THE BEST OF TWO WORLDS By Alain Gerber

MY SOUL SINGS / I SEE RIO DE JANEIRO (Antônio Carlos Jobim).

A Classical Music Composer in the Amazon Jungle

In 1957, on the occasion of the seventieth birthday of its most illustrious composer, Brazil paid tribute to him by celebrating "the Villa-Lobos Year." This resolution would not have had the same impact if Heitor, during an exceptionally prolific career, had not secured the esteem of his compatriots — whether or not they were discerning music lovers — as well as the sympathy of the French Impressionists and the friendship of Darius Milhaud, Arthur Rubinstein, Edgar Varèse, to name but a few. In their remarkable introduction to the anthology "Heitor Villa-Lobos, his music and his performers," published in 2018 by Frémeaux & Associés, Teca Calazans and Philippe Lesage show very well how, against all odds, despite the arrows hurled at him by both the watchdogs of academism (they deemed him vulgar) and the political commissars of avant-gardism (they reproached him for his love of the picturesque), this unconditional admirer of Johann Sebastian Bach, a smoker of Bahian cigars and an inveterate mocker, had blazed a virgin trail "between classical music and urban popular music (choro) and rural music (violeiros and cantadores nordestinos) of his native land at a time when European music lovers were imperceptibly seeing the erudite music of concert halls open up to modernity under the battering ram of Debussy, Ravel, Stravinsky, Bartók, and Varèse."

The man had learned, among other instruments, the piano, cello, and clarinet. And the guitar, but in secret. He had analyzed bird songs and street noises, as encouraged by his father, passing the hat as a bistro cellist, before studying institutional music with such sustained lack of application that it commanded respect. In his youth, his imagination was the only thing he took seriously. He preferred chance to method; discipline to extravagances, dazzling moments, hazardous revelations. He had been a self-taught man of conviction, both dilettante and tenacious. From the age of eighteen and for seven years, he would be a sort of picaresque ethnomusicologist: a volunteer, ingenuous, assiduous, fanatical. As folkloric as the folklores he wished to immerse himself in. More wild in his own way than, in their semi-nudity, the natives he would unearth in the depths of the jungles and the memory holes of the Brazilian administration.

Within a half-gloomy, half-shimmering reality — the concrete imaginary of uncertain worlds — he narrowly avoided arrows and smoking cauldrons, stepping over snakes for the sole purpose of playing sounds from the gramophone he had burdened himself with to presumed cannibals, who were absolutely amazed, hoping that in exchange, they would initiate him into their songs, paeans, and other sonic oddities. His pockets were filled with small notebooks where he undoubtedly feverishly recorded what he managed to grasp from an oral teaching that one imagines less orthodox than at the Rio de Janeiro Music Institute.

From these distant expeditions, as well as from his incursions into disreputable neighborhoods, into sinister places, these "little hells" where Jobim would later perform, in infamous bars and dance halls, he returned as poor as Job, yet, he asserted, the possessor of "incredible riches." The possessor of a treasure that costs nothing and is worth all the gold in the world: a sublime that would have no need of alleged sublimations, so dear to our postmoderns: the jewels of an original beauty, kept intact, the raw stones of a brutal jewelry, which are there only to highlight their setting: Terra Brasilis. Brazil was his madness. His ultimate love. He didn't just want to inhabit it; admiring it was not enough either: his ambition was to be, through his creations, a piece of it. If he could have read it, nothing would have filled him more than this portrait drawn of him by his friend Alejo Carpentier: "He is a palm tree that thinks like a palm tree, without dreaming of resembling the pines of the northern hemisphere."

A tracker of primal truths, the least docile ones, Heitor had scoured the popular music of his country. They returned the favor. It's not that bossa nova and its dissidences, for example, wanted to owe him anything: it's that they couldn't do otherwise. And one thinks less of the anecdotal borrowings from his repertoire than of the essential legacy of his inveterate Brazilianism. Antônio Carlos often came to see him. Not to consult the master, but to laugh, drink, and smoke in his company. To feel completely at home when he was with that man, waiting for fame, too often, to condemn him to exile. Villa-Lobos left this world on November 17, 1959, in Rio. In Rio, the official birth certificate of bossa nova dates from the publication, the previous year, of "Chega de Saudade" (CD 1, # 9) and "Bim Bom," the inaugural 78 rpm record of the tandem formed by João Gilberto, soloist, and Tom Jobim, arranger, with Vinícius de Moraes as lyricist. But the coincidence is merely a trick. There was no passing of the torch between the first of these creators and the other two. There could be none between beings who, each on their own and according to their moods, remade the world in their own image.

"Wandering Roots" (Pierre Barouh).

In 1959, under the presidency of Dr. Juscelino Kubitschek, police officer and Sunday guitarist, the man thanks to whom, very soon, the hallucination of Brasília would pour into glass, iron, and concrete, Brazil found bossa nova in its little shoe. Bossa nova itself had taken more than ten years to find itself. In truth, without knowing it, it had succeeded before the recording of "Chega De Saudade" by Gilberto, on July 10, 1958 — otherwise, how would it have had the idea to seek itself? This interpretation, which would immediately become a sensation upon commercialization, was the culmination of two other already very successful attempts in which the artist had participated. As early as April, João had accompanied with his guitar a remarkable version of the song by Jobim and Vinícius de Moraes by Elizeth Cardoso, then a second by the vocal group Os Cariocas, whose titular guitarist, Emmanoel "Badeco" Furtado, he had discreetly replaced, as the latter was struggling to put in place a still unheard-of rhythmic figure. The moment of blossoming had come. But, however unexpected it was by traditional sambistas (who by no means all embraced it), this brand new, still fragile beauty came from further afield.

