Bossa Nova: The Story of the Brazilian Music That Seduced the World (29 page)

João retreated into silence and began to participate less during rehearsals. Besides, Vinícius’s lyrics to “Serenata de adeus” (Goodbye Serenade) turned his stomach: “Ah, woman, resplendently shining star / Go, but before you leave / Tear out my heart / Drive your talons into my aching breast / And let all love and
disillusion bleed to death.” He felt that music lyrics shouldn’t talk of blood, death, or daggers, and it nauseated him to imagine those fingernails clawing at chests and tearing out pulsing hearts.
His
records would have none of that.

Despite the good intentions of Jobim, who was trying to arrange a session for him at Odeon, there was no prospect of a record on the horizon; and at that time, João found himself once again with the same old problem: the landlady of the boarding house in Botafogo where he was staying had kicked him out and told him not to come back to fetch his suitcase until he had the money to pay her the rent he owed. His two roommates were unable to help him: Luís Roberto, of Os Cariocas, lived on credit, and Rômulo hadn’t yet become the wealthy coffee grower that he would be in later years in Minas Gerais—or he wouldn’t have been sharing a room in that cheap boarding house.

João Gilberto explained the situation to Tito Madi, whose heart was as soft as the grape leaves that his mother, who was of Lebanese extraction, used in her recipes. Tito lent him the money to pay his debt at the boarding house and recover his suitcase, and invited him to live with him in his apartment on Avenida Atlântica, at the intersection of Rua Miguel Lemos. The singer Luís Cláudio, a friend of Tito’s and now of João’s, lived nearby, on Rua Rainha Elizabeth. The three of them became like family, and were joined every now and again by a young man from Belo Horizonte who often came to Rio: Pacífico Mascarenhas, the student whom João had met in Diamantina at Dadainha’s house.

In Belo Horizonte, Pacífico headed a group of young men who were crazy about Dick Farney and who tried to produce a mixture of samba and jazz. The group called themselves Samba-Cana. Pacífico played a little piano and guitar, and had no money worries. At night, he and his friends kept Belo Horizonte awake, especially the smart neighborhoods, with fabulous serenades, which even included a piano mounted on a truck. The piano traveled in the truck with them, and needed to be retuned after each nightly performance. One of Pacífico’s friends, a student named Roberto Guimarães, had written a song called “Amor certinho” (Sure-Fire Love), which was the top hit in all their serenades.

Luís Cláudio and Pacífico were with João Gilberto when they ran into Carlos Drummond de Andrade in Avenida Rio Branco. Drummond, a great poet, worked close by at the Ministry of Education and had already become a kind of myth for many, but had still not even approached the national acclaim that he would later achieve. His poem “No meio do caminho” (In the Middle of the Road), written almost thirty years before, still induced hilarity among many literature professors who were nostalgic for the stony sonnets of Olavo Bilac. But his poetry was one of João Gilberto’s passions, and when he recognized Drummond, who was strolling bureaucratically along the sidewalk outside the
Jornal do Brasil
building, he threw himself at the latter, crying, “Master! Master!”

The poet was startled. He wasn’t used to such effusiveness from admirers and had never seen this guy in his life. João Gilberto wanted his autograph, but didn’t have the courage to actually ask for it, limiting himself to smiling at Drummond and mumbling in a fawning voice, “Master … Master …”

He handed Drummond a manila envelope he was carrying. It took the poet a while to figure out what he wanted, and, blushing conspicuously, he autographed it with turquoise ink. João Gilberto thanked him and let him go, all the while smiling and whispering “Master….” Minutes later, he walked into the Odeon office in the São Borja building and upon leaving, forgot the envelope there.

Anyone who succeeded in getting an autograph from Carlos Drummond de Andrade could do
anything
, especially make a record.

The temperature inside Columbia’s studio, in Praça Mauá, was close to zero. Not because the weather in Rio had gone crazy during that particular May of 1958, but because João Gilberto was going to sing for a man who acted as if he had neither the time nor the patience to listen to him: the current artistic director, Roberto Corte Real. It was the first time since 1952 that João Gilberto had stepped inside a real recording studio, with the expectation that they would allow him to make a record all of his own and in
his
way—without having to share the microphone with a vocal ensemble, or accompany rebellious singers. And he was desperate to make a record.

But in order for the record to become a reality, he needed to undergo a kind of test with Corte Real, whose stakes were now higher than ever: the man had launched Cauby Peixoto with “Conceição” and two years previously, in 1956, had
discovered
Maysa. João Gilberto might have been dying to make a record, but the prospect of being tested—and eventually rejected—by a guy from São Paulo, someone he didn’t even know, wasn’t exactly part of the plan he had for his life. Tom Jobim was trying to convince Odeon to record him, and he wanted to wait. He had only agreed to offer his talents to Columbia on the insistence of Luís Cláudio, who that same day was due to record Tito Madi’s “Olhe-me, diga-me” (Look at Me, Tell Me), and had managed to drag him there, telling him that this was his chance. Once his own recording was over, Luís Cláudio would take Corte Real into a corner of the studio and João Gilberto would sing something for him—”Bim-bom,” of course, or perhaps “Hô-ba-la-lá.”

