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

by Castro, Ruy

  The date and time of the lunch found them all face-to-face in that huge house in São Paulo: the buyer (Álvaro Ramos), the salesmen (Oswaldo Gurzoni and Adail Lessa), and the merchandise (João Gilberto). Dona Ignez, Álvaro’s wife, produced a mayonnaise and a stroganoff, which João Gilberto merely pushed around with his fork and pretended to take bites of, while making colorful remarks like “Why was electricity invented? Don’t we already have the sun?” In order to avoid Dona Ignez taking offense to his reaction to her culinary talents, Gurzoni and Lessa quickly turned the conversation to music, before some disparaging comment about the food was made. A guitar was produced, but João Gilberto didn’t sing “Chega de saudade” or “Bim-bom,” as expected. Instead, he sang, no less than four times, “Fibra de herói” (The Strength of a Hero), a choral piece composed in 1942 by long-hair maestro Guerra Peixe. Ramos was very impressed. When he was leaving, João Gilberto saw a child on the sidewalk in front of the house. He picked a rose from Dona Ignez’s garden, crossed the street and offered it to the child. If Gurzoni didn’t really understand what was going on, Álvaro Ramos’s state of mind can only be described as catatonic.

  They were in the presence of either a madman or a genius—perhaps both, he thought. But the important thing was, by means of the stuffy “Fibra de herói,” João Gilberto had convinced him to sell “Chega de saudade” and “Bim-bom.” The disc set record sales levels in Lojas Assumpção that year.

  The disc jockey Hélio de Alencar played the record on his show Parada de sucessos, and made known, over the microphone at Rádio Excélsior-Nacional, how it had been smashed in the Odeon office in São Paulo. But he didn’t say by whom. The story got out that the frenzied murderer of the record had been poor, dear Oswaldo Gurzoni. The latter let it lie, because he wasn’t trying to win a popularity contest, and because this would give the impression that João Gilberto was a singer who went against the flow (which, in fact, he did). It would be good for sales and, after all, the record was being aimed at the younger market. As we know, his strategy worked, and even today, Gurzoni still laughs at the terrible reputation he acquired because of Álvaro Ramos’s attitude.

  The latter also thinks it’s funny, but makes no apology: “At the time, I really did think the singer had a cold.”

  “Listen to this record, call Rádio Bandeirantes at 36-6331 or 36-8451, sing the tune, the lyrics, and the rhythm, and win ten albums!”

  The record was “Chega de saudade” by João Gilberto, and the program was O pick-up do Picapau (Woodpecker’s Pick), which another disc jockey from São Paulo, Walter Silva, had debuted on Rádio Bandeirantes at the beginning of December. Dozens of listeners phoned in that day, trying to repeat what they had heard, but were rejected by conductor Erlon Chaves, who was present in the studio, after just the first few notes. A few already knew the lyrics by heart and others managed to passably sing the tune, but they all floundered at João Gilberto’s rhythm—it seemed impossible to imitate. Except for two listeners who managed to sing it perfectly. The first identified himself as Francisco Nepomuceno de Oliveira, who was, in fact, Chico, vocalist with the group Titulares do Ritmo. The second didn’t count: it was the compulsively accurate singer Agostinho dos Santos.

  In the months that followed, “Chega de saudade” became the opening track for O pick-up do Picapau—much against the wishes of the station’s marketing director, Samir Razuk, according to Walter Silva. Bandeirantes was a popular station in São Paulo, with an audience that favored singers of questionable taste. But O pick-up do Picapau, due largely to the opinionated personality of Walter Silva, was gaining ground on the dial, and within three months, had 22 percent of the radio audience, overtaking Parada de sucessos. “Chega de saudade” remained uncontested on both programs. João Gilberto, known in Rio only within the music circle and in two or three apartments, became a mini-phenomenon to the São Paulo public.

  It wasn’t exactly love at first sight for Paulistas. A few days after the lunch at Álvaro Ramos’s house, João Gilberto was one of the fifty Odeon artists who made an impromptu appearance at a benefit performance held in the old Piratininga theater in the Brás neighborhood. (The sound system was provided courtesy of the recording company.) The radio stations and stores still hadn’t started promoting the record, and it was expecting too much for the same audience that thrilled over the square Catarino and his orchestra to receive it enthusiastically. João Gilberto sang—or at least, started to sing—”Chega de saudade” and was, quite simply, booed off the stage.