It is a captivating game to extract from the alluvial deposits of passing time the "wandering roots" evoked by Pierre Barouh in the lyrics of "Samba Saravah," directly inspired by Vinícius's "Samba Da Benção," that unparalleled hymn to Brazilian song. One can dedicate a lifetime to tracking, detecting, and unveiling the antecedents of bossa nova, its harbingers, the reliefs, the relics of a patient and discreet gestation. If one does not intend to undertake this archaeological work, it is always possible to rely on the inventory compiled, once again, by Philippe Lesage in the collection "The Precursors of Bossa Nova 1948-1957" (Frémeaux & Associés FA5216). It contains a precious collection of sound traces — "suspension in the air of time... which was awaiting an alchemical precipitate," he writes — accompanied by an elegant and highly precise historical study. Struck first by the pivotal role played by Jobim as early as 1954, both as a composer and performer, many enthusiasts, even enlightened ones, will soon encounter a host of artists whose existence in France, for too long, had barely been suspected. The result was a misunderstanding of the importance of their contribution to the gradual emergence of a new kind of samba, sometimes nourished by North American cool jazz and West Coast Jazz. And they will undoubtedly be surprised that the charming "Tereza Da Praia" by Antônio Carlos and Billy Blanco was recorded by Dick Farney and Lucio Alves (CD 1, # 2) several years before the aforementioned "Chega de Saudade/Bim Bom."

"The Father of Bossa Nova," according to Tom Jobim

To explore these formative years, an entire volume would not be too much. I fear we must settle for more modest ambitions. If there were only one of these pioneers to give as an example, I would lean in favor of Alfredo José da Silva, better known by his pseudonym Johnny Alf. And that despite the fact that he would have declined this honor. Resolved to be a precursor only to himself, he wanted to invent, day by day, his music as well as his life. His manner, which he claimed was irreducible to any other, he defined as a pleasant blend of what could be heard in his country and what was played in jazz clubs in the other America. Years before his passing, Jean-Paul Delfino had written that, in his art as much as in his person, "he (was) bossa nova," just as others would soon be rock'n roll. But Johnny stuck to his guns. On November 21, 1962, when he was invited to perform at Carnegie Hall in New York, which was then opening its doors to the elite of the movement, he preferred to do what he had always done: hit the road, only being in one place as an excuse to go to another. From town to town, the eternal elsewhere of elsewhere retreated before him. But it was his true homeland: Johnny Alf or the permanent odyssey.

He would not have looked out of place among the hangers-on frequented and celebrated by his contemporary Jack Kerouac, who had said, "For me, the only people who matter are the mad ones… the ones who never yawn… but burn, burn like a firework." Like these users of the margins, walking randomly in the footsteps of his shadow on these "sidewalks of life" that the well-meaning "proudly tread," he claimed to be a night bird, an unrepentant nomad, a walking shame of industrious society. Disdainful of petty and comfortable glories, he, on the other hand, showed himself to be hopelessly in love with people whom respectable people enjoy disrespecting: poets with torn pockets, with painful awakenings, Gauguins on tropical wanderings, Chet Bakers flying out of windows in the smell of fries.

However, he was not a very orthodox beatnik. Too serious, too conscientious, too scrupulous: a transient who was very far from fickle when it came to music in general and his own in particular. Perfection never seemed hateful to him; quite the opposite. If he answered to no one, he was extremely demanding of himself. Making a career was the least of his worries. Nevertheless, he knew very well how to lead his brand, and in a way uncommon among popular singers: by dissuading his audiences from settling for little. Like João Gilberto who, when he was still nobody, listened to him with passion, like another of his unconditional admirers, Antônio Carlos, hailed as the equal of Gershwin or Cole Porter, he could have won the hearts of gringos. Perhaps he even tried to do so in 1963, with a "Canta em Inglês, Sings in English" that looked a lot like a kick under the table. But he had remained, and would remain for a long time, the street performer of a single territory, a local lord, the hero of the Plaza de Copacabana, and the creator of melodies where Brazil spoke to the ears of Brazilians. Among the latter, one, "Eu e a Brisa," written in the mid-60s, is a pure gem. The other, the samba "Rapaz de Bem," conceived in 1953, reveals, through its harmonic progression as well as its melodic line, a vision that, whether he accepted it or not, foreshadowed that of the bossa novistas (CD 1, # 3).

"Orpheus of the Slopes" (Vinícius de Moraes).

Johnny Alf was the very embodiment of the cat that walks by himself. But the trembling beginnings of bossa nova also manifested themselves in the works of duos that today would be called "unlikely." The word has become fashionable. One might prefer "unfindable," insofar as the fruits of these alliances would exceed all expectations. Yet it was with complete innocence, even without betting big on their success (they would have been the only ones!), that Jobim and de Moraes first, then Jobim and Gilberto, made common cause.

In 1954, according to Delfino, Vinícius, who described himself as "the blackest white man in Brazil," put the finishing touches on a play, a cousin of the musical, which he had begun composing about a decade earlier. According to its author, "Orfeu da Conceição" was born from a fantasy: that of "an Orpheus of the slopes who would be a samba player." In any case, the intervention of a musician was indispensable. Someone recommended to the poet an obscure, more or less one-eyed nightclub pianist named Antônio Carlos Brasileiro de Almeida Jobim, a defector from architectural firms leading a modest life, surviving a precarious livelihood through expedients from which he had no reason to profit. Such as working as a copyist at Continental, Odeon's competitor, "at the service of composers who don't know music theory" (Delfino again). The collaboration of this cryptomist and the playwright who had just served as embassy secretary in Paris preluded a phenomenal success in 1956. So resounding that it would immediately lead to an equally acclaimed film, overwhelmed with more laurels than it could bear: the "Black Orpheus" by French filmmaker Marcel Camus, shot in 1958.

Morning of Carnival

Before the year was out, the melodies of "Orfeu" — including "Se Tôdos Fôssem Iguais A Você," destined for a bright future (cf. CD 1, # 4) — were already being recorded, at Odeon's initiative and under the direction of Jobim, arranger, by vocalist Roberto Paiva (1921-2014) and with the equally remarkable and discreet contribution of another precursor recognized as such by the founding fathers of the movement: the guitarist (and singer) Luis Floriano Bonfá, then thirty-four years old, active since 1947 and one of Gilberto's inspirers before being inspired by him. However, this record would not reach the public until several months after, for the same record label, Sylvia Telles had given her own version of "Se Tôdos," also supported by a group that "Tom" had assembled.

