Bossa Nova: The Story of the Brazilian Music That Seduced the World

by Castro, Ruy

  If João Gilberto had hit the ground with a thud upon learning that he was fired, he managed to break his fall with a spring mattress. He didn’t blame them for their actions. And as had happened with Jonas, he remained friends with Os Garotos. (Except for Acyr, whom he only spoke to again five years later.) In addition, he had just moved out of Alvinho’s apartment in Tijuca to stay with the others in the Bairro da Fátima—again, until he found a place to live. His unemployed status was now twofold: he had been fired from the House of Representatives and also from the group. But in his mind and in his heart, he believed that the situation was just temporary.

  One thing is certain: his departure from Os Garotos da Lua was the last time he was fired. It was also the last time in his life that he would have regular work.

  His relationship with Sylvinha was just one of the things that distracted João Gilberto from the rigors of professional life, and it was certainly the sweetest. She was eighteen years old, studied at the Colégio Sacré-Cœur de Marie, and was the younger sister of Mário Telles, his best friend. Mário worked in his family’s textile business when he wasn’t spending time with Os Garotos da Lua. He was almost like the sixth member of the group, although he didn’t sing and hadn’t even dreamed of becoming a lyricist. João met him at the Murray and the two became so close that when one showed up without the other, people would ask, “Hey, where’s the other side of the record?”

  Mário and Sylvinha Telles lived with their parents in Rua Farani, in Botafogo, and their house was a meeting place for vocal ensembles, despite all the strict rules. Their father, Mr. Paulo, could not abide alcohol, and the boys had to make do with the soda guaraná. But Sylvinha and Mário’s mother, Dona Maria, was French and a fantastic cook. Her baked sea bass with avocado sauce generated cries of approval from among those youngsters who frequently did not even have the money for a steak and eggs at the Hanseática, a restaurant in Praça Mauá behind Rádio Nacional. João became very close to the family and fell in love with Sylvinha.

  Among other things, she confided in him her adolescent dream: she wanted to be a ballet dancer. She studied dance with instructor Madeleine Rosay of the Teatro Municipal Corps de Ballet. She also studied piano and loved to sing, and João would spend hours accompanying Sylvinha in “Duas contas” (Two Beads), which the composer Garoto had recorded with Trio Surdina. It was clear that Sylvinha would have a brilliant future at the microphone if her family—or rather, her father—would allow it. There would have been much more sea bass with avocado sauce had João and Sylvinha’s relationship not progressed to the point of dangerously resembling courtship, and Mário did not like it. According to social etiquette of the time, a friend’s sister was off-limits, and to try and court her was anathema.

  João wasn’t concerned about etiquette, mainly because it appeared that Sylvinha returned his feelings, and they began a passionate affair. Mário broke off his friendship with him, and at this, João and Sylvinha glimpsed a clear road ahead. She began to accompany him everywhere, sometimes wearing her public school uniform, and witnessed the quarrel with Acyr at the Murray that caused his departure from Os Garotos da Lua.

  However, although Mário was unable to put a stop to the forbidden relationship, old man Paulo broke it up a few months later, with the weight of his paternal authority, when João had the temerity to announce that he wanted to marry his daughter. As he suspected that he would be shown the door, João did not go to Rua Farani to ask for Sylvinha’s hand in person, he sent another frequent visitor to the house, the broadcaster Macedo Neto, in his place. Macedo listened to Mr. Paulo’s refusal and his invectives against João Gilberto, and even became the target of a few insults himself. Mr. Paulo would not allow his daughter to marry a down-and-out from Bahia, who was incapable of repaying even the smallest loan and who lived his life sponging off others. Sylvinha was forbidden to continue her relationship with that “good-for-nothing,” and Mário took it upon himself to ensure that it remained that way.

  Sylvinha knew that João Gilberto was trying to become someone. The two were still dating in August 1952, when the opportunity arose for João to record his first solo track. It would be with the new recording company Copacabana, and he was given the luxury of having a string section sweeten the harmonies of the group that was to back him. The group, in turn, featured the sensational Jorginho on alto sax, as well as the pianist Britinho and the accordionist Orlando Silveira, the composer of the arrangements. He could not complain.