  This disastrous beginning did not prevent him from being behaving like a model of cooperation with Odeon and submitting to the humiliating promotional schedule needed to market the record. With Adail Lessa permanently riding his back in São Paulo and, later, in Rio, João Gilberto went to radio and TV stations, granted short interviews, sang live on shows like Oswaldo Sargentelli’s Viva meu samba (Long Live My Samba) on Rádio Mauá, and posed for photographs—all for the sake of “Chega de saudade.” It was all right, he’d do what they told him, but no one could force him to like it. He even commented to Luís Cláudio, “We could be the only ones on the radio, don’t you think, Luís? You, me, Tom and Vinícius …Without all that crap that infests it …”

  Probably only God knew how difficult it was for him, but one of the most important performances in his schedule was his appearance on Programa Paulo Gracindo (Paulo Gracindo’s Show), one of TV Rio’s highest-rated variety shows on Sunday nights. A few years earlier, the ground floor of the TV Rio building, in Posto 6 in Copacabana, had housed the now closed Clube da Chave, where Jobim and Vinícius had met. Now it was a theater, and its seats were in high demand for Gracindo’s show. On the night on which João Gilberto made his appearance, there were other strong acts lined up. One of them was the first Brazilian rock ‘n’ roll group, Bolão e seus Rockettes. Another was a competition for dogs in fancy dress. It was between these two acts that João Gilberto sat on a stool and sang.

  But it was worth it. The “Chega de saudade” 78 r.p.m. made the Radiolândia (Radioland) and Revista do Radio (Radio Magazine) music charts at the end of the year, fighting with Celly Campello singing, mind you, “Lacinhos cor-de-rosa” (Pink Shoelaces) for play time on the air.

  You may not have liked them, but your maid adored them. Another Bahian, Anísio Silva, and a Pernambuco native, Orlando Dias, dominated the toothpick-legged Victrolas when João Gilberto came along. They were both thirty-five years old and were classified as sentimental singers, although Anísio Silva, whose hit was a brassy bolero entitled “Alguém me disse” (Someone Told Me) (revived by Gal Costa in 1990), seemed somewhat reserved compared to Orlando Dias. The latter, famous for being a widower, gave a really heartrending performance when he sang, and was capable of soaking a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth during “Perdoa-me pelo bem que te quero” (Forgive Me for How Much I Love You), another insufferable bolero. Both of them worked to promote their popularity in the cinemas, circuses, town squares, amusement parks, and barbecue restaurants in both the suburbs and rural zones. Both of them sold a minimum of one hundred thousand copies of each 78 r.p.m.—equivalent to one million today, given the number of victrolas in use. And they were both contracted by Odeon, João Gilberto’s recording label.

  Sustained by the six-figure sales numbers of Anísio Silva and Orlando Dias, Odeon was able to allow itself the luxury of keeping classy acts like Lúcio Alves and Sylvinha Telles on their books in order to acquire greater prestige. In 1958, Lúcio’s career was at a crossroads. In just a few years, since the days of the “singer of the little masses,” he had become too old for the younger audience, while continuing to seem too modern to old squares. Despite his phenomenal talent, he was at risk of being remembered for a powdered milk commercial, which he had recorded in 1956 (“The Mococa cow / Is asking / Moooooo …”), rather than for the way he influenced an entire brilliant generation of vocal ensemble singers and arrangers. Nor did Sylvinha appear to be cut out to please the proletariat. She was an extreme
ly polished singer whose repertoire only included songs of the highest caliber, and she did not suffer from occasional vocal exhalations like Dolores or Maysa.

  According to the books at Odeon, Lúcio sold no more than five thousand records, and Sylvinha barely ten thousand; but the London head office of the recording company felt that those numbers were reasonable, given that the Brazilian branch did not employ more prestigious singers.