The soundtrack of "Black Orpheus" bears the signatures of the now inevitable Jobim and Bonfá, revealed to the general public thanks to two melodies from the film: "Samba de Orfeu" and perhaps even more so "Manhã de Carnaval." Don't these trees hide the forest? In this country, at least, it seems to me that too little attention has been paid to Luiz's delicate art. If this artist sometimes succumbed to facility (much less than Almeida, however), if he didn't always push himself to the limit, pieces such as "Luzes do Rio," from 1959 (CD 1, # 5), attest both to a subtlety of conception and instrumental mastery which, I believe, fully justify João Gilberto, in his irreplaceable "O Amor, o Sorriso e a Flor," paying him the most explicit tribute as early as 1960 with a wordless melody titled "Um Abraço no Bonfá" (CD 1, # 6). Its author would revisit it a quarter of a century later in "Getz/Gilberto '76" (Resonance HCD 2021).

Goodbye Sadness

I cannot say for certain where and when João and Tom met. There were certainly plenty of opportunities for two people doing the same job in the same city, frequenting the same places (nightclubs, musicians' bars, recording studios, theater wings, record company corridors...) and chasing the same symbolic fees with comparable eagerness. At the latest, they met in April 1958 when Elizete Cardoso recorded "Outra Vez" (cf CD 1, # 7) with Jobim's orchestra, joined by Gilberto in two of the interpretations — the other, let us remember, being "Chega de Saudade." From that moment on, the composer never stopped — reports Joël Leibovitz — until a demo of his piece was made by João for a very specific decision-maker who, in anyone else's eyes, would have been precisely the person not to bother.

Aloysio de Oliveira, the man who called the shots at Odeon, was used to seeing aspiring artists, certainly not sprung from Zeus's thigh, ambitious newcomers whose ambition would devour them whole, in his waiting room. But this one, already disarming in that his canines didn't seem to threaten the floorboards, for all that, distinguished himself by an approach to singing, inspired by Chet Baker and the young Henri Salvador, which responded better than well to what the selector wasn't looking for, as he was, reports Leibovitz, "drawn to beautiful voices full of vibrato, like Dorival Caymmi in 'Maracangalha' — Aloysio's first success as artistic director." The matter would have been closed if Antônio Carlos hadn't found allies, such as sales director Ismaël Corrêa, within the very house whose door he wanted to force open. After that, the beneficiary of the conspiracy managed to convince Dorival himself to plead his case. The recording was going to happen, and it wouldn't be a walk in the park, as the instrumentalists required for the occasion showed only moderate enthusiasm, to say the least, for the star's whispers, nuances, and shattering sophistications. Leibovitz still, who even evokes "a mutiny": "The clashes with Tom Jobim multiplied. It took several weeks (...) for the record to finally be ready. (...) Oswalgo Gurzoni, Odeon's very influential sales director in São Paulo, went down in bossa nova legend by declaring upon listening (to the finished product): 'Here's the latest crap Rio is sending us!'" (cf. CD 1, # 8).

Sambas from Dorival's Land

We need to dwell on the relationship between the beginner Gilberto and the seasoned Caymmi. They never truly formed a pair. Without a doubt, however, they formed a society of mutual admiration. Furthermore, it was fertile. The younger artist gave the most memorable versions of the elder's most accomplished creations — so successful that they surpass both in intensity and flexibility those of the author himself, as can be seen, for example, in their respective interpretations of "Samba da Minha Terra" (CD 1, # 9 & 10). I haven't drawn up an exhaustive list, but at least several other miniatures sculpted by Dorival must be mentioned, whose soul João knew how to expose better than anyone, while enhancing their manifest charms with a touch of surreptitious voluptuousness, itself nuanced with nostalgia. We are evoking here those suspended moments where enchantment and disenchantment not only intertwine but merge, one then becoming the secret of the other. There is no shortage of them in "Rosa Morena," "Doralice," or "Saudade da Bahia."

João Donato: The Obviousness of Beauty

In his years of empty stomach and subordinate tasks, João Gilberto fed on Dorival as well as Johnny Alf, but also, as much as them, on João Donato, pianist, vocalist, composer. In July 2023, upon the latter's death, who had not always received the recognition he deserved, President Lula himself, paraphrasing Jobim, made a point of paying tribute to him without stinting on the praise: "He was one of the geniuses of Brazilian music. We lost today one of our best composers, one of the most creative... (He) marked the history of our country's music with his compositions that traveled the world." Donato possessed the rare talent of making beauty evident: always easy to approach, always amiable, though it was the fruit of demanding standards.

A Fierce Love

At the time "Desafinado" was recorded, the two Joãos maintained close ties. At that time, the creator of this emblematic piece, conceived by Antônio Carlos and lyricist Newton Mendonça, still felt strong enough to participate in social life other than by phone, when it came to his close acquaintances, or by means of small notes addressed to the people he lived with. For some time now, Donato and Gilberto had been spending a lot of time together, listening and re-listening — "in the grip of strong emotions," the latter would confess — to Stan Getz records. The former had introduced "The Sound" to his friend. The latter would immediately begin to dream of a Getz inspired by Brazilian music... Gilberto, leaving Donato outside (where many others would join him), would eventually close the door of his intimate world upon himself — an unreal world, but all the more fragile, and all the more precious, all the more barricaded because it was fragile. Nevertheless, they would have the opportunity to create several songs together, including a memorable "Minha Saudade," one of the tracks from "Muito À Vontade" produced in 1962 by the pianist leading his trio. To salute the composer he was, I have chosen the title theme of this ensemble, in the version offered by a combo of the same structure: the Camara trio, invited in 1966 to a Parisian studio at the initiative of Pierre Barouh (CD 1, # 11). In his presentation of it, Paulo Martins recalls that many commentators present the product of this session as "one of the most beautiful samba-jazz albums."

