by Castro, Ruy
For someone who had never been out of Brazil, his command of English was almost too perfect—and for someone who had seemed so shy, his self-confidence from that point on was indeed impressive. Perhaps everyone had been mistaken about his apparent fragility, when all was said and done. Perhaps, up until that moment, Jobim had even misled himself.
But nobody made that mistake with João Gilberto. He had also come to Carnegie Hall on business. The show had barely begun, and he was still dressing while the first artists were performing, when he noticed the crease in his pants: it didn’t run parallel to the side seam. He called council member Mário Dias Costa over and showed him: “Look, Mario. It’s not straight. I can’t go on like this.”
João Gilberto had good reason to be concerned. For a guitarist, a straight trouser crease was as important as his right shoe being polished to a mirror-like shine. Pianists didn’t need to bother about that because their legs and shoes were concealed beneath the piano, but guitarists sat there perched on a stool, and people notice that kind of thing. And besides, when João Gilberto played, he bounced his knee in time to the music. A crease that did not run parallel to the side seam of his pants would mean that when he stretched his leg out to one side, his pants would hang wrong, which, in his imagination, would end up compromising the whole image of Brazilian music abroad.
João told all of this to Mário Dias Costa. Mário thought about this unexpected problem and realized that João might be right, but he didn’t know what to do about it. He asked the vice-consul, Dona Dora Vasconcellos, for help. More experienced in the etiquette and customs of the city, Dona Dora knew that the pants had to be ironed, and the problem was going to be getting hold of an iron in Carnegie Hall at that hour. With great effort, they managed to locate the theater seamstress—there was always one on duty to mend curtains, sew buttons onto the shirts of tenors after a particularly enthusiastic note, and things like that. She and Dona Dora managed to force open the door to the ironing woman’s room, and as the latter had already gone home, grabbed the iron, and, right then and there, while Carlinhos Lyra was on stage singing “Influência do jazz” (Jazz Influence), the Brazilian vice-consul herself ironed João’s pants while he waited in his dressing room in his underwear.
Now sporting an impeccably ironed crease in his pants, João Gilberto was called onto the stage at Carnegie Hall by Leonard Feather. He came on with his guitar, a #3 Romeu, which had been loaned to him by Billy Blanco. For the first time during the show, the photographers and cameramen surged forward. Americans were the most anxious to hear him play, and he knew this better than anyone, although his humble manner made it seem otherwise. It was merely a matter of style. Sidney Frey, sitting in Carnegie Hall’s sound booth, didn’t frighten him any more than Mr. Emicles, the owner of the sound system in Juazeiro. In fact, he frightened him rather less.
The technicians doubtfully adjusted the microphones, and João waited for complete silence. Then he sang “Samba da minha terra” (Samba of My Land) accompanied by just Banana on drums, and “Corcovado” (Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars) and “Desafinado” (Off-Key) accompanied by Jobim on piano. He received tremendous applause from those that were able to hear him, but the impression he made on Peggy Lee, Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, and other artists in the boxes was incomparably greater than on the ordinary people in the audience—who continued to hold the opinion that the high point of the show had been Agostinho dos Santos, with Bonfá on guitar, singing “Manhã de carnaval” (A Day in the Life of a Fool).
In the days that followed, some of the most influential names in the Brazilian press took great pleasure in making mincemeat out of the Carnegie Hall show, dubbing it a resounding failure. They were finally getting their own back on Bôscoli for his bragging, on Menescal for his arrogance, and on the young men and women of bossa nova for their independent streak over the past few years. Antônio Maria roared with laughter in his newspaper, Sérgio Porto made fun of them on television, and the bête noir of bossa nova, the critic José Ramos Tinhorão, was the author of the ultimate cruel jibe: a behind-the-scenes account in O Cruzeiro magazine, which was still the publication with the greatest circulation, of what went on at Carnegie Hall. The story he told revealed nothing more than the disorganization that characterized the show, and the nervousness of some of the participants. But Tinhorão used his vast verbal artillery to ridicule the event beyond belief, defining it as the “failure” of Brazilian musicians in their attempt to portray themselves as “diligent imitators of American music.” His sentiments were echoed by the rest of the press.
