by Castro, Ruy
Vinícius was abroad, in Montevideo, which freed him from getting involved in this awkward situation. But everyone else who could defend the bossa nova flag withdrew one by one: Jobim, João Gilberto, Menescal, even Bôscoli. The burden ended up falling on the shoulders of none other than André Midani. He went to the television station, and in a Portuguese whose every word appeared to be accented on the final syllable, he faced the enormous and not very well groomed Maria. Midani justified the new music in terms of a “new market” and spoke of how the bossa nova musicians were talented, exemplary youngsters with no vices, who were merely a little eccentric. Practically the only thing he didn’t say was that they all bathed daily and that Menescal’s favorite flavor of chewing gum was cinnamon.
Antônio Maria was not convinced, and continued with his jibes in his daily column in O Jornal. Ronaldo Bôscoli retaliated by inventing two terrible nicknames for him which began to circulate around the nightclubs. The first was “Galak,” after a brand of white chocolate that had just come out. The other was “Brown Eminence.” Both were references to the fact that Antônio Maria wasn’t exactly one of the world’s fairest people. The nicknames must have been construed by Maria as an affront to his white soul because, one night, he went to look for Ronaldo Bôscoli in Beco das Garrafas (Bottles Lane) to ask him to explain himself.
To face Maria with nothing more than his own bare hands meant that Bôscoli would have more than likely ended up in a funeral chapel. And that was what was indeed fated to happen when the ample columnist brushed past Ronaldo in the doorway of the Little Club, threatening to push him around a little, and Bôscoli considered the implications of reacting. Just as the two of them were about to come to blows, Aloysio de Oliveira, who was amusing himself by watching the spectacle, decided to intervene: he unzipped his fly and urinated on Antônio Maria’s shoe. It was the last thing Maria was expecting. He looked down at his shoe as if he were wearing gaiters. It was like a scene from Laurel and Hardy. The three of them exploded into hysterics and went into the Little Club to have a drink. But Maria continued to dislike bossa nova, and Ronaldo went on calling him “Galak.”
The fuss made by the press over bossa nova had the downside of branding all music that came before it “old,” and it was natural for those who had written it to feel as if their toes were being stepped on. When asked his opinion, Sílvio Caldas tried to sound superior: “It’s a passing phase, initiated by kids who are the very model of the disobedience and ill manners of the current era. It will pass, because it lacks the value that only authenticity confers.”
But he must have been worried, because when Cyro Monteiro, another true representative of the old guard, declared his support for the young people, Sílvio, offended, branded him “a samba deviant.” He also made a point of announcing his retirement for the twelfth time.
In São Paulo, the conductor Gabriel Migliori, composer of the sound track to O cangaceiro (The Bandit), was noncommittal: “To me, bossa nova seems to be all about the third sex.”
The society women in Rio de Janeiro obviously didn’t agree with him, because they engaged in catfights among themselves in order to attract the attention of the movement’s leading men, like Jobim, Menescal, Bôscoli, Lyra, and Normando, who at the time were no longer attempting to disappoint André Midani as much in that department—at least Bôscoli wasn’t.
Jobim, who was the most coveted, but was kept on a tight leash by his wife, Teresa, only strayed on rare occasions, as happened with French starlet Mylène Démongeot. Not all the girls knew that he was married. When one of them draped herself over his piano, like a crocheted runner, he was unable to resist saying to the girl: “I wrote this chord for you …”
The girl’s bosom heaved, but when she languidly suggested, “Tommm, take me hoooome?,” he quickly came to his senses.
“Just a minute, let me go and phone Teresa …”
The most classic incident of this kind in the annals of bossa nova is attributed to Normando Santos, who was by then an instructor at the Lyra and Menescal’s guitar academy, and who had as one of his students the Second Lady of the country, Maria Teresa, wife of Vice-President João Goulart. According to him, she invited him on one occasion to see “a little film at the Palácio at four o’clock.” All excited, Normando turned up at the Palácio cinema in Cinelândia at the appointed hour, bought two tickets and waited for her by the door. An hour later, he decided that his illustrous student had stood him up, and went home. The next day, he found out that she had evidently been waiting for him at the Palácio Laranjeiras (the Vice-President’s office/residence) and not at the Palácio cinema.