João Gilberto would soon no longer be able to bear existence except in isolation. In this art of living, life was ultimately what weighed most heavily on him. What others called life. And he, no doubt, called appearances. The cumbersome appearances, paradoxically attached to matter, subject to the whims of events, armored with illusions that, to his misfortune, were all too concrete. He constantly strove to reduce reality to its status as a sad hallucination. The only true reality, according to João: that of music and songs. In the sublime "Ho-bá-lá-lá," first performed in 1959, for which he wrote the lyrics and music (CD 1, # 12), when he speaks of "finding love by listening to this song" (O amor encontrará ouvindo esta canção), everyone should hear: finding it not thanks to it, but in it. A beautiful melody is an end in itself; it cannot be reduced to the rank of an artifice (artifice in the sense of a subterfuge or artifice in the sense of a mystification). Such intransigence makes you hardly sociable. Therefore, you might as well take the initiative and no longer socialize with anyone. After Astrud left him, this unparalleled being spent his time protecting the fierce love he had within him from disillusionment.

Vinícius or "The Madness of Water" (Gilda Mattoso).

For his part, Vinícius de Moraes only thrived in good company. Even when he was taking a bath — and he would take baths for days, for entire nights; he was taking one when pulmonary edema carried him away — even then he appreciated the effervescence around him. Far from disturbing him, the agitation exhilarated him. And the water seemed to be the nourishing medium for creative faculties that never took a vacation. A dilettante diplomat, a tenacious poet. A great collector of women. An unparalleled whisky drinker, an expert in the art of making tables dance and charming ghosts. Wildly generous too. He made friends as he crafted his verses: with gusto. Of his friends, he loved nothing so much as to make them his partners. Thus, he successively pulled from anonymity such prestigious creators as Antônio Carlos, Edu Lôbo, Francis Hime, Carlos Lyra, Toquinho — the list would be long. He would write for Odette Lara, Elis Regina, Maria Bethânia, Gilberto Gil, Chico Buarque. Who would not express their gratitude to him through recordings paying homage to his texts? Elizete Cardoso as early as 1958, Miúcha, Maria Creuza, the vocal group MPB-4 and the Quarteto Em Cy — how many others? Baden Powell had been his soul brother, accomplice in everything, table companion, scotch companion, bathroom companion. And on stage, of course. And, above all, of feverish songwriting procreation. "Together," recounts Jean-Paul Delfino in his indispensable "Brasil Bossa Nova," "they would write (...) fifty-eight Afro-sambas in the record time of three months during which they remained shut up at Vinícius's without going out once!" The most famous lyricist of Brazilian song is here represented by various interpretations, among which Elizete Cardoso's "Serenata de Adeus," of which he was also the composer (CD 1, # 13).

Baden Powell, The Eternal Child Prodigy

Augustin Bondoux summarizes Baden's contribution to humanity's heritage in a few words: "undoubtedly the greatest South American guitarist of the 20th century." At the age of eight, he decided to learn what is called in his country the violão (even in Brazil, there are false friends). The following year, he already won an instrumental competition. A child prodigy, he would remain so his entire life. A prodigy, that is obvious (attested notably by the ambitious "Ouverture Afro-Brasileiras N° 2" from the album "De Rio à Paris," given a new life thanks to the collection "Baden Powell" published by Frémeaux & Associés under the reference FA 5012). A child insofar as he never gave up, in music, on an ideal of purity that presupposes, or rather imposes, cultivating a part of candor within oneself. Deceased on September 26, 2000, at the age of sixty-three, the man with "a thousand fingers" (Claudio de Oliveira) had a sharp tongue and a gourmet lip. A cool head, an immense heart. Although most reserved, no more than the boisterous de Moraes with his indiscreet laugh, he did not do, think, or live things halfway. Sparkling, he nonetheless loved to evolve in the half-light with delicate grace. Thus, one might fear that the brilliance of his playing (see "Sambo Novo, Pt. 2," captured at the Montreux festival in 1995 CD 1, # 14) cast a veil over the intimacy of his singing, of such radical confidentiality that many of his vocal interventions touch upon the twilight (see "Para não sofrer," whispered in Liège in 1987, CD 1, # 15). Baden was a merchant of emotions who would never have agreed to solicit and who gave you credit without you asking — credit for your admiration, to which he preferred your happiness.

Guys and a Girl on the Champs-Élysées

According to Nara Leão — future diva of the new samba, then only about fifteen years old — Baden and/or Vinícius sometimes slipped among the squatters, delightful incidentally, who invaded the apartment her family lived in at 3856, Champs-Élysées building, in Copacabana with a sea view. At any time of day or night, the young girl of the house, educated according to the principle of independence, left the door open to welcome anyone who would present themselves on the threshold. Especially if they had a guitar in hand, which was not uncommon in Rio de Janeiro, where the President of the Republic himself subscribed to the custom. Members of a rapaziada — the Portuguese word sounds better, it must be admitted, than its English equivalent of "band of guys" — whose scattered members would discover or rediscover each other in this protected space (from material contingencies) and of whom Hegel would have said that they were making history without knowing the history they were making. Freeloaders, but with modest pretensions: they contented themselves with sharing a plate of pasta, swallowed on the go between two song snippets, two bursts of laughter, two verbal flashes. With a little luck, one could recognize among the guests João Gilberto and Tom Jobim, Newton Mendonça, Oscar Castro-Neves (so passionate that he "killed" guitars under him), Carlos Lyra, Roberto Menescal or Ronaldo Bôscoli, the doyen of the team.

They were content with little, but gave everything they had. And even more than most of them imagined they possessed, convinced deep down that the gold of the poor (and, except perhaps Vinícius, they all were already in reputation), that this gold could only be small change. At Nara Leão's, talent was spent without counting. It was spent indiscriminately. If one hoped to be reimbursed, it was only a very vague prospect, fragile, vague, always postponed until tomorrow. As long as they were good together and everyone appreciated each other's discoveries, the possibility of success did not prevent anyone from sleeping. Excitement and alcohol were quite enough! That was the original miracle of bossa nova: the genius of its creators was not self-absorbed; moreover, it was hardly conscious of its own existence. Certainly, it manifested itself in an irresistible impulse, but as if inadvertently: among people who lack it, a persistent legend says that such nonchalance suits it well.