Corte Real, like everyone in the record business, had heard Elizeth sing “Canção do amor demais,” but in somewhat of a rush, and had not been particularly impressed by the guitar that accompanied her. He agreed to hear João
Gilberto as a favor to Luís Cláudio, a promising Columbia recording artist, and to Tito Madi, who had also spoken to him about the young man. He had almost no expectations. João Gilberto must have felt the chilly atmosphere and took it upon himself to make the temperature drop to glacial lows when he began to sing his little
baião
“Bim-bom” without the slightest bit of enthusiasm to “This is just my
baião
/ And there’s nothing more to it …”

Corte Real listened to him attentively, smoothing his bow tie and—what a surprise—he actually liked it. However, perhaps because he had a conservative notion of what a
baião
was, he made the fatal mistake of remarking:

“Look, that’s very good, but it’s not a
baião
, and never will be. How about if in the verse that says ‘This is just my
baião
’, you substitute ‘This is just my song’ or something like that?”

João Gilberto didn’t openly agree or disagree with him, but it was right then that Columbia lost him. Hours later, in a nearby bar that the studio musicians called Minhoca Sorridente (The Smiling Earthworm), he remarked to someone, “I didn’t like that Corte Rayol one bit,” distractedly mispronouncing his last name.

When he emerged from the meeting with Corte Real, he bumped into Os Cariocas in the Columbia corridors. They were just about to go into the studio to record, believe it or not, “Chega de saudade.” They had learned the music with Luís Roberto, the group’s crooner, who in turn had learned it from João himself at the Botafogo boarding house. After hearing Elizeth’s record with João on guitar, they had decided to record it to escape the overbearing dictatorship of Columbia, which had been torturing them with boleros, rock ballads, and cover versions of songs by American vocal ensembles. But Badeco, Os Cariocas’s guitarist, had a problem: “I still haven’t figured out the beat, João.”

“Let me do it for you,” he offered.

He went in and recorded with them, incognito. “Chega de saudade,” performed by Os Cariocas, would only be released in the latter half of the year, after João Gilberto’s own record had already come out. But at that moment it was as if “Chega de saudade” had slipped through his fingers and become the property of everyone in the world except for him.

Tom Jobim was doing everything he could. At the beginning of the year, he had the idea of making a demo on which João Gilberto would sing “Chega de saudade,” to be shown to Aloysio de Oliveira. Russo do Pandeiro, João’s collaborating partner on “Você esteve com meu bem?” (Have You Been with My Sweetheart?) in 1953, still had the studio he had built with the proceeds from
the sale of Rudolph Valentino’s house. The record was made there—at no charge, featuring João Gilberto and his guitar—and taken to Aloysio de Oliveira. However, the latter refused to be convinced. He was still of the opinion that singing well meant not dispensing with vibrato in a strong voice. His model was Dorival Caymmi singing “Maracangalha,” Odeon’s first big hit since he had become director. Additionally, his experience in the United States had taught him that singers with short-range voices may be the toast of intellectuals, but have no commercial value whatsoever.

But this time, Aloysio was pressured. André Midani persuaded him with the rationale that João Gilberto represented something that Brazilian music didn’t have: appeal for the younger generation. Jobim promised him that he would cut costs, they would record “Chega de saudade” using a simplified version of the arrangement he had written for Elizeth, without all those harps and French horns, and the other side, “Bim-bom,” would be cheaper still. He guaranteed him a record that was inexpensive and simple to produce. (Exactly what it ended up
not
being, but no one could have foreseen this.) On hearing all this, Ismael Corrêa, the sales director for the recording label, was emphatic with Aloysio: “Go ahead and make the recording, I’ll vouch for it.”

The final blow to Aloysio’s resistance, meanwhile, came from a pro-João Gilberto campaign supported by the Brazilian composer Aloysio most respected: Dorival Caymmi. The old Bahian had met João at Rádio Tupi, and liked him. It was Caymmi who took him to Aloysio’s apartment in Rua Toneleros—and, like everyone who allowed themselves to be taken in by João Gilberto’s powers of seduction, Aloysio was unable to resist. He not only bought the idea of making the 78 r.p.m., he told João and Jobim to do as they pleased in the Odeon recording studio.

Z. J. Merky, the authoritarian recording engineer, threw João Gilberto a dirty look through the glass partition when he asked for two microphones: one for himself and another for his guitar. Who had ever heard of such a thing? Odeon was very British in its control of assets and even more British (tight-fisted) in its control of costs. Debuting singers and unknowns had no right to luxuries. But Aloysio’s authority presided, and two microphones were found. However, Aloysio’s guarantee did not extend to personal conflict, and the first confrontation was between João Gilberto and the musicians. Recording live in the studio with the orchestra, without any playback, he interrupted take after take, purportedly detecting mistakes made by musicians, which no one else noticed, and forcing the entire orchestra to play the piece over. At times, he behaved almost as if everyone in the studio but him were tone-deaf.

Jobim’s arrangement was simple, but João asked for a four-man percussion section: Milton Banana on drums, Guarany on
caixeta
, Juquinha on the triangle, and Rubens Bassini on the bongos. While Vinícius’s lyrics talked about “abraços e beijinhos e carinhos sem ter fim” (endless embraces, kisses, and caresses), under their breath, the orchestra branded the singer a crazy man, and the latter declared that it was the orchestra who was trying to drive
him
mad. He had particular antipathy for an Argentine trumpet player named Catita. Following one of the innumerable interruptions, some of the musicians mutinied, put their instruments in their cases, and left, slamming the door behind them; when they agreed to return, the singer decided he didn’t want to record anymore. Tom Jobim didn’t know if he was supposed to be playing the piano, conducting the orchestra, or running around trying to keep the peace.