by Castro, Ruy
During the entire time that Black Orpheus lit up the silver screen in 1959, nobody associated the film with something called bossa nova. Nor could they have done so; although, in theory, the primary ingredients for the recipe were there: Jobim’s music, Vinícius’s lyrics, even the guitar beat (produced by Roberto Menescal, accompanying Agostinho dos Santos on “A felicidade”). Orpheus was produced in 1958, when not even Jobim or Vinícius himself were fully aware of all that João Gilberto would come to represent. One year later, when the film made it to Brazil, the LP Chega de saudade had already been released, an “entire generation” was being influenced, and it was only then that Jobim, Vinícius, and João Gilberto were informed that they had invented bossa nova.
Father Laércio Dias de Moura, rector of the Pontifical Catholic University of Rio de Janeiro, was deeply troubled during that August of 1959. His law students were putting on a show at the university auditorium, and one of the featured artists was going to be Ziegfeldian impresario Carlos Machado’s star, Norma Bengell. As was its custom, the university encouraged initiative among its young students as long as it was constructive, but this was going too far. The presence of a showgirl with such a scandalous reputation within the confines of the campus would not be at all well received by the members of the congregation that financially supported the university. For Father Laércio, the billions of buttons on his cassock were few when he compared their number to the problems that this show was going to cause him.
During the first week in August, the academic gang, led by student Cacá Diégues, plastered the corridors of the university in Gávea with cardstock posters announcing in thick permanent marker pen, the performance of the “First Samba-Session Festival.” It would be the first time that the kids would hear, en masse and in the composers’ own voices, the modern songs that had infiltrated the university and that were like those that emerged from Lyra and Menescal’s academy. When João Gilberto sang several of them (“Lobo bobo” [Foolish Wolf], “Saudade fez uma samba” [Saudade Made a Samba], and “Maria Ninguém” [Maria Nobody]) from the album Chega de saudade), which was released just before the July vacation, it was as if there was a musical movement in which they, in a way, were taking part. One of the law students, Júlio Hungria, knew Roberto Menescal and Luís Carlos Vinhas from the jazz gatherings at the home of Renezinha, a girl from the Jardim Botânico neighborhood, and found out that they were taking their band—including their friends, the professionals Sylvinha Telles and Alayde Costa—to perform at the university.
The two magic words, bossa nova, were still not commonly used among the students, despite the University Hebrew Group show. So when it came time to give the show a name, they thought of the Jazz Festival that had just taken place at the Teatro Municipal—a giant jam session promoted by broadcaster Paulo Santos, who had brought Gerry Mulligan, Herbie Mann, and other American greats to Rio—and were unanimous in their decision: it would be a “samba-session” festival. And as there would inevitably be others, it would be as well for this one to be designated as the first.
The other singers would be Carlinhos Lyra, Nara Leão, Normando Santos, and Chico Feitosa. There were two groups: that of Menescal, with Vinhas, Bebeto, Henrique Montes, and João Mário; and that of the Castro-Neves brothers, with Oscar, Mário, Léo, and Iko. Neither one would be paid for their performance. It wasn’t a problem; the gang would have paid to be allowed to perform. But another, more important contact was made with André Midani from Odeon. He was not only supplying his contracted artists, Sylvinha Telles and Alayde Costa, who would be the main attractions of the show, but had also dragged the demanding Aloysio de Oliveira, a man of the old guard, to see it. Ronaldo Bôscoli, who would be emceeing, was also bringing Os Garotos da Lua. And he couldn’t promise anything, but he was still trying to secure the participation of Antonio Carlos Jobim, who had suddenly become famous; singer-songwriter Billy Blanco; Dolores Duran; and Vinícius de Moraes. It was then that Midani suggested including Norma Bengell.
He had good reasons for doing this. A few months earlier, at his suggestion, Odeon had used a photograph of Norma to beautify the sleeve of one of those obscure albums with recordings of phantom Brazilian musicians, which the public thought were American. The photo of Norma wearing a bathing suit was bought from Manchete magazine and was a sensation. Odeon had forgotten about just one small detail: asking Norma’s permission to use her image, which would have been, at the very least, a basic courtesy, given that there were people who would buy the record just because of the photo, for immoral purposes. On seeing her photograph lasciviously printed on the record sleeve, Norma went up the wall and marched to Odeon to make a fuss. She mentioned lawyers, suing, compensation, and other vernacular touchstones. Odeon got scared. But they were relieved when Norma finally agreed to compromise. She would forget everything, as long as Odeon helped her make her secret dream come true—to record a disc as a singer. (And if need be, she’d even pose for the cover!)