Roberto Menescal

Still a student in 1958, a pupil of the great Moacir Santos and precocious founder, with Carlos Lyra, of a guitar school that would be frequented by, among others, Nara, Bôscoli, Marcos Valle, and Edu Lôbo, Roberto Menescal had been noticed and championed by a Jobim even more skilled at discovering the talent of others than at promoting his own. In a flash, Antônio Carlos would convince him to stake everything, not on what could best ensure his livelihood, but on what would bring him the greatest happiness. In a short time, Roberto would earn his place among the founding fathers of bossa nova. Both as a tireless propagator of the genre, as a most refined soloist, as a bandleader. And as a composer. To him, for example, we owe "Ah! Se eu pudesse," "Telefone (The Telephone Song)," "Rio," "Vagamente," "Você," as well as the unforgettable "O Barquinho," all melodies for which Bôscoli wrote the lyrics (CD 1, # 16) and which are illustrated in our selection by the version of singer Maysa Mattarazzo, born Maysa Figueira Monjardim.

Ronaldo Bôscoli

Ronaldo, a journalist, used words. Through his contact with Vinícius and Mendoça, he would let them use him, taking the risk of restoring their freedom. Such an attitude demands both daring and modesty, impertinence and tenderness, rigor and nonchalance. He would know how to find and maintain these precarious balances. Just as he would gracefully navigate between the somewhat melancholy sweetness of Se é tarde me pardoa (CD 1, # 17) and the fantastic good-naturedness, discreetly tinged with surrealism, of the famous Lôbô Bôbô, adapted from Charles Perrault and the Brothers Grimm's "Little Red Riding Hood": "Once upon a time there was a wicked wolf who decided to eat someone..." (CD 1, # 18). The lyricist had unlocked the secret of what is casually called ease, which in the best artists is merely the elegance of application. To capture interest and earn esteem without your work smelling of excessive brainpower or elbow grease – that's a lesson Ronaldo Bôscoli taught those of his disciples capable of profiting from it.

Newton Mendonça

Newton (Ferreira de) Mendonça, born in February 1927, succumbed to a heart attack in November 1960, shortly after making his sole recording, "Em Cada Amor uma Canção." His life passed too quickly: like the best jazzmen, he knew how to "play it fast slowly." Everything happened with him as if, having guessed he wouldn't linger on this earth, he devoted himself not to the creative frenzy one might expect from a man on borrowed time, but to an instantaneous decantation of his work. It would be concise, but flawless. His output, between 1953 (Você morreû pra min, with Fernando Lobo) and 1960 (Meditação, Discussão (CD 1, # 19), Samba de uma nota so (with Jobim) (CD 1, # 20), including the essential Desafinado (1958, again with Jobim) (CD 1, # 21), can be explored quickly, but it also presents an exceptional anthology of lyrics: subtly major texts, public declarations of intent launched by the Carioca "new musical wave," Desafinado being, incidentally, the first song in the world to feature the expression "bossa nova." It should be noted that, as a pianist in his early days in the "petits enfers," like Antonio Carlos, Newton was also, very often, the co-composer of these melodies, his accomplice fulfilling the role of co-lyricist. One would like to believe that Mendonça left having seen that all was well and that he could do no better.

Antônio Carlos Jobim and Words

We've just touched upon an aspect of Jobim's craftsmanship that should not be underestimated. Had he merely harmonized syllables, concepts, visions, and chimera, without ever having touched a musical instrument in his entire life, without knowing anything about music theory, Tom would deserve universal recognition for his lyrics alone, and especially from the bossa nova movement. In its catalog simplicity, in its feigned detachment of inventory, what could be more poetic than Águas de Março (1972)? From observed things, recalled images, waking dreams, and emotions that words cannot convey, the author, following a walk in nature that had deeply moved him without him knowing why, seemingly at random, strings together a bead of ordinary wonders (or enchanting banalities, one can't quite tell), translating like no one else the intoxication of minute beauties:

A stick, a stone, it's the end of the line A knot in the wood, a splinter, a crime A fish, a flash, a breath of pure air A house in the wood, a hook, a snare A foot, a foot, a trail in the dust A thing from the back, a lie, a lust The joy of a drop, a pain to be felt A rock in the hand, a dream to be dreamt A body in bed, a car on the road A brick in the building, a burden, a load The profound mystery, the promise of life... It's the waters of March, deep in your heart[1]

When he composed this song, Tom was already forty-five years old. Unlike whiskey (which he would have to replace with Heineken beer, without much more benefit to his health), maturity had served him well. Without, however, in the least dulling the masterpieces he had signed as a composer-lyricist in previous years: Vivo Sonhando, Wave, Outra Vez, Corcovado (CD 1, # 22), Fotografia, Samba do Avião, Esse Seu Olhar, to name only the most frequently covered. Jobim proved to be as prolific as his companion Mendonça was not. But Newton, deliberately, was exceptional by exception. While Antônio Carlos was so by habit, in the most natural way possible. On one side, the dropper; on the other, the cataract.

Carlos Lyra

One foot in melodic lyricism, one foot in verbal lyricism: Carlos (Eduardo) Lyra, too, did not consider the position to be all that acrobatic. Perhaps his best lyrics don't rival his most beautiful compositions[2] (such as Lôbô Bôbô and Se e tarde me perdoa, with Bôscoli, or Coisa mais linda (CD 1, # 23), Minha Namorada, and Você e eu with de Moraes), but when they are paired, they don't detract from them either. This is evidenced by songs that, six decades later, still know not only how to charm but also to move, as if, in the interim, they had been able to be reborn every day. I'm thinking of Ciûme, Menina, Influencia do Jazz, and especially Maria Ninguém (CD 1, # 24), which I discovered through Zoot Sims' instrumental-only version in 1962 and which Brigitte Bardot took up two years later. An occasional vocalist, Jobim displayed his charm in performance, as in all circumstances. However, it would be an overstatement to claim he excelled at it. In truth, he was quite aware of what he couldn't hope for from his voice, so he never pushed his luck. And he was respectful enough of his audience not to settle for too little when he did sing. With "Carlinho," however, we move up a level. An extensive discography, inaugurated with the album "Bossa Nova," released in 1959, presents a singular artist, singularly adept at combining an intimate conception of his art with an always warm approach. This performance earned him the admiration of his peers. Caetano Veloso saw him as a creator to whom beauty came to eat from his hand. Better yet: someone, in short, who didn't know how to avoid it.