Bossa nova had adversaries in all walks of life, from the press to musicians, but even among the conductors, the offensive Gabriel Migliori was in a minority. The only important colleague of his to back him up was Oswaldo Borba, who lacked the courtesy to hide his aversion to bossa nova even in front of Aloysio de Oliveira, who hired him at Odeon. Everyone else—Léo Peracchi, Lyrio Panicalli, Radamés Gnattali, and, of course, Lindolfo Gaya and Moacyr Santos—openly supported or approved of the new music. The young conductors of São Paulo, like Rogério Duprat, Diogo Pacheco, and Julio Medaglia, were wholehearted fans, perhaps because, like Jobim and Severino Filho, of Os Cariocas, they had been students of the German composer, Hans Joachim Koellreutter, who was based in Rio. And another conductor, Guerra Peixe, Menescal’s former teacher, provided wholehearted endorsement when he expressed his opinion: “Bossa nova is like a harmonious insecticide against the harshness of batuques and the castrating quality of boleros.”
The unfortunate bolero was the greater villain, and bossa nova employed the strategy of pointing its weapons at the musical genre. By doing so, it made a point of saying that it was on the side of the purists, and thus neutralized the attacks that were being launched upon it, accusing it of being nothing more than a jazz rip-off. Ronaldo Bôscoli even went as far as to announce in public: “It’s ridiculous that the most popular singer in Brazil should sing boleros.”
The target was Anísio Silva, who caused tears to flow like waterfalls with sentimental songs like “Sonhando contigo” (Dreaming with You). At the time, words like tacky and show-off didn’t exist, and the most insulting thing you could call a singer was Shanghai—an expression coined by society columnist Ibrahim Sued meaning unrefined, tasteless. Anyone who had any taste had to agree with Bôscoli’s opinion of Anísio Silva, even if they privately didn’t feel, as he did, that João Gilberto should have been the most popular singer in Brazil. What Bôscoli wasn’t expecting, however, was to hear a surprising statement from João Gilberto himself, under his breath and almost embarrassed: “I like Anísio. He’s not like the others.”
What he meant to say was that Anísio Silva, although he undeniably sang boleros, did not have that same tiresome consistency that seemed to be the trademark of his genre. But João Gilberto went on. He was also a fan of Dalva de Oliveira. “Dalvinha has perfect pitch,” he said. Bôscoli heard him and was appalled, and felt it best not to spread João Gilberto’s unorthodox opinions. They wouldn’t be good for bossa nova business. If anyone had told him in 1960 that less than ten years later João Gilberto would be recording downright Mexican boleros like “Farolito” (Little Lighthouse) and “Bésame mucho” (Kiss Me Often), he would have denied it with the utmost vehemence—but deep down, perhaps he wasn’t really so sure.
But however hard Bôscoli tried to deflect the bullets, the old guard had bossa nova in its sights, and the new genre had to be careful not to bring the entire artillery down on its head at once. After all, the recording companies—including Odeon—were in the hands of men whom he had labeled “moldy figs.”
“We’re not criticizing the old guard for being old, but for what they did wrong,” Bôscoli argued. “You’re the reason we’re here,” Menescal fawned. Tom Jobim cited the late Custódio Mesquita as one of his heroes, and explained: “Bossa isn’t new or old. Ary Barroso and Dorival Caymmi are fine examples of bossa from all the era
s.” Except for the gentle Ataulpho Alves, who remained upset at being called “antiquated” by André Midani, the rest of them calmed down for a while.
The soft-soaping of Ary Barroso, however, was interminable. The old composer went on television several times to announce that Tom Jobim was “the greatest Brazilian composer in the last few decades.” It’s a fact, though, that in the Fiorentina restaurant, after many whiskeys, Ary’s opinion did seem to change. But everyone knew that, sitting at the table that was saved for him in the restaurant, Ary’s opinion didn’t count for much. Like on the many occasions he insisted on driving home, even though this meant almost certain death. One night, a friend of his had to confiscate his car keys and rage: “Hell, Ary, you’re in no fit state to even direct a Brazilian film!”