  For his grand debut, João Gilberto picked two samba-canções which were hot off the press: “Quando ela sai” (When She Leaves) by Alberto Jesus and Roberto Penteado, and “Meia Luz” (Half Light) by Hianto de Almeida and João Luiz. All the songs’ composers were young and frequented the Murray. The recording was done in an atmosphere of celestial peace—almost on the first try, without hesitations, mistakes, or repetitions. Those who attended would never have suspected that it was João Gilberto’s first recording without the support of a vocal ensemble. It was as if he had spent his entire life preparing himself for that moment, and when the moment arrived, his heart barely skipped a beat.

  Unless the doctor’s watch had stopped. Listening to this João Gilberto recording, one encountered confidence personified. His calm superiority when singing reminded one of Orlando Silva in his heyday, when not even a fly in the studio would disturb the “singer of the multitudes.” But it wasn’t just that. Everything about these two tracks reminded one of Orlando Silva: the easy projection of his voice, the variance, the vibratos, his manner of emphasizing certain words, the “sentiment,” and, at certain times, even his voice itself—including Orlando’s smooth and rounded rrs. It was as if the older singer, who was at the time going through his worst personal and professional hell—no voice, no success and no acclaim—had finally found his double in a Bahian native from Juazeiro.

  João Gilberto’s discographies, which usually start their listings with the 78 r.p.m.s containing “Chega de saudade” (No More Blues) and “Bim-bom,” recorded six years later, tend to omit this first record. This is understandable: few researchers are aware of its existence, and even fewer have heard it. Not that it was released and then withdrawn. João Gilberto recorded it, it was released, and, quite simply, nothing happened. It was barely given any airtime on the radio, few people showed interest in buying it, and neither of the two songs inspired much enthusiasm in the radio stations where he promoted them live. It wasn’t a total fiasco, probably because not even the recording company thought things would be any different. The only person who saw the whole thing as a failure was João Gilberto.

  The disdain with which his debut record was received is almost incomprehensible when one realizes that, under different circumstances, he could have been the greatest romantic singer in Brazil. Maybe this was the problem: in “Quando ela sai” (When She Leaves) and “Meia Luz” (Half Light), João Gilberto stepped back years in time, in the style of Orlando Silva, during an era when people only wanted to hear the nonchalant spirit of Dick Farney and Lúcio Alves. It was an “outdated” way of singing which in those days wasn’t even paying the rent of Orlando Silva himself. For those listening to the record today who are unable to recognize João Gilberto as the singer he would later become, there is a marked absence of something on the two tracks: his guitar. There is no point in searching for it because Britinho’s piano is heard in its place. Today it seems ridiculous, but at the time, no one particularly missed it, because João Gilberto was not yet especially well known for playing that instrument. (In Os Garotos da Lua, Milton was the guitarist.) But even though it’s perfectly normal that there isn’t the merest hint of the future bossa nova beat in that record, it’s remarkable that no vestiges of his hero, Lúcio Alves, have remained. During the recording session, João Gilberto allowed himself to be completely taken over by the spirit of the young Orlando Silva.

  Lúcio Alves was one of the first people that João wanted to meet when he arrived in Rio. Cravinho was a mutual friend and m
ade the introductions. The ex-Namorado da Lua, only four years older than João Gilberto, was already a big star and had almost sung with Tex Beneke’s band. And that’s not all: he was finally now starting to savor the bright side of the moon. He was the singer to whom all other singers took off their hats. With his ear finely tuned to listening for mistakes, Lúcio understood the potential that the boy from Bahia possessed and immediately decided to help him. He had many opportunities to do so—whenever Os Garotos da Lua were about to go on air, for example, and João Gilberto was nowhere to be seen at the Tupi studios.