  João Gilberto had everything he needed to be included in that category. But with the launch in São Paulo and his subsequent discovery in the Rio market, “Chega de saudade” sold fifteen thousand 78 r.p.m.s from August to December 1958. Odeon still didn’t know that that minute and fifty-nine seconds of music, which had been hell to record, would be expanded, in January and February 1959, into an album entitled Chega de saudade that would sell, right off the bat, thirty-five thousand copies—and that, by André Midani’s 1990 calculations, would eventually pass the five hundred thousand copies-sold mark in Brazil alone. Odeon also didn’t realize that the music contained therein would, quite simply, change everything.

  When the 78 r.p.m. with “Chega de saudade” came off the press, jet black and lustrous, João Gilberto took it in person to Lúcio Alves. His action can be attributed as courtesy to an old friend, but also as an example of the eager desire for approval from the man who had been his model. What did João Gilberto secretly want to hear? Probably a few gasps of admiration from Lúcio, when the latter realized that the new, modern sound that so many of his peers had sought after for so long had finally been pulled together by João in that record. João knocked on the door of Lúcio’s apartment in Copacabana, and wanted to put the record on the turntable right away.

  “Chega de saudade” started playing, but instead of delicate flutes and string instruments, what they heard was the sinister roar of engines, five floors below, with vrooooms fit to make the building shake. Lúcio’s apartment, on the corner of Rua Raul Pompéia and Rua Francisco Sá, in Posto 6, was located above the Snack Bar, the meeting place for neighborhood rockers, like Carlos Imperial, and a wild gang led by young Erasmo Carlos and Tim Maia. With nothing else to do but get into fights and discuss the creation of a rock group that they would name The Snakes, the boys entertained themselves by revving the engines of their parked Lambrettas, making it impossible for good Christian folk in the neighborhood to listen to music in a civilized fashion. Any music, much less “Chega de saudade.”

  It was irritating, and João Gilberto began to feel desperate. Lúcio decided to retaliate, in a manner that his family in gentle Cataguazes, Minas Gerais, would not have approved of, but that proved to be the only way to restore peace in the block: dropping harmless but noisy firecrackers on the rabble below. The first explosions startled the rockers, and the following ones caused havoc worthy of The Wild One, but as they didn’t know where the missiles were coming from, the punks were unable to retaliate. João Gilberto enjoyed the game tremendously, and behaved like a child, throwing the little bombs on the louts. When they finally gave in and scattered, João Gilberto was able to play his record for Lúcio Alves.

  Lúcio listened to it attentively and sarcastically declared, “This is it, João. You’ve made it.”

  Was his attitude somewhat cold? Not really. Lúcio wasn’t being intentionally mean—because, after all, he thought the record was very good—but nothing about it really gave him cause for revelation. Of course, the one thing that was different about it was that João had gotten rid of the dramatic inflections and depth of voice typical of Orlando Silva (or of Lúcio himself). João was now “singing softly,” like Jonas Silva and the American singers that he, João, used to listen to at the Murray in 1950. That guitar beat vaguely reminded Lúcio of Donato’s accordion and Johnny Alf’s piano, although it seemed more organized and compact than the sounds that had emerged from those late-night jam sessions at the Plaza nightclub in 1954. And the percussion section wasn’t as overwhelming as before.

  If there was one thing about the new João Gilberto that impressed him, it was his new-found ability to divide musical phrases—praise which, coming from Lúcio Alves, should have been cherished, considering that a different division, one that was full of surprises, was the great specialty of the former Namorado da Lua. João Gilberto had indeed made it, and he knew what Lúcio meant.

  Another old friend, João Donato, was caught by surprise, but for different reasons. Soon after “Chega de saudade” was recorded, André Midani was in his office at Odeon with João Gilberto when Donato stuck his Brylcreemed head round the door and shouted, “Ah-ha! So, Brazil’s greatest singer has finally made a record!”

  João Gilberto leaped out of his chair as if he’d been ejected from it and tore out of the room, just like in a cartoon, causing a small whirlwind as he rushed past Donato. The latter gave a wicked giggle. Apparently, João had tried—and succeeded—in recording without Donato knowing. He would die if Donato thought he was singing “nyah nyah nyah-nyah nyahs.”

  In 1958, at the age of twenty-four, João Donato behaved in the same way he had when at fifteen, still wearing shorts, he frequented the fan clubs of all his idols without feeling that he really belonged to any particular one. Only now, he was doing it professionally. With Johnny Alf’s departure to São Paulo in 1955, he had become perhaps the most respected musician in Rio. And, unfortunately, the least trustworthy. He was widely touted as someone who could hit the right chord even if he was surrounded by Flamengo fans celebrating their three-time soccer championship. The problem was that he gave the impression that he actually preferred to work under those kinds of conditions.

