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

by Castro, Ruy

  Luís Cláudio and Pacífico were with João Gilberto when they ran into Carlos Drummond de Andrade in Avenida Rio Branco. Drummond, a great poet, worked close by at the Ministry of Education and had already become a kind of myth for many, but had still not even approached the national acclaim that he would later achieve. His poem “No meio do caminho” (In the Middle of the Road), written almost thirty years before, still induced hilarity among many literature professors who were nostalgic for the stony sonnets of Olavo Bilac. But his poetry was one of João Gilberto’s passions, and when he recognized Drummond, who was strolling bureaucratically along the sidewalk outside the Jornal do Brasil building, he threw himself at the latter, crying, “Master! Master!”

  The poet was startled. He wasn’t used to such effusiveness from admirers and had never seen this guy in his life. João Gilberto wanted his autograph, but didn’t have the courage to actually ask for it, limiting himself to smiling at Drummond and mumbling in a fawning voice, “Master … Master …”

  He handed Drummond a manila envelope he was carrying. It took the poet a while to figure out what he wanted, and, blushing conspicuously, he autographed it with turquoise ink. João Gilberto thanked him and let him go, all the while smiling and whispering “Master….” Minutes later, he walked into the Odeon office in the São Borja building and upon leaving, forgot the envelope there.

  Anyone who succeeded in getting an autograph from Carlos Drummond de Andrade could do anything, especially make a record.

  The temperature inside Columbia’s studio, in Praça Mauá, was close to zero. Not because the weather in Rio had gone crazy during that particular May of 1958, but because João Gilberto was going to sing for a man who acted as if he had neither the time nor the patience to listen to him: the current artistic director, Roberto Corte Real. It was the first time since 1952 that João Gilberto had stepped inside a real recording studio, with the expectation that they would allow him to make a record all of his own and in his way—without having to share the microphone with a vocal ensemble, or accompany rebellious singers. And he was desperate to make a record.

  But in order for the record to become a reality, he needed to undergo a kind of test with Corte Real, whose stakes were now higher than ever: the man had launched Cauby Peixoto with “Conceição” and two years previously, in 1956, had discovered Maysa. João Gilberto might have been dying to make a record, but the prospect of being tested—and eventually rejected—by a guy from São Paulo, someone he didn’t even know, wasn’t exactly part of the plan he had for his life. Tom Jobim was trying to convince Odeon to record him, and he wanted to wait. He had only agreed to offer his talents to Columbia on the insistence of Luís Cláudio, who that same day was due to record Tito Madi’s “Olhe-me, diga-me” (Look at Me, Tell Me), and had managed to drag him there, telling him that this was his chance. Once his own recording was over, Luís Cláudio would take Corte Real into a corner of the studio and João Gilberto would sing something for him—”Bim-bom,” of course, or perhaps “Hô-ba-la-lá.”

  Corte Real, like everyone in the record business, had heard Elizeth sing “Canção do amor demais,” but in somewhat of a rush, and had not been particularly impressed by the guitar that accompanied her. He agreed to hear João Gilberto as a favor to Luís Cláudio, a promising Columbia recording artist, and to Tito Madi, who had also spoken to him about the young man. He had almost no expectations. João Gilberto must have felt the chilly atmosphere and took it upon himself to make the temperature drop to glacial lows when he began to sing his little baião “Bim-bom” without the slightest bit of enthusiasm to “This is just my baião / And there’s nothing more to it …”

  Corte Real listened to him attentively, smoothing his bow tie and—what a surprise—he actually liked it. However, perhaps because he had a conservative notion of what a baião was, he made the fatal mistake of remarking:

  “Look, that’s very good, but it’s not a baião, and never will be. How about if in the verse that says ‘This is just my baião’, you substitute ‘This is just my song’ or something like that?”

  João Gilberto didn’t openly agree or disagree with him, but it was right then that Columbia lost him. Hours later, in a nearby bar that the studio musicians called Minhoca Sorridente (The Smiling Earthworm), he remarked to someone, “I didn’t like that Corte Rayol one bit,” distractedly mispronouncing his last name.

