Bossa Nova: The Story of the Brazilian Music That Seduced the World (11 page)

His participation in Os Garotos da Lua was not much more diligent. Following the first few months of euphoria, his colleagues began to complain about his tardiness and absences at rehearsals and performances. The arrangements of the group were written by Milton in such a way that, in the event that the crooner didn’t show up, he could be replaced by whoever happened to be around, even at the last minute. All the substitute had to do was learn the music. Thus, João’s absences were covered by other artists under contract with Tupi, such as Doris Monteiro and even the great Lúcio Alves, a friend of theirs. During another of his absences, he was substituted by none other than his predecessor in the group, Jonas Silva, proof that Jonas did not harbor any hard feelings. Things began to get complicated for João Gilberto
when Rádio Tupi again started scrutinizing the group, this time in the name of discipline: either they got into line, or they were out.

The rest of the group transferred this scrutiny to João Gilberto, to whom the radio station had already given the thumbs down. Os Garotos da Lua did not want to run the risk of getting fired, because they lived for the moment when their crescent moon might truly shine. In January 1951, TV Tupi began transmission in Rio, and for its inaugural program, hosted by Antônio Maria, it organized a lineup of its main radio stars, among which were Os Garotos da Lua, complete with João Gilberto. TV Tupi in São Paulo had also been launched four months before, and by virtue of belonging to the cast of Associated Networks, the group would have an open forum for work ahead of them in television.

Things were also improving in the record department. In May and September, respectively, Os Garotas da Lua recorded the aforementioned two 78s with Todamérica, both very extravagant productions. In the first, they were accompanied by the swinging orchestra of the young and ambitious conductor Cipó; in the second, which was released in time for Carnival 1952, they were backed by the female singing group, As Três Marias (The Three Marias). The two records were perfect, and João was sensational on all four tracks. Invitations for them to perform in clubs came pouring in. After that, nothing could stop Os Garotos da Lua.

Except, perhaps, a crooner who might as well have been on the moon.

One more or one less show at the Madureira Tennis Club would not have signified either the peak or the end of their careers, but when Norival Reis, an influential sound technician with the recording company Continental and the social director of the club, invited them to perform there, they could not refuse. And besides, they owed him several favors. Norival sent a taxi to pick them up at Café Atlântida, at Cinelândia. When the car arrived, there was one Garoto da Lua missing: João Gilberto. They waited for him for more than an hour, over furious gulps of coffee and
áraque
. Once they realized that João wasn’t coming, they cursed him to hell and went without him, but it was beginning to become an irritating habit. Fifty minutes later, they arrived at Madureira, which was somewhat far away. The lights in the club had already been turned off. Everyone had gone home, and the only person waiting for them was Norival, who was highly embarrassed and apoplectic with rage. On the return journey to the city, they decided that that would be the last time.

The following day, João turned up at the Lojas Murray, humming “Tangerine,” with his girlfriend, Sylvinha. Acyr saw him come in and, from the other side of the counter, without bothering to lower his voice, shouted across the crowded store, “Hell, João, this can’t go on. Either you stop being so irresponsible, or you leave Os Garotos da Lua. We’re professionals.”

João Gilberto tried to explain, saying that he “wasn’t able to make it,” but Acyr didn’t want to hear it. The entire Murray, where everyone knew them, heard Acyr shouting. João Gilberto turned the color of a tomato at being reprimanded in front of his friends and his girlfriend. He tried to have the last word: “Well, if it’s like that, tell the others I’m not coming back.”

He wasn’t expecting Acyr’s final retort: “Great. We’ll find someone else that we can count on.”

Outside, on the way back to the Café Atlântida with Sylvinha, João didn’t seem too worried. When Milton found out what had happened, he went to tell João that Acyr had been crazy and that, regarding his absence the night before, everything was OK. After all, Acyr wasn’t the leader of Os Garotos da Lua, Milton was. However, the group had stopped being so important for João’s career. He had decided that he would shortly go solo. He knew that his tardiness and absences were causing problems with the radio station, and that he would have to leave sooner or later. But just like Jonas two years earlier, João Gilberto was not given the opportunity to leave the group at his convenience. They wanted him out first.

Milton and the others supported Acyr’s point of view. While they looked for a replacement, the crooner’s part could be sung by Toninho Botelho, a passable tenor. But they wasted no time in finding a singer named Edgardo Luís, who fit perfectly into João’s tuxedo and who, for their peace of mind, wore a watch to keep track of the time.

If João Gilberto had hit the ground with a thud upon learning that he was fired, he managed to break his fall with a spring mattress. He didn’t blame them for their actions. And as had happened with Jonas, he remained friends with Os Garotos. (Except for Acyr, whom he only spoke to again five years later.) In addition, he had just moved out of Alvinho’s apartment in Tijuca to stay with the others in the Bairro da Fátima—again, until he found a place to live. His unemployed status was now twofold: he had been fired from the House of Representatives and also from the group. But in his mind and in his heart, he believed that the situation was just temporary.

One thing is certain: his departure from Os Garotos da Lua was the last time he was fired. It was also the last time in his life that he would have regular work.

His relationship with Sylvinha was just one of the things that distracted João Gilberto from the rigors of professional life, and it was certainly the sweetest. She was eighteen years old, studied at the Colégio Sacré-Cœur de Marie, and was the younger sister of Mário Telles, his best friend. Mário worked in his
family’s textile business when he wasn’t spending time with Os Garotos da Lua. He was almost like the sixth member of the group, although he didn’t sing and hadn’t even dreamed of becoming a lyricist. João met him at the Murray and the two became so close that when one showed up without the other, people would ask, “Hey, where’s the other side of the record?”