Nara Leão

In high school, Nara Leão slept a lot, making up for a string of sleepless nights. With a consistency that should be credited to her, she dreamed while sleeping of what made her dream while awake. Namely, music, music, music... However, surrounded by all these magnificent "parasites" from whom she gained knowledge and sensitivity that put her beyond her years, she didn't think she had broad enough shoulders, a beautiful enough voice, or agile enough fingers to make a living from this art as her companions more or less managed to do. At sixteen, she let her studies abandon her and, like Ronaldo Bôscoli, took a job as a journalist-reporter for a Rio newspaper, Dernière heure (Last Hour). All the while following her friends on club stages whenever the opportunity arose, but as an honorary member. "For fun," she said. Until the bossa nova wave swept her away and deposited her where, everyone but herself, knew she belonged. In 1963, she featured in a musical signed by de Moraes and Lyra: "Poor Little Rich Girl" and contributed to the success of "Depois do Carnaval"[3], recorded by the latter. The following year, the Elenco company had her record her first solo album, which made headlines and, in a flash, turned "the muse of bossa nova" into its queen.

Wave and Fad

The new-look samba had been the "five-legged sheep," if not the black sheep, of a popular music rightly jealous of its traditions and wrongly of its habits. Now it had become a fad, "a redundant thing" to quote Caetano Veloso, a brand new word whose echo, if not its rambling, is already all that's appreciated. As early as 1961, a title on a record by the vocal quintet Os Cariocas[4] proved prophetic: Tudo é Bossa ("Everything is Bossa") (CD 1, # 2). Bossa: "wave (of the sea)" is one possible translation of the term. When the wave turns into a fad, you're not far from missing the point. That is, losing sight of the essential. And when it's a flying fish, like bossa nova is, you're cheating yourself. So many musical genres have thus sold their souls, convinced they were protecting the golden goose. Bossa nova was no exception to the rule. Let's not forget, however, that some waves are unsinkable: they only pretend to die on the sands of tired loves. To this day, there has always been a window through which the bossa nova that some had shown the door has returned to us.

Postscript

In our selection of paradigmatic pieces, João Gilberto takes the lion's share. A little too much? Just enough for him! More than anyone, he was and remains the very embodiment of the music whose foundations he laid with Jobim. I reported it in the book: Pierre Barouh went even further. "I have very peremptory ideas about bossa nova," he confided in 1986. "For me, bossa nova only exists through one man, an artist who is João Gilberto... It only exists through the obsessions of one individual who is João Gilberto..." The record is irrefutable. The verdict? Its only flaw is to ostracize the one we want to exalt. We prefer a less radical vision, one that doesn't make bossa nova the exclusive domain of one man. Depopulation, as La Palice would say, gravely harms diversity, and we don't dislike an art that presents multiple faces, wears more than one costume, and even embraces contrasting ways of being. To that extent, it's not so bad that it can occasionally contradict itself, or even declare war on itself. Nor that it welcomes into its fold, as interim representatives, personalities from another universe. The volcanic Elis Regina, far from shyness and whispers, offered the best example of this. Moreover, it cannot be denied that more creators than we have cited brought the genre into being. Or were at the very least good companions on its journey. Anthologies such as "The Precursors of Bossa Nova," "The Poets of Brazilian Song," "The Holy Trinity," "Brazilian Instrumental 1949-1962" reveal themselves to be rich in nuggets panned by figures who, in France, are (still?) known only to a handful of people. No one will make me admit, for example, that, in the penultimate of these box sets, Sérgio Ricardo's Maxima Culpa[5] (cf CD 1, # 26) is not a little gem. And how can one resist the charm of Alma Brasileira, delicately carved by the guitarist "Garoto" (Anibal Augosto Sardinha) several years before the expression "bossa nova" became widespread? It is featured, for its part, in the credits of "The Precursors..." (cf CD 1, # 27). One last point: besides the Camara trio, other representative instrumental bossa nova formations could have been highlighted. The sextet of pianist Sérgio Mendes had its moment of glory in the United States in the 1960s, thanks in particular to a consensual interpretation of Jorge Ben's Mas que Nada. Even less should we ignore, in any case, the contribution of Oscar Castro-Neves as a Brazilian pioneer of big band bossa nova. A contradiction in terms, Barouh would not have failed to exclaim. But the person responsible, a musician to his fingertips, successfully navigates this by avoiding the pitfalls of flashiness and tumult into which others, such as the incorrigible "Wagner of jazz" Stan Kenton, would plunge headlong (insignificance crowning excess). Let's note in passing that in the realm of catastrophic brilliance, the palm probably goes to Enoch (Henry) Light, a New York orchestra leader for society dance halls who in the 1950s became a record producer wholly devoted to the fantasies of those hifimaniacs, fans of a special genre, who would gladly do without music to savor in its purest form the sound of the equipment designed to reproduce it. The vanity of his "Big Band Bossa Nova" (Command RS 844 SD) is matched only by its conceit. Castro-Neves's eponymous album (where he plays piano rather than guitar and refrains from singing) is certainly not unforgettable. But, as Aula de Matemática (cf CD 1, # 28) attests, it deserves to be known. If only because it attempts an experiment for which there was only one other example at the time: a third "Big Band Bossa Nova" (Verve V6-8494), presented to the public by Stan Getz and arranger Gary McFarland. We will return to this.