Tinhorão hadn’t even been there, which led Sylvio Tullio Cardoso to brand his article in O Cruzeiro “mediumistic.” In fact, it was as if Tinhorão had been not in the audience, but in the wings and even on the actual stage itself at Carnegie Hall. The information for the article (“Bossa Nova desafinou nos EUA” [Bossa Nova Not in Tune in the USA], published in O Cruzeiro on 12/8/62), was provided by the magazine’s correspondent in New York, the Cuban Orlando Suero—who got the facts from someone who was in fact there: singer-composer Sérgio Ricardo.
The article caused Dona Dora Vasconcellos enormous embarrassment in New York and in turn forced council member Mário Dias Costa to explain himself, “standing to attention,” to the Minister of Foreign Relations. Why on earth would the Itamaraty spend money to finance the affairs of an American businessman and submit Brazilian music to complete embarrassment abroad in the bargain? (This was the tone of the report.) But what bossa nova turn-coats and enemies weren’t expecting was that the show had been filmed by an American TV crew. The film, purchased by Dona Dora for $450 and sent back to Brazil in Walter Silva’s suitcase, was shown on TV Continental and TV Tupi, and revealed a very different scenario than that which had been supplied to Tinhorão by Orlando Suero, scribbled by hand on writing paper that the Cuban had sent to the editor of the magazine. For example, it showed the audience enthusiastically applauding Agostinho dos Santos, Bonfá, Sérgio Mendes, Jobim, and João Gilberto. (Unless they had only filmed certain sections of the audience—but it’s highly doubtful that the Itamaraty would have had the power to force them to do that.)
In fact, the applause continued throughout the entire show, as can be heard on innumerable pirated tapes of the complete audio recording of the show that still circulate among collectors in Rio and São Paulo. On these tapes, radio announcer Walter Silva can also be heard disclosing the participation of Sérgio Ricardo and reporting that his presence was made possible “under the auspices of the magazine O Cruzeiro,” for whom he was going to “write an article on the show.” Apparently, the composer of “Zelão” revealed that he was too careless to be a war correspondent—because shortly after the film of the concert was shown, the magazine was forced to recant in another article, published weeks later and written by its senior editor, David Nasser.
During the huge feijoada party thrown by Frey after Carnegie Hall, several Brazilians signed contracts to stay in America. João Gilberto signed a contract for a three-week run at the Blue Angel nightclub, and for the recording of a disc at Verve. Jobim was hired as an arranger by the Leeds Corporation, which paid him a $1,500 advance for the publishing rights to “Garota de Ipanema” (The Girl from Ipanema) (which, wisely, he had not played at Carnegie Hall, saving it for the near future). Oscar Castro-Neves’s ensemble went to the Empire Room at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, even though it’s true that they played “dance music.” Sérgio Mendes proved that he had international appeal. Even Sérgio Ricardo benefited: his song “Zelão” was published by Frey and started to appear on practically every record released by Audio-Fidelity. However, all of this was just a mere taste of what was to come.
Two weeks later, once most of the mediocrities had returned to Brazil, the bossa nova gang put on another show, on a smaller scale, at the George Washington Auditorium in Washington, D.C., with Jobim, João Gilberto, Lyra, Menescal, Sérgio Mendes, Sérgio Ricardo, and Caetano Zama. In the audience, bubbling over with enthusiasm, was
the young Rio journalist Telmo Martino, who at the time was working for Voice of America. Having been out of Brazil for years, he was astonished: “How fabulous, Brazilian music with no tambourines …”
After the show, the bossa nova gang was invited to the White House by the First Lady, Jackie Kennedy, who made Carlinhos Lyra temporarily forget his aversion to imperialism by remarking to him that one of her favorite songs was “Maria Nobody.”