  When he emerged from the meeting with Corte Real, he bumped into Os Cariocas in the Columbia corridors. They were just about to go into the studio to record, believe it or not, “Chega de saudade.” They had learned the music with Luís Roberto, the group’s crooner, who in turn had learned it from João himself at the Botafogo boarding house. After hearing Elizeth’s record with João on guitar, they had decided to record it to escape the overbearing dictatorship of Columbia, which had been torturing them with boleros, rock ballads, and cover versions of songs by American vocal ensembles. But Badeco, Os Cariocas’s guitarist, had a problem: “I still haven’t figured out the beat, João.”

  “Let me do it for you,” he offered.

  He went in and recorded with them, incognito. “Chega de saudade,” performed by Os Cariocas, would only be released in the latter half of the year, after João Gilberto’s own record had already come out. But at that moment it was as if “Chega de saudade” had slipped through his fingers and become the property of everyone in the world except for him.

  Tom Jobim was doing everything he could. At the beginning of the year, he had the idea of making a demo on which João Gilberto would sing “Chega de saudade,” to be shown to Aloysio de Oliveira. Russo do Pandeiro, João’s collaborating partner on “Você esteve com meu bem?” (Have You Been with My Sweetheart?) in 1953, still had the studio he had built with the proceeds from the sale of Rudolph Valentino’s house. The record was made there—at no charge, featuring João Gilberto and his guitar—and taken to Aloysio de Oliveira. However, the latter refused to be convinced. He was still of the opinion that singing well meant not dispensing with vibrato in a strong voice. His model was Dorival Caymmi singing “Maracangalha,” Odeon’s first big hit since he had become director. Additionally, his experience in the United States had taught him that singers with short-range voices may be the toast of intellectuals, but have no commercial value whatsoever.

  But this time, Aloysio was pressured. André Midani persuaded him with the rationale that João Gilberto represented something that Brazilian music didn’t have: appeal for the younger generation. Jobim promised him that he would cut costs, they would record “Chega de saudade” using a simplified version of the arrangement he had written for Elizeth, without all those harps and French horns, and the other side, “Bim-bom,” would be cheaper still. He guaranteed him a record that was inexpensive and simple to produce. (Exactly what it ended up not being, but no one could have foreseen this.) On hearing all this, Ismael Corrêa, the sales director for the recording label, was emphatic with Aloysio: “Go ahead and make the recording, I’ll vouch for it.”

  The final blow to Aloysio’s resistance, meanwhile, came from a pro-João Gilberto campaign supported by the Brazilian composer Aloysio most respected: Dorival Caymmi. The old Bahian had met João at Rádio Tupi, and liked him. It was Caymmi who took him to Aloysio’s apartment in Rua Toneleros—and, like everyone who allowed themselves to be taken in by João Gilberto’s powers of seduction, Aloysio was unable to resist. He not only bought the idea of making the 78 r.p.m., he told João and Jobim to do as they pleased in the Odeon recording studio.

  Z. J. Merky, the authoritarian recording engineer, threw João Gilberto a dirty look through the glass partition when he asked for two microphones: one for himself and another for his guitar. Who had ever heard of such a thing? Odeon was very British in its control of assets and even more British (tight-fisted) in its control of costs. Debuting singers and unknowns had no right to luxuries. But Aloysio’s authority presided, and two microphones were found. However, Aloysio’s guarantee did not extend
to personal conflict, and the first confrontation was between João Gilberto and the musicians. Recording live in the studio with the orchestra, without any playback, he interrupted take after take, purportedly detecting mistakes made by musicians, which no one else noticed, and forcing the entire orchestra to play the piece over. At times, he behaved almost as if everyone in the studio but him were tone-deaf.

  Jobim’s arrangement was simple, but João asked for a four-man percussion section: Milton Banana on drums, Guarany on caixeta, Juquinha on the triangle, and Rubens Bassini on the bongos. While Vinícius’s lyrics talked about “abraços e beijinhos e carinhos sem ter fim” (endless embraces, kisses, and caresses), under their breath, the orchestra branded the singer a crazy man, and the latter declared that it was the orchestra who was trying to drive him mad. He had particular antipathy for an Argentine trumpet player named Catita. Following one of the innumerable interruptions, some of the musicians mutinied, put their instruments in their cases, and left, slamming the door behind them; when they agreed to return, the singer decided he didn’t want to record anymore. Tom Jobim didn’t know if he was supposed to be playing the piano, conducting the orchestra, or running around trying to keep the peace.