  When João and Os Garotos broke up, and it became uncomfortable for him to continue living with them, Lúcio invited him to stay at his apartment in Rua Raul Pompéia, in Copacabana—until he found another place. By all accounts, it wasn’t very easy, and João had a habit of staying indefinitely wherever someone put him up. Some months later, Rádio Nacional wanted to include the song “Just One More Chance,” written by Sam Coslow and Arthur Johnson, and made a hit by Les Paul and Mary Ford, in one of their soap operas, and asked Haroldo Barbosa to write a Portuguese version of it. Within a short time, Barbosa had changed it to “Um minuto só” (Just One Minute) and asked Lúcio Alves to record the acetate. But singing versions of American songs gave Lúcio hives. He declared that he was not available and suggested João Gilberto in his place. João recorded the acetate in a perfect imitation of Lúcio Alves. Except for the lowest tones of Lúcio’s voice, which he was unable to duplicate, he copied all of his idol’s mannerisms and sang in such a way that those who did not know better would swear they were listening to Lúcio Alves. For João, it was an homage to his friend. Lúcio thanked him and accepted the compliment, but in truth, it became a thorn in his side. Perhaps he realized, for the first time, that João might pose a threat.

  João Gilberto had shown that, if he wanted, he could be the next Lúcio Alves. His record would prove that he could also be the next Orlando Silva. What would happen when he decided to become himself—João Gilberto?

  In Rio’s Lapa neighborhood in 1951, marijuana could be purchased almost openly. One of the dealing spots was the sidewalk outside the Primor bar and the Colonial cinema, in the Largo da Lapa, opposite the streetcar depot. The suppliers were the boys who sold cigarettes on wooden trays. On those trays, in amongst the innocent Lincoln, Caporal Douradinho, Liberty Ovais, and other commercial brands, one could select cigarettes that came rolled in three different sizes and prices: fino, dólar, and the thickest, charo. There is no record of the prices at that time, but apparently they were cheap, considering their exceptional quality—without a doubt, in order to lure customers. In close company, marijuana was called mato, “herb,” or, by the initiated, Rafa—an abbreviation of the expression “Is Rafael there?,” used to inquire if there was any reefer available.

  No one ran a significant risk by smoking it in public places. Although it wasn’t exactly a crime, it was advisable not to do it around the police because it might give them ideas. Passersby weren’t a problem: few people knew how to identify it by its smell. As almost no one really knew what sort of effect it would have, the worst thing that could happen to someone who was caught smoking it was to acquire a reputation as a “screwball.” That is, nothing that would really contribute to further tainting the image that musicians and singers already had.

  Despite the apparent liberalism, few white musicians and singers had that reputation in the early fifties. The sambistas on the hill always had marijuana at their disposal, but it took a long time to come down into the city; and when this happened, shortly after World War II, it was on a small-scale basis. At first, its main consumers were American soldiers on leave in Rio, who were already stoned when they disembarked at the pier in Praça Mauá. There they would make contact with Cuban sailors, who were always ahead of the game when it came to matters like this and would resolve their problem. Many of those soldiers became friends with the Rádio Nacional musicians, whose hangout was Zica’s Bar in Praça Mauá, almost right next to the radio station. Zica’s was not really a spot for drug dealing, restricting itself to a profitable trade of contraband whiskey and the sale of dollars. But between the comings and goings of the marines, Cubans, and musicians, there was an awakening interest in the product even among those who didn’t smoke commercial cigarettes. Tommy Dorsey’s orchestra came to Rio that year and introduced the Rádio Tupi gang to the product’s wide variety of uses.

  Almost everyone in Os Garotos da Lua smoked Rafa, and when they first offered it to João Gilberto, in the Bairro de Fátima apartment, he discovered qualities in it that normal cigarettes, which he tried to smoke despite a certain amount of nausea it caused, decidedly did not have. It gave him the impression of sharpening his senses, allowing him to perceive sounds and colors of which he had previously been unaware. It also appeared to awaken a semi-inexplicable mysticism which until then, at the age of twenty, he had unconsciously repressed. It was an easy conquest. From that moment on, he never smoked Lincoln, Caporal Douradinho, or Liberty Ovais again.

  João Gilberto had only recently arrived from Bahia when he came across João Donato at Rádio Tupi. Neither of them had ever seen the other in his life. They stared at one another for a moment and João Gilberto exclaimed:

  “It’s true!”

  And Donato knew exactly what he meant.