During the entire year and a half that preceded the Carnegie Hall show, João Gilberto’s career could be described as being just about anywhere except at its apex. His third record for Odeon, João Gilberto, had disappointing sales figures, compared to his first two—not to mention the hassles that had been involved in recording it. And he was beginning to suspect that Odeon harbored a somewhat pessimistic attitude toward him: nobody had mentioned doing another record in 1962 and there were no signs that they were desperate to renew his contract. The year before, Odeon had let Sylvinha Telles, Lúcio Alves, and Sérgio Ricardo go. As a gesture of solidarity to Sylvinha, to whom he was now married, Aloysio de Oliveira gave his notice. João Gilberto became the only singer of his genre left at the recording company, but with the relative fiasco of his third record, not even Our Lady of the Grottos could guarantee his continued employment. And given that his son João Marcelo would soon be two years old, he could no longer allow himself the luxury of being broke in Rio, as he had been in the good old days.
Jorge Amado, the best man at his wedding, and experienced in the ways of the foreign market, was forever giving him advice: “You’ve done everything you can here. It’s time to leave.”
As if things weren’t already bad enough, João started having problems on his trips. In Porto Alegre, he missed an appearance on Rádio Gaúcha’s Programa Maurício Sobrinho (The Maurício Sobrinho Show), hosted by the influential Maurício Sirotsky, and the latter launched a campaign against him that took care of the entire city. And Porto Alegre was one of his cities. They ended up forgiving him, but it cost him. However, nothing was on a par with the incident he had with Tito Madi at the Paramount Theater in São Paulo at the end of 1961.
It was a scene straight out of old Abbott and Costello comedies, only as if it had been directed by Grand Guignol specialist Roger Corman. João Gilberto and Tito Madi were two of the singers nominated by TV Record for the Chico Viola Award. The others were Elza Laranjeira and Isaurinha Garcia. The four of them were already in their places behind the curtains, waiting for their signal to come on. While the lesser prizes were being awarded, João, Elza, and Isaurinha were fooling around singing this and that, with João playing his guitar. Tito, peeking through the curtains at the stage, heard the production staff saying that the noise from their little party was echoing through the microphones. He went over to his friends and asked them to be quiet. There was a brief commotion from the four of them, and suddenly, exhortations to “ssshhhhh!” started coming at them from all sides. Tito Madi was one of the ones who went “ssshhhhh.”
João Gilberto got annoyed: “Don’t shush me, Tito.”
More shushes were heard, and Tito admits that he unconsciously let out another shush and gave João Gilberto a gentle shove. The latter didn’t blink: he raised his guitar, as one raises an axe, and brought it down on Tito Madi’s head. The resulting vibration produced a chord in E minor.
Although it was perhaps unintentional, the blow was delivered with the side of the guitar, almost the edge. Tito, with reflexes that were indeed enviable for a romantic singer, managed to duck his head an inch or two, but was unable to dodge the guitar striking him squarely on the top of his head. The blow opened his scalp, and blood gushed from the wound, soaking his black tuxedo jacket and the front of his white shirt. Tito passed out and a commotion ensued. The production team appeared, shushing, but when they saw the blood-soaked scene on Rua da Consolação, they ordered Tito to be taken out of there. They called João Gilberto onstage, handed him the award, and didn’t even want him to sing. He left without performing.
Tito also left, but to go to the Hospital das Clínicas, where he got ten stitches in his head, just one week before his wedding. From the hospital, he had to go to the police station to give a statement. He did so against his will, because he had no wish to register a complaint. But several witnesses told the police chief what had happened and he decided to open an inquiry. What followed was a long series of intrusive pestering of Tito Madi, which made him start to suspect that he didn’t really like João Gilberto very much.
As he lived in Rio, Tito was continually being forced to put his life on hold to go to São Paulo to give statements. João wasn’t, because he was always on the road and could never be found—and after the Carnegie Hall incident, forget it. It took him almost two years, but Tito finally managed to get the inquiry transferred to Rio, and there found an understanding police chief who closed the case.
On leaving Carnegie Hall for the feijoada party at Sidney Frey’s apartment, João Gilberto decided that Jorge Amado was right. He had already done everything he could in Brazil.
“Tom, tell that gringo he’s a moron,” João Gilberto instructed Tom Jobim in Portuguese.
“Stan, João said to tell you that he’s always dreamed of making a record with you,” Jobim told him, in English.