As for Caymmi, he was a natural ally of bossa nova because João Gilberto had revitalized his music, singing it in a modern style. He was also João and Bôscoli’s neighbor. Bôscoli would pick up Caymmi at home to take him to the television station. On one of those occasions, Caymmi awoke late and practically went from his bed directly into Bôscoli’s car. The latter asked him, “Aren’t you going to comb your hair?”
And Caymmi replied, “No, I combed it before I left Bahia.”
“Doralice,” by Caymmi and Antonio Almeida, was one of the songs that João Gilberto was going to include on the record that he would start recording at the end of March. Os Anjos do Inferno had released the song in 1945 and it was a huge hit at the time—at least, it was one of the most-requested records played over Mr. Emicles’s sound system in young João Gilberto’s Juazeiro. (He loved it, and played it until the town reached for the Alka-Seltzer.) But since then, “Doralice” had not been recorded very often and had almost been forgotten. Except for by João, who still remembered Léo Vilar’s arrangement well, especially the end with that pa-rum-pa-pa which the Anjos did, which he wanted to reproduce.
Another song that became a part of his discography was “I’m Looking over a Four-Leaf Clover,” by Mort Dixon and Harry Woods. It was an old hit from 1927, but had made its way back into the charts with Al Jolson in 1950. João heard it every day at the Murray, first sung by Jolson, then by Russ Morgan, and finally by Nilo Sérgio, his friend at the Murray, who made a Portuguese version and recorded it under the title “Trevo de quatro folhas” (Four-Leaf Clover). Nilo Sérgio would later become famous with another cover song, “Cavaleiros do céu” (Ghost Riders in the Sky), and now had his own recording company, Musidisc. But what João Gilberto was really anxious to record was a little thing he had remembered, and had been practicing for six months: “O pato” (The Duck).
“Ronaldo, see if you can hear me: ‘O pa-to. O pa-to.’”
João Gilberto left the door of Ronaldo Bôscoli’s apartment open and went to the far end of the hallway, by the elevator. Bôscoli had to stand at the other end, inside the apartment, in order to be as far away from João Gilberto as possible, and see if he could hear him, while the latter whispered as softly as he could, “O pa-to. O pa-to.”
João Gilberto wanted to find out how softly he could enunciate and still be heard, using the hallway as a type of megaphone. And this was how he practiced “O pato.” But Bôscoli’s neighbors weren’t to know that, and at first, they were startled by that man who hung around at the end of the hallway interminably whispering, “O pa-to. O pa-to.”
But they got used to it. The one who took longer to get used to it was Bôscoli, who remarked to his three or four roommates, “If that duck isn’t recorded soon, he’ll die of old age.”
“O pato” was a relic from the 1948 repertoire of Os Garotos da Lua. It had been brought to Rádio Tupi and shown to Milton, the leader of the group, by one of its writers, a tall, elegant, and pleasant mulatto named Jaime Silva. Milton had never seen him before, either at the radio station or at any of the other hangouts of singers at the time, like the Café Atlântida or Zica’s bar. Silva said that the samba had been written by him and his collaborating partner, Neuza Teixeira, who wasn’t with him. Milton listened to the song and liked it immediately. “O pato” was incorporated into the repertoire of Os Garotos da Lua, who sang it innumerable times at Rádio Tupi and at their performances, when Jonas was still their crooner. But they never recorded it, not even on acetate. When Jonas had to leave the group to make way for João Gilberto, the song remained on the group’s books for a while, and João sang it to death with them until they decided to retire it. Now he was finally going to record it.
Bôscoli thought he would go mad from hearing “O pato” so often in the apartment, but he had already resigned himself to it, it was for a good cause. Before this happened, though, he unwittingly postponed his suffering when he went with João Gilberto to Nara’s apartment and introduced him to a friend of hers named Astrud Weinert. On meeting Astrud, João felt a sound deep inside, like the gong that opened films produced by the Rank organization. “O pato” suddenly had to compete with the instant passion he felt for the girl. Bôscoli thought this was great and decided to try and play match-maker. After all, everyone in the bossa nova world had paired up. He was Nara’s fiancé; Menescal was dating Norma Bengell; Carlinhos Lyra had various love affairs; Vinícius had already started his rotation of wives. Only João was partnerless.
