Though his group, Nação Zumbi, incorporated drumming patterns from the maracatu nação, Chico himself would appear on stage dressed as a caboclo-de-lança and even composed a song in honor of Mestre Salustiano. Thanks to him, maracatu nação, maracatu rural and countless other regional rhythms became stronger and more respected elements of Brazil’s culture. And, in spite of Chico’s passing in 1997, the image of the caboclo-de-lança remains forever tied to the manguebeat cultural movement that Nação Zumbi spearheaded.

Though Nação Zumbi has toured abroad, exporting northeastern Brazilian culture to the world, the image of the caboclo-de-lança is about to reach uncharted territory. Nike has produced sneakers inspired by the colorful costume worn by the caboclo-de-lança. Pictures and descriptions of the shoes are now widely available online, and sneaker-release parties were held in Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo. Soon, the beautiful, new shoes will be available in Nike stores around the world. It is a great achievement: the first Brazilian-designed and inspired Nike sneakers.

But no Nike party was held in Recife, and with no official Nike store in the Brazilian Northeast it remains to be seen whether the region that provided the inspiration will even have the sneakers on the shelves. Local media has ignored the new sneakers so far, in spite of the connection to the local culture. More alarming is the hefty price tag. It should come as no surprise, however, since it is a world-famous brand name and import taxes in Brazil are sky high.

It seems ironic that the entire manguebeat movement was based on cultural cannibalism; that is, taking local rhythms and mixing them with rock and hip hop and countless other elements. Chico Science would dance around in his caboclo-de-lança costume while an electric guitar played distorted riffs over traditional rhythms played on maracatu drums. And I am left to wonder if, were he alive today, he’d combine his R$300 costume with a pair of R$400 sneakers. Would Chico’s lyrics “Pernambuco embaixo dos pés” (”Pernambuco under my feet”) become “Pernambuco nos meus pés” (”Pernambuco on my feet”)?

My disposable income is not disposable enough for either of those purchases, but the next time I encounter a caboclo-de-lança asking for change, I’ll be sure to spare more than a few coins.

_____________________
[1]caboclo-de-lança = a caboclo (person of mixed race, European and Amerindian heritage) of the spear
[2]maracatu de baque solto = maracatu of the loose beat
[3]maracatu rural = rural maracatu
[4]maracatu de baque virado = maracatu of the turned around beat
[5]maracatu nação = maracatu of the (African) nation

The Miracle of Saint Lucia

This month, a new documentary called O Milagre de Santa Luzia is coming out in Brazil about accordion music and the accordion tradition from the Northeast. To those unfamiliar with Brazilian music, this might sound like a pretty painfully boring topic to make an entire movie out of. But to those who know just how vast and rich the Brazilian music scene is, it is definitely a film to see. If anything, the cinematography looks pretty great in the trailer.

Until I can get my hands on it, I'll just have to get a kick out of this hilarious scene from the film, below, which just might be my favorite gringo music-meets-Brazilian-music since Donald Duck.

Latin Alternative Music Conference in New York

My good friend Paul works for Nacional Records, an alternative Latin music label, and was in New York last week helping run the Latin Alternative Music Conference. The main shows got an excellent review in the New York Times, which also provided an interesting perspective on the whole Latin alternative scene. Paul always sends me tons of stuff: music, articles, news, and I was really happy to be able to see what he's working on. I'm very jealous of him, because he's one of the few people my age that I know who is living his (career) dream and working in the field he really wants to be in.

Eli and I went to see Bomba Estereo and Calle 13 at Central Park's Summerstage, and Paul gave us the VIP treatment, which made it an even more fun experience (thanks, Paul!). The show opened with Eric Bobo, a drummer who mixes different musical styles and plays with a DJ.

Then came Bomba Estereo, which was my favorite. I've never quite heard anything like it, and that was part of what made them so interesting to listen to. The band hails from Colombia, and mixes cumbia and traditional Colombian music with rock, techno, hip hop, and some genres I couldn't even identify. It sounds like a bunch of songs were put in a blender, but it comes out sounding really cool. Also, I thought each of their songs sounded unique, which is somewhat rare. They're also great live.

The headliner was Calle 13, a hip hop band from Puerto Rico. They were also great live, and it was treat to be able to finally see them in concert.

The problem with alternative music, especially Latin alternative, is that it has a smaller audience than "mainstream" music and less coverage in the traditional music media, like the radio and music TV channels. But the digital age has helped the genre gain popularity, like on iTunes and Youtube, and its selective audience may be in its favor, as Jon Pareles from the NYT pointed out:

"Still, Latin alternative music hasn’t become a Next Big Thing. More often than not it is stranded between commercial radio formats. 'It’s not going to be exploding tomorrow and then gone nine months later,' Mr. Cookman said. 'It’s not about one song, one band, one dance move, one fashion. We don’t need our Macarena moment.'”

Flashback: Castelo das Pedras, 2006

This continues the Flashback series about my first experience in Brazil, when I traveled there in 2006.

Like any hostel tourist, I took the advice of the staff about what was a "must do" in Rio, and they suggested going to the legendary Sunday night funk party. So my friends and I signed up, and the next night we found ourselves in a van heading west.

Two hours and a pit stop later, we ended up in a favela somewhere off the highway near Barra. The guide led us into what appeared to be a massive warehouse, while lines stretched down the block. Music throbbed inside.