Odeon went overboard, because by 1959, Norma Bengell was practically a celebrity. In just four years, she had become the star of Carlos Machado’s lavish shows at the Night and Day nightclub, like Banzo-ayê and Rio de Janeiro a janeiro (Rio from January to January), and was now launching a career in the national film industry. She had just finished starring in Carlos Manga’s comedy O homem do Sputnik (The Sputnik Man), playing a tempting French spy with a Brigitte Bardot–style pucker, and her brief appearance stole the show. Odeon felt that Norma could be their very own Julie London and decided to invest in her record. They gave her a marvelous international repertoire—”Fever,” “That Old Black Magic,” “On the Sunny Side of the Street,” “You Better Go Now,” “C’est si bon,” “Drume negrita”—and prided themselves on their selection of Brazilian songs: three songs by Jobim, “Eu sei que vou te amar,” “Eu preciso de você,” and “Sucedeu assim” (It Happened Like That); the first recording of a song with lyrics by Ronaldo Bôscoli, “Sente” (Feel); and, astutely, “Hô-ba-lalá,” by João Gilberto. Additionally, they cloaked the songs with arrangements delicate enough to enhance her voice, which was soft but, like her, tremendously sensual. In order to leave no room for doubt, Chico Pereira photographed her for the record sleeve in such a way that she appeared to be naked, and Odeon gave the album a title that couldn’t fail: Ooooooh! Norma.
The end result was better than anticipated, and sensing a brilliant future for Norma Bengell, Odeon started including her in its events. The Catholic University show wasn’t being sponsored by the record company and, for this very reason, it seemed like an even better opportunity to sell her as a singer. As for the students, they had nothing against the idea and even thought it was great. For most of them, Norma was the unwitting protagonist of their wet dreams, and even if they had been old enough to get into Carlos Machado’s shows, they wouldn’t have been able to afford them. And all of a sudden, she was going to be part of their show.
Father Laércio was appalled; he could barely imagine the furor that Norma Bengell’s presence would cause among the students, but he had not the slightest doubt as to the disastrous consequences for the foundations of the institution. Two of the students were summoned to the rectory: Júlio Hungria, who appeared to be the organizer, and Cacá Diégues. Trembling slightly, they listened to his ultimatum: “You can do the show if you want, but not with Norma Bengell.”
Diégues and Hungria could have argued that by then all the advertising material for the show, which included announcement of Norma’s participation, had already gone to press and that any alteration would be an embarrassment. But there was no point in trying to discuss the matter. When they gave their colleagues the news, they reacted with the most indignant grumbling they could muster, but that was all. The revolt was placed into the hands of the musicians, led by Sylvinha Telles and Alayde Costa. Sylvinha was adamant: “If Norma isn’t allowed to sing, there won’t be any show.”
Diégues and Hungria went back to the rectory with this latest piece of information, but we
re informed that Father Laércio saw no reason to change his mind. So that was that. Or so they thought, but with the participants in such a state of uproar, the news that the Catholic University had banned Norma Bengell hit the newspapers—more precisely, the outrageous Diário Carioca. The day after the rector’s second refusal, the matter became front-page news, with a classic cheesecake shot of Bengell and a headline that spanned three columns: “NORMA BLACKLISTED.”
The other newspapers weren’t far behind, and Norma Bengell became the center of a city-wide scandal. In one fell swoop, she had leaped from Carlos Machado’s plumed outfits to join the austere company of Luther, Voltaire, and Darwin as enemies of the Holy Church. The situation was compelling for the era, given that no matter how subtle the euphemisms were, it was obvious what the priests thought of the artist. They didn’t know that the then meek and gentle Norma still lived with her mother and even had a curfew. In the midst of all the confusion, someone had an idea that saved the show—to move it to the amphitheater of the National School of Architecture in Praia Vermelha, a branch of the federal university and a much more liberal institution. The two academic boards agreed, and the fireworks created by the press, which had been involuntarily instigated by Father Laércio, generated within the city the kind of expectation that no other student production would ever have managed to incite. The date was set for September 22 and it became known as the “forbidden show,” which was considered obligatory to attend. Some could barely sleep, waiting for the day to arrive.