  In Salvador, a few months before, Alvinho, of Os Garotos da Lua, had told João Gilberto that when he got to Rio he would meet an accordionist who could be his twin. In Rio, they said the same thing to Donato about the singer they were bringing in from Bahia. When João Gilberto and Donato met at the Tupi, they discovered that Alvinho was right.

  They also discovered that they were alike in other, more important ways. Musically, the two insisted on an all-out effort from others and a little more from themselves, which made it hard to play with them in a group: apparently no one was good or proficient enough to play with them. But this list of demands did not include a strong attachment to discipline, and this wasn’t always very well understood by their employers. With so many things in common, it was normal for them to be hand-in-glove with each other during those first uncertain years of the 1950s. In front of others, they communicated in an inconvenient code, comprising more silence than actual words, just beyond the understanding of mere mortals. This afforded them the reputation of being eccentric, which they were never able to shake. And with good reason: they were eccentric. Why else would they visit the Instituto Pinel, a psychiatric hospital in Botafogo, if they didn’t know anyone who had been committed? (Running the additional risk that they would not be allowed to leave.)

  Nevertheless, the fact that they were together from sunrise to sunset did not, initially, result in any collaborations, except during shopping sprees in Lapa. The two of them weren’t even developing musically at the same speed; Donato was leagues ahead of João Gilberto. In June 1953, while Donato was recording that extremely modern version of “Eu quero um samba” (I Want a Samba) at Sinter with Os Namorados, João Gilberto was leaping up and down with excitement at having recorded the first song he had written: a colorless samba-canção in partnership with Russo do Pandeiro, called “Você esteve com meu bem?” (Have You Been with My Sweetheart?)—which was OK for the era; but even without the shaking rhythm of the afoxê on the recording, it would not have taken offense at being called a bolero.

  Russo do Pandeiro was a veteran of Carmen Miranda’s entourage in Rio and Hollywood. Living in the United States, Russo appeared in several American comedies that were set in “Brazil,” starring Groucho Marx, Esther Williams, and the Bing Crosby/Bob Hope/Dorothy Lamour trio. He also had a band called Russo and the Samba Kings. He was never nominated for an Oscar, but earned enough money to carry out his greatest cinematic achievement: buying Rudolph Valentino’s former home in Beverly Hills. Upon his return to Rio in 1950, he sold Valentino’s house and built a “jingles” recording studio in Rua Santa Luzia. The beloved Russo didn’t even contribute so much as a comma in the partnersh
ip that produced “Você esteve com meu bem?,” but it was due to his contacts at RCA Victor that the song was recorded, by a starlet: Mariza, the future Gata Mansa, João Gilberto’s new girlfriend.

  In 1953 João was still nursing his wounds from the breakup of his romance with Sylvinha Telles when he met Mariza, who was nineteen, at a party in Tijuca, where she lived. He thought she was a drop-dead gorgeous brunette (which didn’t really take great powers of observation), and when he found out that she liked to sing, he wasted no time in getting out his guitar to accompany her. Mariza sang “Sandália de prata” (Silver Sandal) by Alcyr Pires Vermelho and Pedro Caetano. João was so incredibly impressed that he was unable to resist asking her the usual question, if she had plans to become a singer for real. Mariza said she was happy with her job as a shop assistant at a department store. He guaranteed that he would make her a professional. In fact, what he wanted was to make her his girlfriend (in which he succeeded), but he also made her a singer. And it was a good thing that it did in fact happen, because after he had promised her bright lights and applause, Mariza gave her notice at the store.

  “Você esteve com meu bem?,” in which she was accompanied by the conductor Gaya’s orchestra, with João Gilberto playing a heavenly but traditional guitar, won Mariza a series of performances at nightclubs and, some time later, an extended contract in the Golden Room at the Copacabana Palace—so long, in fact, that for years there were people who thought she always sang there. João managed to do for Mariza what he failed to do for himself. But for him, that record was just one more disappointment. The song raised no eyebrows and no one even noticed his guitar. The situation began to get worrisome. By then, he had already been out of work for a year, and the jingles he had begun to record in Russo de Padeiro’s studio barely paid his streetcar fare. Besides, he hadn’t come all the way from Bahia to be a jingles singer.