It wouldn’t be easy to encourage this love affair. Astrud, who was twenty years old, was a former student of the demanding Colégio de Aplicação and one of the three daughters of Mr. Weinert, a retired Rio-based German professor who gave private English lessons. Astrud’s sisters were named Eda and Iduna, and they were all named after goddesses of German folklore. Astrud was born in Bahia, when her father worked there, but moved to Rio when she was eight years old and had always lived on Avenida Atlântica. No Bahian had ever caught her attention simply for being Bahian, and João Gilberto, who wasn’t Siegfried, impressed her even less than any of Nara’s friends. But she wasn’t prepared for the persuasive powers of that particular Bahian. It was easy for him once he learned that she also liked to sing.
One of his ploys was to form an imaginary vocal trio with himself, Astrud, and Chet Baker, gathering around the stereo and singing incessantly “There’ll Never Be Another You.” Another was to do what he no longer ever did (at least, not for free) for anyone: accompany her on his guitar. João had other things going for him, like Astrud’s mother thinking he was the best singer ever, and the fact that Astrud was also starting to consider a career. He won her over, and the two of them were married at the beginning of 1960. It was a quick, simple civil ceremony, at a registry office in Copacabana, with author Jorge Amado as the best man. The future would reveal that João might change wives, but he would always be faithful to his best man.
With his new responsibilities as a married man, which included a child on the way and the obligation of paying rent (for the couple’s apartment in Rua Visconde de Pirajá in Ipanema), João Gilberto found himself doing things that later would seem unimaginable, even to him. Like, for example, singing on television at the slightest request of popular programs of the time.
It was usual for him to be one of the regular guests on O bom Tom, Carlos Thiré and Walter Arruda’s weekly show on São Paulo’s channel 5, “hosted” by Jobim. But it wasn’t quite as common for him to be on TV Rio’s showy Noite de gala (Gala Night), despite the fact that one of the producers was Abelardo Figueiredo, the orchestra was conducted by Jobim, and one of the production assistants was his former roommate, Miéle—all friends of his. TV Rio took itself far more seriously than it really deserved, and didn’t feel that the bossa nova gang met their stringent requirements of seriousness. But in a production slip-up, Miéle cast João in a sketch adapted from The Red Balloon, a recent French film for children that everyone loved. In the sketch, João starred opposite a little girl and sang for her. One of the songs he sang was, strangely enough, “Day by Day,” an American song by Axel Stordahl and Sammy Cahn—in English. He did this because he was convinced that the blonde girl was American. It wasn’t in the script,
but as it had been a Sinatra hit, Miéle let it go, and even thought it was good. Besides, the sketch was aired live, so once they were on the air, that was that.
Musical productions that were aired live on television gave the producers gray hairs because many musicians had the terrible habit of not showing up. When this happened, a substitute had to be roped into doing the show, even if he or she was literally lassoed and brought into the studio. This is what happened when they were one guitarist short on the Cássio Muniz Show, directed by Maurício Sherman on TV Tupi. The guitarist was going to accompany one of the many anonymous singers that Tupi had “discovered,” who usually remained anonymous nevertheless. Another production assistant, Carlos Alberto de Souza, asked for twenty minutes to find a substitute. Sherman agreed and, shortly afterward, Souza returned with João Gilberto, who accompanied the singer and left with cash for his performance in his raincoat pocket. Unfortunately, he had had to play wearing his raincoat because underneath it he was still in his pajamas.
His marriage to Astrud forced João to do things that today he’d pay not to have to do. During his engagement, he also had a weekly television show on Sunday nights in São Paulo; Musical Três Leões (Three Lions Musical), that was also on TV Paulista. The producers were the same as those from O bom Tom: Carlos Thiré and Walter Arruda, who scheduled the show so that for four weeks, a particular musician or singer was the only featured artist, around whom the half-hour program would revolve. That year, 1959, João Gilberto’s attendance was flawless during his entire four-week run. He caught a plane in Rio right away and went to São Paulo, where he stayed at the Hotel Lord, which was almost right next to TV Paulista in Rua das Palmeiras, and did everything they asked him.