NEW YORK AND THE OTHER AMERICA

Bossa Nova for Rent

Bossa nova brought us its quiet fire, and we looked away. When, in July 1961, returning from a South American tour, Curtis Fuller slipped a One Note Samba[7] into a collection misleadingly titled "South American Cookin'"[6] which, to our knowledge, would be the very first interpretation of a Jobim theme recorded beyond the equator (cf. CD 2, # 1), who was moved by it? There was no reason to be, anyway. This inaugural version is certainly not regrettable; otherwise, it would not be included here despite its historical importance; what handicaps it, paradoxically, is the care it takes not to betray the original model. Anxious to literally follow the rules he had just been taught in Rio, drummer Dave Bailey, as tense as he had ever been when backing Gerry Mulligan, Lee Konitz, or Lou Donaldson, made no mistakes. However, he immediately gave up trying to capture some of the music's spirit in his playing. Thus, he failed to bring to life a rhythmic formula that he nevertheless reproduced with a scrupulousness that honored him (which would not be the case for all his colleagues). Rather, he should have felt free enough, if not to endanger it, at least to let it dance. In a way, he played too accurately: doing his best to be a bossa nova musician, for lack of being one, was the only ambition he could afford. Accuracy posed no problem for him; truth was another story. One might say he strove to articulate what should have remained an undulating phenomenon. The oscillation, the swaying, we hoped for them in vain. In short, the swing had flown away: that magical thing, thanks to which tension no longer knows whether it inhabits relaxation or if it is relaxation that has come to reside in it. There's no point in starting on time, you have to run—run to escape your shadow, and in the right direction. The trombonist's One Note Samba doesn't run: no one is waiting for it: it marks time. Not without timidity, it has nevertheless ventured far enough from its comfort zone to no longer have, on that side, "somewhere else to go" (to quote Sonny Rollins). So it leads nowhere. Subsequent attempts ignored it: Herbie Mann's, perhaps by the end of 1961, Dave Brubeck's in January 1962, Stan Getz and Charlie Byrd's the following month. Fuller and his people were pioneers of nothing. The experience was short-lived, instantly reduced to a picturesque anecdote. This would be the original sin of bossa nova as reinterpreted by jazzmen: the important question, that of the legitimacy, necessity, and urgency of a unique aesthetic expression, irreducible to all others, that of its rootedness in an autonomous human community, they immediately abandoned to the Brazilians the concern of answering it, contenting themselves with being a luxury, subject only to the principle of pleasure. Authenticity is not a costume that can be rented for a ball. The essential questions posed by the genre's creators, those who, even with prodigious talent, merely exploited its themes, preferred to ignore them. All of them, I fear, did not even suspect their existence. The northern bossa nova does not hold back its charms. However, a culturally uprooted genre rich in future but without a past of its own, too often it implies less art than artifice. It is not like that of the Cariocas, or like the blues was, a way of being in the world. The expression of a fierce will to crystallize the imaginary, with the help of collective memory, to make it a world competing with a too debatable reality. For those very people who were able to make a living from it in New York, Hollywood, Tokyo, and many other places on the planet, it was never a way of life. For João Gilberto, it was another name for life. The "real" one. That is, the materialized lie of a man who, because of it, was neither a singer with a voice, nor a singer to be seen, surrounded by scantily clad dancers, guitar smashers, drum pounders, and light charmers. Only a more effective illusionist than the others.

Stan Getz and the Misunderstanding

It's the kind of irony not everyone can grasp, but as far as his worldwide renown is concerned, Stan Getz did bossa nova the greatest good by betraying it. Unintentionally, probably unknowingly. After all, what does it matter? What good is it to seek extenuating circumstances for a good deed? The inventors of this music were at the very least disconcerted, often outraged, when they discovered the unfaithful image that "Jazz Samba" (cf. É Luxo So: CD 2, # 3) offered and which would quickly spread, first in the United States and then across the globe. Moreover, it was not comforting to them that this outrage was committed under the patronage of a man they admired immeasurably and to whom, like Gilberto himself, they claimed to be indebted. The most illustrious, starting with Baden Powell, publicly displayed their dismay, anger, and resentment. Sometimes without mincing words. Not only can we understand them: we must. It was their role, and even their duty, to demand respect for the work born from their visionary minds. Many, however, would eventually understand that it was by distorting it that Getz, his prestigious rivals[8], his former teammates[9], his glory-seekers, his petty plagiarists, the herd of contented followers wallowing in the ruts, all these parasites of their creation had ensured it a resonance they would never have dared to dream of. Their luck had been that Getz, in all candor, had swiftly accomplished a popularization that for once, by a prodigious conjunction of circumstances, a completely unpredictable alignment of planets[10], was not a degradation. For, if "Jazz Samba" poorly assumes the title it displays, this recording is nonetheless among its signatory's most irreplaceable productions. In any case, among those that sing in the most irreducibly Getzian manner. The case is clear: through negligence, following a misunderstanding that should rather be called a not-well-enough-understood, "The Sound," unknowingly, disrespected bossa nova. Nevertheless, for him, it would be nothing but kindness—and I'm not just thinking of his wallet. On closer reflection, it seems inevitable that a saxophonist of his caliber, whose mother tongue was lyricism, would derive the greatest benefit from melodies capable of causing an emotional storm within him. Anyone who has met the man knows the aggressive awkwardness he could display in his relationships with others (especially his partners), but also the hypersensitivity that, no doubt, caused it. A man of this character, quick to burst into tears at the slightest annoyance (I witnessed it), violently receives impressions from his environment that most people, even considerable poets themselves, attach little value to. He naturally included in his repertoire themes that moved him, if possible, to the deepest core. But, every day, necessarily, they became a little less able to upset him. The compositions of Tom Jobim and Ary Barroso, with their unpredictable effects on his emotions, offered him the opportunity to be overwhelmed by feelings that were not just echoes of feelings already experienced. It was about being reborn to wonder. To be reborn to childhood. Desire was rekindled. Thanks to these pieces, Getz no longer merely managed his assets: he went seeking his fortune, just as he had with Woody Herman when he was twenty. And that is why "Jazz Samba" is much more than a delightful record. And that is also why works objectively as admirable as that one, or even more so—"Big Band Bossa Nova," in August 1962 (cf. Bim Bom: CD 2, # 8), or "Getz/Gilberto," in March 1963—do not quite distill the same quality of emotion, do not disturb to the same extent as their rough draft. The saxophonist, as a master of the premises, surveys a territory already known to him. And to us. In February '62, he was only exploring it. Revelations happen only once. Thanks to this, his record appears at once so imperfect and so fascinating. A brand new world materializes within it. A masterpiece of singularity: it is already too late to reinvent it.