We were led through an enormous crowd on the ground level up to the upper level, where they herded the tourists and were serving R$1 beers. I made my way to the edge of the balcony. The space was filled with not hundreds, but thousands of people, dancing to a strange type of music, heavy on the bass and percussion, not quite hip hop, not quite American funk, not quite enjoyable on the ears. I gaped.

Eventually, my friends and I decided we'd had enough of the gringos and made our way down to the main dance floor with the locals. I was thrilled when the DJ played some funk songs I actually knew, some very pop-y ones popular at the Brazilian club I'd frequented in Buenos Aires. I was shocked and somewhat confused to see some of the favela boys dancing provocatively -- with one another. "Isn't this a macho country?" I wondered to myself. (I'd just come from living in Argentina, where men kiss to greet each other but would be horrified by grinding with one another.) I marveled at the other groups of guys doing sets of steps together, choreography that seemed almost like a line dance. I laughed during the dance contest, led by a hilarious flamboyant guy I later learned was David Brazil. I spent the night feeling like I was in a weird dream.

My friends and I made our way out around 4am and waited for the rest of the tourists to stumble drunkenly back to the van. In the meantime, my friend asked a guy to teach her some of the "line dance" steps, and I joined in on the dance in the middle of the street. I was disappointed when we were herded into the vans to head back.

Though I'd later go back to the same club several times after moving to Rio, I never had the same experience, that rush of adrenaline and shock of amazement, the wonder and delight of experiencing a culture so vastly foreign for the first time.

The Goddess of Rio

The lights were dim when the curtain opened, and all I could see was her silhouette: a slight but curvy frame and her traditional fluffy Afro. Then she opened her mouth to sing, letting out a guttural cry in her trademark gravelly voice: AFRICAAAA!

Then the lights came up and she turned to face the audience, wearing ripped cut-off denim shorts, high heels, and a metallic mesh halter top. (Later, she changed into a sparkly black mini dress with knee-high boots and black gloves). Her arms were muscular, but feminine muscular, not Madonna muscular, with samba dancer thighs, boobs so big they could only be silicone, and a face stretched tighter than Joan Rivers'.  She was the hottest seventy-one year old I'd ever seen. Then she began the number, along with the band, Farofa Carioca, and I could hardly believe my ears or eyes.

So it went at the Elza Soares/Farofa Carioca show on Saturday night in Cinelandia. A welcome respite from the Globo drama with the Goldman case, I had been dying to see Elza live after learning about her life and career, and managed to buy tickets just a half an hour before the show. I wasn't disappointed.

Elza was born in 1937 in a Rio slum, where she grew up desperately poor. When she was twelve, she was raped and got pregnant, and her mother forced her to marry the rapist, a much older man. She had the baby and several others in succession, though several of them died. She managed to escape from her husband, and competed in a singing competition on the radio, which she won, helping her begin her music career. From there, she became a very popular samba singer, and went on to become the great love of Garrincha, one of Brazil's most beloved soccer players. But he was already married, and many opposed the union, even threatening Elza's life, with several actual attempts to kill her. But she survived, though she later broke up with the alcoholic Garrincha, and continued her path to stardom.

During the show, Elza and the band performed an odd array of musical styles including mangue beat, Brazilian rock, as well as samba, salsa and MPB. Though there were a few moments when I couldn't tell if she was screaming or singing, she has an incredibly unique voice that just sucks you in. My favorite numbers were the salsa remix of "Vou apertar" and an acapella bossa nova song she sang at the very end.

Before the encore, there was a lot of talking, Brazilian-style, but luckily they let Elza say a few words. She talked about how she got pregnant at age 12 and how she'd experienced a lot in life. But her words stuck with me. "Não sofri. Eu aprendi. Todo dia eu aprendo, todo dia é como o vestibular." [I haven't suffered. I learned. I learn every day, every day is like a test.]

I was struck by the power of Elza's voice, her delicate dance moves, and her incredible stage presence. After being through so much ("it's not easy to be a woman in this country," she also mentioned) here she was in the spotlight at 71 in the body and spirit of a 21 year-old. I was just blown away. When the lead singer of Farofa Carioca called her "deusa" (goddess), I couldn't agree more. Only a goddess could be capable of everything Elza has done, and only an elderly goddess could be in such good shape. Or at least a goddess with a good plastic surgeon.

Black Orpheus

Orfeu Negro is a love story, about a black couple living in a Rio favela in the 1950s. Barack Obama's mother saw the film as a teenager, shortly before meeting Obama's Kenyan father. I read a story in VEJA awhile back in which the writer postured that the movie fed Obama's mother's fascination of foreign cultures and more specifically, an interest in black men. She loved the movie, but when she invited Obama to watch it with her, he was horrified by the stereotypes and depiction of the black characters. It's set during Carnival and happens to have an excellent soundtrack, so here's the first part, with subtitles:

Carmen

Last night, Eli and I watched a documentary about Carmen Miranda, the Portuguese-born, Brazilian-raised Hollywood starlet and singer. I´d always been interested in her life, but after learning more I´ve really become fascinated by her. Though she died early and tragically, I find it just as terrible that she was wholly rejected by the Brazilian public during the height of her career, only to be redeemed by her untimely death.

Here she is singing one of my favorite Brazilian songs of all time, Aquarela do Brasil.