“Funny,” replied Stan Getz, derisively. “By the tone of his voice, I don’t think that’s what he’s really saying …”
The recording of the Getz/Gilberto album was not as peaceful as its fantastic eight tracks make it out to have been. Getz, whose normal interaction with humankind at the time was after three or four shots, was a little slow in all other regards. A few days after the concert at Carnegie Hall, they had all met for the first time—Getz, Jobim, João Gilberto, and producer Creed Taylor from Verve—in the Rehearsal Hall at Carnegie Hall. They wanted to sound out the possibilities of an album. João played and sang “One Note Samba” with Jobim on piano, to show Getz how it should be. Getz had already recorded the song on the album he had released the year before, Jazz Samba, with Charlie Byrd, but had never gotten it quite right. And by the look of things, he still wasn’t getting it.
Struggling with his impatience and rebellious locks of hair, Jobim told the American photographer David Drew Zingg, a mutual friend of his and of Creed Taylor, who had been the one to introduce the two of them, “David, run down to the deli on the corner and buy the man a bottle of whiskey. Maybe he’ll loosen up.”
Getz loosened up. The experience of playing bossa nova with Brazilian musicians intimidated him. On Jazz Samba, for example, he used two American drummers, Buddy Deppenschmidt and Bill Reichenbach, and they almost appeared to be suffering from lumbago when compared to Milton Banana’s swinging elasticity. But the two stars of the record didn’t always treat each other quite so courteously. As quietly as João Gilberto wanted to sing, Getz insisted on blowing as if he had a pair of giant bellows for lungs, or as if the microphone were deaf. (Later, João Gilberto also complained that Getz re-equalized the record and made his saxophone sound even higher, in order to remain in the foregound the entire time.) The two of them were also unable to come to an agreement in choosing the definitive take from among the several recordings of each song, and Creed Taylor was forced to settle the issue. It was a miracle that the eight tracks were recorded in just two days (March 18 and 19, 1963), including “Garota de Ipanema” with Astrud Gilberto.
The story that Astrud’s participation in the record was incidental is another tale that has been repeated with tremendous sincerity since its occurrence, especially after the seven-inch disc with “The Girl from Ipanema” sold two million copies. And in fact, it’s too good of a story not to tell the grandchildren. The singer’s wife, who up until then had only ever sung within the safe confines of their own home, was invited to sing on one of the tracks and became a worldwide success overnight, even more so than her husband. In the old days, Hollywood paid writers to invent stories like that.
In fact, the only incidental aspect of
Astrud’s participation in the record was the fact that nobody there, except for her and perhaps João Gilberto, knew that this was going to happen. In Astrud’s mind, the idea of recording professionally wasn’t new. It wasn’t for nothing that she had rehearsed exhaustively with João Gilberto for her participation in the Night of Love, a Smile, and a Flower performance at the School of Architecture, two years earlier, and that he, usually so demanding, had deemed her ready to sing in public—and had even accompanied her. It’s more than likely that she would have continued to perform at other amateur bossa nova concerts, had they taken place. (The Night of Love, a Smile, and a Flower was the last of its kind, and from that point on, the gang broke up to concentrate on turning professional.)
The fact is that, on the second day of recording the Getz/Gilberto album, Astrud insisted to João Gilberto and Stan on participating in “The Girl from Ipanema,” singing the English version. João tried to redirect the conversation, but she persisted and was backed up by the others. Creed Taylor thought a female voice would sound good and it wouldn’t be a bad thing for someone on that album to sing in a less exotic language. Jobim had already heard Astrud sing before and knew that she could handle it; and Stan, quite frankly, wasn’t very interested. João Gilberto gave in and after four or five takes, even got excited about her participation.
The track ended up being very long (five minutes, fifteen seconds), and included João’s part, in Portuguese; Astrud’s entrance, in English; Getz’s solo; Jobim’s piano solo; and Astrud’s return with Getz to finish. It didn’t matter that it was so long, if it was going to be an album aimed at the jazz market, with no aspirations to making the Top Forty. Taylor liked the end result so much that he suggested repeating the formula on the last track left, “Corcovado.” But something must have been on his mind, because he asked them to make it a little shorter, and “Corcovado” ended up being four minutes, fifteen seconds.