  The second confrontation was between João Gilberto and the technicians. Accustomed to normal singers, who accounted for three tracks every four hours (the average recording rate on planet Earth), they couldn’t understand such maniacal perfectionism, which was turning the recording of a simple 78 r.p.m. into an endless Cuban soap opera. The upheaval was prolonged for days following the third and worst conflict, between João Gilberto and Jobim himself. In addition to his nitpicking and bickering with the musicians and technicians, João Gilberto’s complaints about the chords were elevating the tension between the two of them to the tautness of a violin string. One more accusation from either one of the two—like João Gilberto repeating yet again that Jobim “didn’t understand anything”—would mean the end of “Chega de saudade” and “Bim-bom.”

  But it was in fact a deep and far-reaching insult by João Gilberto that ended up re-establishing a harmonious atmosphere: “Tom, you’re lazy—you’re Brazilian.” There was nothing else to do but laugh, and carry on to the end.

  According to Milton Banana, the recording took “almost a month,” coincidentally, the same month (June 1958) that the Brazilian soccer team was playing in the World Cup in Sweden. Banana was exaggerating. What he probably meant to say was that it took a month for all the different stages to be finalized—Jobim writing the arrangements, João Gilberto rehearsing with him at home, the meetings between João Gilberto and Banana to coordinate guitar and percussion, rehearsals with the orchestra, and, finally, the recording itself. All in all, actual studio time probably wasn’t more than a few days, and not even Odeon had enough studios to allow one of them to be occupied for weeks on end by a singer whose commercial success seemed, at best, doubtful. The official recording date for “Chega de saudade” and “Bim-bom,” July 10, was merely the date on which the definitive takes were recorded.

  After all that confusion, Odeon deprioritized the project, and realized that, when they thought about it, they had no idea how to categorize João Gilberto. He wasn’t exactly Anísio Silva (the recording company’s biggest seller); that was clear. But he wasn’t Lúcio Alves either, and Odeon only knew how to think in those terms. The record hit the Rio stores and radio stations in August, in a supplement that included, among other assorted absurdities, “Cachito” by Trio Irakitan, “Sayonara” by singer Lenita Bruno, and “Nel blu di pinto di blu” by violinist Fafá Lemos. That is to say, with no competition whatsoever.

  But nothing happened with “Chega de saudade” or “Bim-bom” in the first few months following their release—not because João Gilberto was too different for the market’s tastes, but because no one was listening to it. (Sophisticated radio stations, like the Rio-based Tamoio or Eldorado, who were the first to discover it, didn’t count, according to IBOPE [The Brazilian Institute of Public Opinion and Statistics]). But no other recording released at the time took off either, because the only thing that was played on the radio and through loudspeakers in stores was the victory anthem of the Brazilian soccer team in Sweden, “A Taça do Mundo é nossa” (The World Cup Is Ours), with the vocal ensemble Titulares do Ritmo (The Counts of Rhythm).

  But sales director Ismael Corrêa, who after all was running the show and had pushed to make the recording, refused to be beaten. The record—whatever category it fell into—could take off. He waited two months, until people had gotten used to the idea that Brazil was the world soccer champion and came back down to earth, and prepared to play the last card in his hand: releasing the record in São Paulo. In 1958, São Paulo was already the main market and had the largest chain of record and electrical appliance stores in the country, Lojas Assumpção. With twenty-five branches, almost all of them in the city and within the wealthy interior of the state, the Lojas Assumpção alone were practically able to dictate the success or failure of a record, as long as it was well promoted. Additionally, they were the sponsors of the music show with the largest audience in São Paulo radio, Parada de sucessos (Hit Parade), aired daily on Rádio Excélsior-Nacional by disc jockey Hélio de Alencar, from eleven-thirty in the morning to noon. If Alencar liked a record, the record label had only to fire up the presses.