Mário and Sylvinha Telles lived with their parents in Rua Farani, in Botafogo, and their house was a meeting place for vocal ensembles, despite all the strict rules. Their father, Mr. Paulo, could not abide alcohol, and the boys had to make do with the soda
guaraná
. But Sylvinha and Mário’s mother, Dona Maria, was French and a fantastic cook. Her baked sea bass with avocado sauce generated cries of approval from among those youngsters who frequently did not even have the money for a steak and eggs at the Hanseática, a restaurant in Praça Mauá behind Rádio Nacional. João became very close to the family and fell in love with Sylvinha.

Among other things, she confided in him her adolescent dream: she wanted to be a ballet dancer. She studied dance with instructor Madeleine Rosay of the Teatro Municipal Corps de Ballet. She also studied piano and loved to sing, and João would spend hours accompanying Sylvinha in “Duas contas” (Two Beads), which the composer Garoto had recorded with Trio Surdina. It was clear that Sylvinha would have a brilliant future at the microphone if her family—or rather, her father—would allow it. There would have been much more sea bass with avocado sauce had João and Sylvinha’s relationship not progressed to the point of dangerously resembling courtship, and Mário did not like it. According to social etiquette of the time, a friend’s sister was off-limits, and to try and court her was anathema.

João wasn’t concerned about etiquette, mainly because it appeared that Sylvinha returned his feelings, and they began a passionate affair. Mário broke off his friendship with him, and at this, João and Sylvinha glimpsed a clear road ahead. She began to accompany him everywhere, sometimes wearing her public school uniform, and witnessed the quarrel with Acyr at the Murray that caused his departure from Os Garotos da Lua.

However, although Mário was unable to put a stop to the forbidden relationship, old man Paulo broke it up a few months later, with the weight of his paternal authority, when João had the temerity to announce that he wanted to marry his daughter. As he suspected that he would be shown the door, João did not go to Rua Farani to ask for Sylvinha’s hand in person, he sent another frequent visitor to the house, the broadcaster Macedo Neto, in his place. Macedo listened to Mr. Paulo’s refusal and his invectives against João Gilberto, and even became the target of a few insults himself. Mr. Paulo would not allow his daughter to marry a down-and-out from Bahia, who was incapable of repaying even the smallest loan and who lived his life sponging
off others. Sylvinha was forbidden to continue her relationship with that “good-for-nothing,” and Mário took it upon himself to ensure that it remained that way.

Sylvinha knew that João Gilberto was trying to become someone. The two were still dating in August 1952, when the opportunity arose for João to record his first solo track. It would be with the new recording company Copacabana, and he was given the luxury of having a string section sweeten the harmonies of the group that was to back him. The group, in turn, featured the sensational Jorginho on alto sax, as well as the pianist Britinho and the accordionist Orlando Silveira, the composer of the arrangements. He could not complain.

For his grand debut, João Gilberto picked two
samba-canções
which were hot off the press: “Quando ela sai” (When She Leaves) by Alberto Jesus and Roberto Penteado, and “Meia Luz” (Half Light) by Hianto de Almeida and João Luiz. All the songs’ composers were young and frequented the Murray. The recording was done in an atmosphere of celestial peace—almost on the first try, without hesitations, mistakes, or repetitions. Those who attended would never have suspected that it was João Gilberto’s first recording without the support of a vocal ensemble. It was as if he had spent his entire life preparing himself for that moment, and when the moment arrived, his heart barely skipped a beat.

Unless the doctor’s watch had stopped. Listening to this João Gilberto recording, one encountered confidence personified. His calm superiority when singing reminded one of Orlando Silva in his heyday, when not even a fly in the studio would disturb the “singer of the multitudes.” But it wasn’t just that. Everything about these two tracks reminded one of Orlando Silva: the easy projection of his voice, the variance, the vibratos, his manner of emphasizing certain words, the “sentiment,” and, at certain times, even his voice itself—including Orlando’s smooth and rounded
rr
s. It was as if the older singer, who was at the time going through his worst personal and professional hell—no voice, no success and no acclaim—had finally found his double in a Bahian native from Juazeiro.

João Gilberto’s discographies, which usually start their listings with the 78 r.p.m.s containing “Chega de saudade” (No More Blues) and “Bim-bom,” recorded six years later, tend to omit this first record. This is understandable: few researchers are aware of its existence, and even fewer have heard it. Not that it was released and then withdrawn. João Gilberto recorded it, it was released, and, quite simply, nothing happened. It was barely given any airtime
on the radio, few people showed interest in buying it, and neither of the two songs inspired much enthusiasm in the radio stations where he promoted them live. It wasn’t a total fiasco, probably because not even the recording company thought things would be any different. The only person who saw the whole thing as a failure was João Gilberto.

The disdain with which his debut record was received is almost incomprehensible when one realizes that, under different circumstances, he could have been the greatest romantic singer in Brazil. Maybe this was the problem: in “Quando ela sai” (When She Leaves) and “Meia Luz” (Half Light), João Gilberto stepped back years in time, in the style of Orlando Silva, during an era when people only wanted to hear the nonchalant spirit of Dick Farney and Lúcio Alves. It was an “outdated” way of singing which in those days wasn’t even paying the rent of Orlando Silva himself. For those listening to the record today who are unable to recognize João Gilberto as the singer he would later become, there is a marked absence of something on the two tracks: his guitar. There is no point in searching for it because Britinho’s piano is heard in its place. Today it seems ridiculous, but at the time, no one particularly missed it, because João Gilberto was not yet especially well known for playing that instrument. (In Os Garotos da Lua, Milton was the guitarist.) But even though it’s perfectly normal that there isn’t the merest hint of the future bossa nova beat in that record, it’s remarkable that no vestiges of his hero, Lúcio Alves, have remained. During the recording session, João Gilberto allowed himself to be completely taken over by the spirit of the young Orlando Silva.