  His accordion reigned supreme, but from 1954 on, he started to concentrate on piano also and later would take up the trombone, with which he hoped one day to overshadow his idol Frank Rosolino, Stan Kenton’s trombonist. If he was considered flighty for not settling on playing a single instrument, the genres of music he favored drove people even more crazy. João favored, quite simply, all types; it was a miracle he hadn’t invented something like the “fox-baião.” And he had no desire to adjust his repertoire to suit his audience.

  From 1950 to 1958, Donato made appearances at dozens of jam sessions in clubs like Tatuís and Copagolf; he played rancheiras (a kind of Brazilian country music) on the show Manhã na roça (Morning in the Cornfield) on Rádio Guanabara; he played locally with master flutist Altamiro Carrilho and with the conductor Copinha’s orchestra; he spent brief periods in São Paulo, in places like the new Baiúca in Praça Roosevelt and down-market places like the dance club Cubadanças; back in Rio, he joined organist Djalma Ferreira’s combo at the Drink nightclub, that of Fafá Lemos at the Monte Carlo, and that of Ed Lincoln at the Plaza; he accompanied Vanja Orico in the Golden Room of the Copacabana Palace and several other singers in rooms that were far less golden; he played carnival dances at a place called Ranchinho do Alvarenga (Alvarenga’s Little Lodge) in Posto 6 in 1957; and he played at all kinds of dance events, even at debutante balls and proms.

  After all, it was a living. But it didn’t matter what he played, because whatever the genre of music, Donato played for himself. Because of this, he drove double bass players and percussionists crazy, because they were unable to accompany him. His unsurpassed infatuation with Kenton made it difficult for him to be understood, which in turn caused problems with the awkward combos with which he was forced to play. It’s hardly surprising that he felt much more at ease playing in jam sessions, when he could get together with other musicians who were tuned to the same frequency—like at saxophonist Paulo Moura’s house in Tijuca, where he drank innocent guaraná, or at the home of the industrialist Everardo Magalhães Castro, in Leblon, where he drank Scotch. And especially during late nights at the Plaza, after the tiresome paying customers had gone home and only the musicians were left, playing and singing for one another for free.

  It wasn’t as if Donato, contrary to most of his colleagues, experienced many financial difficulties. By all accounts, he had managed to convince his fa
ther that he was a lost cause and had softened him up, because he continued living at home with his family in Tijuca and never lacked a roof over his head, food, or clean clothes. This allowed him to become the most well-rested professional in Rio nightlife, at a time when young men like Baden Powell ran from one Copacabana nightclub to another with their guitars, trying to get in to play somewhere in order to earn enough money for their return fare to the suburbs.

  It was a shame that the erratic nature of his career prevented him from settling in one place and establishing the kind of success for himself that was consistent with the reputation he had acquired among his colleagues. But it was even worse that perhaps thousands of his innovations as a musician were lost at those foolish dances, or at graduation parties where nobody was paying any attention. Almost nothing he played during that time in his life found its way into a record, and even became difficult to find second-hand. Paulo Serrano, the owner of Sinter, did everything he could, in his own way. In 1953, the year Donato recorded “Eu quero um samba” (I Want a Samba) with Os Namorados, Serrano convinced him to make an instrumental record of the song “Invitation,” by Bronislau Kaper, which was heard, amid sobs, on screen in the film Invitation, a Metro tearjerker starring Dorothy McGuire and the suave Van Johnson. Donato picked up his accordion and said:

  “OK. Where’s the sheet music?”

  “What sheet music?” replied Serrano. “Go to the movie theater and see the film.”

  Donato went to the Metro-Passeio, in Cinelándia, and stayed for three consecutive showings of Invitation. During the second showing, he was no longer moved by the drama of the dying Dorothy being courted by the pious Van, who was paid to do so by her father. Ladies in the audience would dissolve into tears by his side, while Donato closed his eyes to hear “Invitation.” By the third showing, he was bursting with laughter at Van’s shameless role.