  In 1958, Oswaldo Gurzoni was the influential director of sales at Odeon in São Paulo. He entered the Bossa Nova history books as the man who, on hearing the 78 r.p.m. with “Chega de saudade” and “Bim-bom,” had an apoplectic fit and smashed the record over his salesmen’s heads, shouting, “This is the shit they’re sending us from Rio!”

  The story is a classic, and has been repeated over and over by all lazy researchers. It allows them to indulge in their favorite pastime, guessing at the past, and to expand upon how João Gilberto had to face the tanks and cannons of even his own army. Let us suppose, in the meantime, that things were a little different.

  Ismael Corrêa sent a copy of the acetate record to Gurzoni with instructions from Aloysio that, in order to avoid a fiasco like the one in Rio, João Gilberto should be promoted in São Paulo with more zeal than usual. Gurzoni, who had heard of João Gilberto about as much as he had heard of Karlheinz Stockhausen, made a note of the message. He called together his marketing team and played the record in Odeon’s São Paulo studio in Rua General Jardim. On the suggestion of Gurzoni himself, Odeon had stopped designating A and B sides on record labels to encourage radio stations to play both sides. But on seeing the names of Antonio Carlos Jobim and Vinícius de Moraes attributed as the authors, he decided that “Chega de saudade” must be side A, and played it first.

  When he listened to the record, he couldn’t understand why the label classified it as a samba-canção. If that was a samba-canção, then he was Pope Pius XII. The singer didn’t have a very strong voice, and he didn’t keep to the rhythm; and what kind of damn rhythm was that? He turned the record over and played “Bim-bom.” Another disappointment. The lyrics were silly and had no meaning; Aloysio must be crazy. Gurzoni didn’t smash the record. He merely bellowed his opinion, which was swiftly shared by the entire marketing team—except for one man, named Adail Lessa, who was very enthusiastic about João Gilberto. But they weren’t assembled there to express their personal likes or dislikes, and the message from Rio was clear: the record had to be submitted to all those little tricks that usually guaranteed success.

  The first thing to do was to win over Álvaro Ramos, sales manager of Lojas Assumpção. If Ramos liked the record, that would be more than half the battle. It was from him that orders would come for all the Assumpção store clerks to employ an old series of tactics used to sell this or that record. One of those tactics, obviously, was to play the record all day long in the booths that looked out onto the street. If some passerby happened to withstand the onslaught and came into the store to buy another record that wasn’t X, the store clerk would start playing record X whil
e he went into the back to look for the record that the customer had asked for. In most cases, the customer would take both. It was a matter of crossing one’s fingers and seeing what Ramos thought of it.

  Gurzoni invited Ramos to have coffee with him, Lessa, and the rest of the Odeon marketing team. Years later, Ramos would admit that it might have been “somewhat unwillingly” that he left the central office of Lojas Assumpção, in Rua do Curtume, to go and listen to an amateur in Rua General Jardim. The traffic he encountered on the way did nothing to improve his mood. Gurzoni played “Chega de saudade” for him. Ramos felt as if he were being mocked. “Why do you record singers who’ve got a cold?,” he growled.

  He didn’t bother waiting for the song to finish, and he never got to hear “Bim-bom.” He snatched the record off the turntable, shouted the famous line, “So this is the shit they’re sending us from Rio?”, and smashed it on the edge of the table. Gurzoni and Lessa froze.

  Right then and there, the two of them began a campaign of indoctrination on Álvaro Ramos. Gurzoni didn’t really know what to say, but Lessa was masterful in his defense of the music that Ramos had refused to listen to. It was something different, modern, bold. Boring old squares would be up in arms, and this would cause a controversy that would attract a new type of audience. Young people would buy the record. Ramos thought for a minute. He didn’t mind for a second being called square, but he didn’t want to be accused of missing out on a good deal. And his business was to sell records, not music.

  Gurzoni and Lessa felt that Ramos would work more enthusiastically if he liked the record at least a little. Without realizing what they were doing, they convinced him to allow them to introduce him to João Gilberto. They would bring the singer from Rio especially to meet him. Ramos agreed and arranged a lunch at his house that weekend. In Rio, Odeon located João Gilberto and put him on a train to São Paulo, where Lessa went to pick him up at the train station. As you can tell, life was somewhat simpler in those days—João Gilberto could be moved from position A to position B at a mere request.