The Inaccessible Ideal

This world appeared. Getz didn't do it on purpose. He expected nothing specific from a session he hadn't wanted to participate in until Charlie Byrd wrangled his consent. Other jazzmen enamored with bossa nova would, for their part, with varying degrees of success, attempt to approach a universe which the best sensed was an inaccessible ideal, if only because it didn't need them. Some would hope to get closer by involving Brazilian colleagues in the adventure. This would notably be the case for flutist Herbie Mann who, in October of that same year, 1962, sought the collaboration of Baden Powell, then Sergio Mendes' Bossa Nova Rio Group, then Antonio Carlos, then Zezinho's samba school, then Luis Carlos Vinhas' trio. Cannonball Adderley would imitate him two months later by engaging Mendes in turn (cf. O Amor em Paz: CD 2, # 16). Some, alas, would quit from the start and limit their ambitions to the applause of an audience little inclined to burden themselves with demands. Less timid personalities, in a way, also gave up competing with the South Americans by avoiding poaching on their territory when they borrowed their songs. Quincy Jones, for example, remained entrenched in pre-prepared positions. To another big band leader, Shorty Rogers[11], the idea would not occur that by reviving the aesthetics of West Coast Jazz, of which he had been one of the founders in the previous decade, he would have proven more convincing. In truth, in the same exercise, one might prefer musicians who, despite pressure from their producers, did not attempt to be taken for what they were not: Sonny Rollins (cf. The Night Has A Thousand Eyes: CD 2, # 4), Miles Davis and Gil Evans (cf. Corcovado: CD 2, # 6), Ike Quebec (cf. Favela: CD 2, # 12), or Charlie Rouse (cf. Velhos Tempos: CD 2, # 12)[12]. They did not want to serve bossa nova, but, in their irreducible way, they honored it. Pride does have its good sides.

The Hidden Forerunner

"Bru" preceded "The Sound" in the jazzification of bossa nova, but the truth was only discovered later, due to an oversight by historians. While the mishap is unfortunate, it's easily explained. In 1963, Columbia Records released "Bossa Nova USA" by the Dave Brubeck Quartet. The LP would find less resonance with the public and international critics than "Time Out" in 1959, or even "Time Further Out," an extension of the former, also devoted to odd time signatures and released two years later without unleashing the same passions. Perhaps the original album cover did not mention it, but no one would stop at the fact that half of its tracks — five — had been recorded as early as January 3, 1962, almost six weeks before "Jazz Samba." Nor would anyone realize that it is among these pieces that the tracks that best support the album's title are found. On this point, and as far as I know, justice would only be done to Brubeck long after the battle: too late for most commentators to feel the need to restore his rights. His merit, however, was not insignificant. As the orchestra's pianist, first of all: no more than he allowed himself to be overshadowed by Desmond when subtlety was required, did he jostle him or step on his toes[13]. Then, as the mastermind. Not only immediately succeeding Curtis Fuller's, his formation appears pioneering in the field that interests us, not only does it take more risks and display a greater appetite, not only does it show more confidence and achieve greater success, not only does it avoid as much as possible (though not always) offending the purists of the genre as frontally as Getz soon would — not only all that: Dave had also ventured to compose some of the bossas on the program himself. Notably Vento Fresco (Cool Wind) (cf. CD 2, # 2). This little gem alone fully justifies the opinion of a Billboard magazine critic, according to whom this collection was "first-class" Brubeck — announcing, in any case, thanks to elements like this, the quasi-impressionistic Brubeck of the last period: the one who solitarily chisels refined pieces, whose delicacy and luminosity music lovers should have, again, shown their gratitude less timidly for[14]. Dave's disappointment, after the relatively lukewarm reception of "Bossa Nova USA," teaches us something no one suspected: sometimes men make history, and history itself ignores the history they have made.

"We live in two different worlds" [15]

By way of conclusion, one might be tempted to clarify things by distinguishing between usage and custom. The former suggests a way of doing, while the latter dictates what I called earlier a way of being. The distinction is convenient. What is inconvenient is that it harms Westernized bossa nova, insofar as, in the final analysis, it denies the latter the right to have a soul, reducing it to a mere process. Evidently, the United States, Europe, and then Asia gorged themselves on ersatz versions, which they also made efforts to promote, hoping to export them in turn. That there are second-hand and/or second-rate bossa novas, no one will deny. But, as we provide material proof here, there are also inherently inauthentic bossa novas that, nevertheless, speak their own truth and do so admirably. To take just one example, does Dizzy Gillespie's Desafinado (cf. CD 2, # 5) not assert itself as one of the most exquisite versions of this theme? And if that is indeed the case, who will worry about its conformity to some dogma or other? I will even go further: if Dizzy, expressing himself, expressing only himself with the help of a bossa nova, does not quite—and it could be not at all—respect the specifications, it is all to our benefit! Instead of one beautiful piece of music, we have two. I believe everything would be simpler if everyone understood that two distinct stories are being told to us. On the one hand, there is the original bossa, born in Brazil where it flourished. On the other hand, there is a bossa that is certainly derived from the first but which, forced from the outset to satisfy its own needs with the means at hand, had no choice but to immediately gain its autonomy: this was the fortunate upside of its insufficiency. Precisely because they felt compelled to play bossa nova badly, great jazzmen played the indefinable music they substituted for it very well. To confuse matters, alas, both creations bore the same name. This would have been a lesser evil if the second had not borrowed its most common appearances from the first, the latter moreover claiming to be indebted to the former.

The last official recording of the Stan Getz-João Gilberto duo took place in New York on May 21, 1975, with the participation of Oscar Castro-Neves, the brilliant percussionist Airto Moreira, and the singer Heloísa Buarque de Hollanda, better known as Miúcha—among other companions. Someone had the idea of naming the album "The Best Of Two Worlds": Le meilleur de deux mondes... It was difficult to say so much with so few words.

Alain Gerber

© Frémeaux & Associés 2025