The show (which was free, of course) was scheduled to start at eight-thirty in the evening, but an hour and a half before, there was already a tremendous human bottleneck on Avenida Pasteur, where the School of Architecture was located. When the show finally started, at ten, legend has it that at least two thousand people were crammed inside, and another thousand protested loudly outside at not being able to get in. No one has ever explained how those numbers came about, but there is a general consensus that “it could not have been less than that.” The estimate is not as ridiculous as it sounds: the law, philosophy, and engineering classes alone comprised more than 900 students, who appeared en masse and brought their friends. (Despite the School of Architecture having provided the stage and contributed its own manpower, the show was still officially that of the Catholic University, which provided the sound and lighting.)
An unexpected gift to posterity was provided by photographer Chico Pereira, who set his Rolleiflex aside and concentrated on operating his Grundig recorder, connected to a single-channel Shure microphone, to record the show. Domestic copies of that tape have survived the years and have never been edited onto a record, but thanks to Pereira, today we are able to hear what happened that night, and at all the amateur bossa nova shows that followed immediately thereafter.
Norma Bengell, who was primarily responsible for that huge audience, stepped triumphantly into the center of the arena, escorted by one student from the PUC and another from the School of Architecture, whom she advised to “be good and behave.” She was dressed completely in black: hose, gloves, a long-sleeved tailored dress, and, who knows, in the boys’ fantasies maybe even black lingerie, too. It was not a symbolic protest against the prohibition that had been imposed upon her, but merely an attempt to appear as covered-up as possible. She received thunderous applause and whistles, and probably caused some quite intense salivating. She promoted her record, resisted all attempts to embarrass Father Laércio even more, and sang five songs. Everybody loved her.
But the huge hit of the night was Alayde Costa. She thrilled the audience with “Chora tua tristeza” (Cry Your Sadness), by Oscar Neves-Castro and Luvercy Fiorini, which months later would become the first bossa nova song to make it big outside the boundaries of the musical movement. That night, with the exception of Sylvinha Telles, Alayde had no competition. The amateurism and inexperience of almost all the participants was revealed at every turn, but the atmosphere was so student-y that even Luís Carlos Vinhas and Ronaldo Bôscoli were heard for the first, and thankfully last, time—singing! (Vinhas, who was practically shoved in front of the microphone by Chico Feitosa, was forced to stutter his way through “Desafinado” and “Chega de saudade”; Bôscoli, pressured by Carlinhos Lyra, performed his own composition, “Mamadeira atonal” [Atonal Nursing Bottle]). Normando Santos sang “Jura de pombo” (The Dove’s Promise), Menescal’s very first composition. No one who heard the song that night could have imagined that just three years later, the same Menescal would write “O barquinho” (The Little Boat).
The illustrous guests—the “older” ones—made an appearance, but did not sing. No one expected it of Vinícius anyway because, hindered by his own shyness and by the hawk-like shadow of the Itamaraty, he still did not sing in public. Dolores Duran, who would die of a heart attack exactly thirty-two days later, was barely seen at all. Billy Blanco was summoned on stage, praised the show (“Wonderful!”), and excused himself, saying he “wasn’t a singer.” But the arrival of Antonio Carlos Jobim, once the show had gotten underway, was a showstopper.
Norma Bengell was performing when Jobim came in. She stopped singing so that Bôscoli could introduce him as “the pope of Brazilian modern music,” which was probably the first time the expression was spoken about him over a microphone. They wanted Jobim to say something, and he announced, hoarsely, “I’ve been watching all of you. [Pause] It’s an amazing thing. [Pause] It really is. [Pause] Great.” [Applause]
He left right after, but his lightning-quick appearance was enough to paralyze Menescal’s bewildered musicians, who were accompanying Norma, for a few moments. The latter made the observation: “Tom has arrived and has finished with you guys. But he can’t finish—ever. Can I sing now?”
Os Garotos da Lua, who had been promised by Bôscoli, did not appear, except for one: Toninho Botelho. Introduced without formalities of any kind, he sang “Não faz assim” (Don’t Do That), by Oscar Castro-Neves and Bôscoli, and left without causing much fuss. None of the young people in the audience knew where that older gentleman had come from (in fact, Botelho wasn’t even forty years old), except that he was a member of some obscure vocal ensemble. They would certainly have been very surprised had Bôscoli identified him as one of the parties responsible for bringing João Gilberto to Rio years earlier and, indirectly, for the existence of that very show.
Perhaps even Botelho himself was not aware of this.
In the audience of the “First Samba-Session Festival,” two men, André Midani and Aloysio de Oliveira, were taking in what was happening in the amphitheater with very different sets of eyes and ears. The former was identifying, in both the artists and audience, the possibility of a new market, one that needed to be immediately explored. The latter identified a market merely in the audience, to be supplied with the creative genius of Jobim, Vinícius, and, perhaps, Carlinhos Lyra, as composers—but he insisted that the vocalists be experienced, like Sylvinha Telles, Alayde Costa, Lúcio Alves, and now, João Gilberto. The other guys were too novice for Aloysio, as either singers or musicians, and besides, none of them “had much of a voice.”
That was also where, for Aloysio de Oliveira, the difference between the young gang led by Ronaldo Bôscoli and the older gang to be led by himself originated. And he knew in which one of the two he preferred to invest. Midani wasn’t bothered: he had Menescal, Bôscoli, Nara, Chico Feitosa, Normando, Vinhas, the Castro-Neves brothers, Luizinho Eça, and whoever else seemed young and hip, to put his ideas into practice. The first idea would be to record a disc with the youngsters.
The newspapers gave ample coverage to the samba-session night at the School of Architecture, implying that none of the boys had committed a mortal sin by having drooled over Norma Bengell. A group of students from the Catholic University persuaded Norma to visit Father Laércio to strategically “ask his forgiveness for the trouble she had caused him,” in order to put an end to the matter. The issue continued to generate repercussions, and resulting interest was printed in the gene
ral news section for cultural events, together with discussions on the type of music that had been performed at the School of Architecture. Was it some kind of jazz? The expression samba moderno (modern samba), which had been used up until then, was finally and definitively replaced by bossa nova—used with significant marketing astuteness by Ronaldo Bôscoli in Manchete, assisted by his disciples Moysés Fuks, in Última Hora, and João Luiz de Albuquerque, in Radiolândia magazine.
Invitations for new performances in auditoriums began to rain down. When Bôscoli decided to put on a show at the Naval Academy at the seashore, on November 13, which was supposed to be just another samba-session festival, it became known as “the Second Command of Operation Bossa Nova.” When a quartet composed of Luizinho Eça and three of the Castro-Neves brothers started playing the upbeat “Menina feia” (Ugly Girl), Bôscoli, who was emceeing, came out on stage and felt he had to explain exactly what bossa nova was. Not managing to come up with a suitable explanation, he took the easy way out: “It’s what’s modern, completely new, and cutting-edge in Brazilian music.”
The audience at the Naval Academy understood just fine. It was composed of around one thousand Naval cadets and young officers, all with shaved heads, crammed into an auditorium that would have comfortably seated about six hundred. It was what Bôscoli classified as “bossa nova in a battlefield.” Bossa nova was an expression which was used and abused throughout the entire two-hour show, as if it were a prize that everyone there had just won. There was an even better prize: the privileged sight of the beautiful figure of Norma Bengell, wearing a precursor to the miniskirt.
Bôscoli roguishly thanked Odeon for the presence of their contracted artists, Lúcio Alves (invited by the bossa nova crew to join the movement), Sylvinha Telles, Alayde Costa, and Norma Bengell—as if Odeon, through André Midani, weren’t just as pleased with the turn of events. It was a great show, much more professional than the one at the School of Architecture. There was one more important show in 1959, to show the world that the guys were here to stay. It was held in the auditorium at Rádio Globo, in Rua Irineu Marinho, on December 2. For the first time, bossa nova was aired live, and placed within easy reach of thousands of people. The cast was the same as always, but this time, there was an important addition: the vocal ensemble Os Cariocas. Hortênsia was no longer a part of the group, and they were reduced to the members who became the official band, Severino, Badeco, Quartera, and Luís Roberto. They sang “Chega de saudade” and “Menina feia,” and put on a startling performance. With voices that were more velvety and finely tuned than ever, Os Cariocas were coming full circle from their start with “Adeus América” (Goodbye, America) in 1948 and were beginning another. Bossa nova was the music that they—and other Brazilian vocal ensembles of the past—had been dreaming of since the start.
