Bossa Nova: The Story of the Brazilian Music That Seduced the World (35 page)

Two months later, by January 1959, Tom Jobim had eaten just about as much humble pie as he could digest during the recording of the 78 r.p.m.s. It was necessary to carry on, no matter how hard it was for him to tolerate the Bahian’s temperament, and he began to put pressure on Aloysio de Oliveira to make an entire album with João Gilberto. Ismael Corrêa and other people at Odeon seconded the idea, which would make it easier to convince Aloysio. They already had four of the traditional twelve tracks: “Chega de saudade,” “Bim-bom,” “Desafinado,” and “Hô-ba-la-lá.” The rest would be recorded, as usual, with a minimal staff in order to cut costs and reduce the risk of confusion.

The production schedule that was followed for this album (which was, naturally, entitled
Chega de saudade
) is self-explanatory. Of the eight tracks that still remained to be recorded, João Gilberto recorded only one on January 23, 1959—”Brigas, nunca mais” (Fights, Never More), by Jobim and Vinícius. A week later, on January 30, he returned to the studio and recorded another: “Morena boca de ouro” (Brunette with a Mouth of Gold), by Ary Barroso. Had he continued that same schedule, the album would never have been finished. But then, in just one day, on February 4, he recorded the remaining six: “Lobo bobo” (Foolish Wolf) and “Saudade fez uma samba” (Saudade Made a Samba), by Lyra and Bôscoli; “Maria Ninguém,” by Lyra alone; “Rosa morena” (Brunette Rose) by Caymmi; “É luxo só” (It’s Just a Luxury), by Ary Barroso and Luís Peixoto; and “Aos pés da cruz” (At the Foot of the Cross), by Marino Pinto and Zé da Zilda. Strange, don’t you think?

Not really. On the six tracks that remained, the only accompaniment was provided by a rhythm section. At the very most, it included Copinha’s flute or Maciel’s trombone; no orchestra to get on his nerves.

The album sleeve text that Tom Jobim wrote for
Chega de saudade
is perhaps the best that has ever been published in Brazil. Those thirteen lines were, in their own way, informative, revelatory, and even prophetic. His contemporaries didn’t really understand much of what he said, but it was all there. “João Gilberto is a
bossa nova
Bahian of 27,” Tom’s text started out. It was one of two references to bossa nova on the record (the other being in the lyrics to “Desafinado”), but it still took a few months for the expression to catch on. He continued: “In just a short time, he has influenced an entire generation of arrangers, guitarists, musicians and singers.”

To the first uninitiated buyers of
Chega de saudade
, in April 1959, it seemed like somewhat of an exaggeration. How was it possible for a singer, whom they had barely heard of, to have already influenced “an entire generation”? But as incredible as it sounds, it was true. Those buyers, of course, did not frequent the late nights at the Plaza or go to Nara Leão’s apartment. It is worth noting that Jobim, with an uncanny knack, omitted songwriters and lyricists from the scope of his influence. Jobim, as well as Vinícius de Moraes, Newton Mendonça, and even Carlinhos Lyra still did not recognize the authority of João Gilberto to influence their compositions.

“Our greatest concern,” continued Jobim, “was that Joãozinho should not be constrained by arrangements which inhibited his freedom, his natural agility, or his personal and nontransferable style, that is, his spontaneity”—a tactful way for Jobim to say that he had to squash his own ideas in order to finish the record without the two men going for each other’s throats.

“Joãozinho took an active part in composing the arrangements contained on this album: his suggestions and ideas are all there,” he went on. Well, this was
the
understatement of the year: Joãozinho actually directed the recording, like the slave-driver directed the rowers with his whip in the epic
Ben Hur
. The difference was that João used a velvet whip. “When João Gilberto accompanies himself, he plays his guitar. When he is accompanied by an orchestra, he becomes the orchestra.” Nor would João Gilberto have it any other way, Jobim could have added. And it’s clear that the “orchestra”
had
to be João Gilberto. Odeon did not want to spend the money, and halfway through the project Jobim himself became convinced that it was better that way; the less people there were surrounding the star, the better. Besides, João Gilberto
was
an orchestra all by himself.

Jobim went on: “He [João] believed that there is always room for something new, different and pure that—although at first, may not seem like it—can become, as we say in the music industry, highly marketable.” This was in fact a message from Jobim to their internal audience at Odeon, from which he still perceived a certain amount of resistence to João Gilberto and to that type of music. The last sentence—”P.S. Caymmi thinks so, too”—was a sure guarantee, coming from the man to whom Aloysio de Oliveira listened most.

By saying that that type of music could become “highly marketable,” Jobim was merely remembering the writings of Norman Vincent Peale and applying a kind of wishful thinking. At the beginning of 1959, no one could guarantee that something so modern and sophisticated would one day be “highly marketable.” João Gilberto himself wouldn’t have dared tempt fate like that. In private, for example, he remarked to Ronaldo Bôscoli, “It won’t go anywhere, Ronaldo. There are too many of them.”

“Them” were the enemies. But if Jobim himself had also been somewhat unsure of what he was saying, it wouldn’t take Odeon and the other recording companies long to find out that bossa nova was more than just wishful thinking.

Life seemed so rosy at the beginning of 1959 that João Gilberto didn’t even flinch when Sérgio Ricardo also asked him to go and live elsewhere. João spent the day sleeping on the couch in the living room, and Sérgio felt that this inconvenienced his parents and sister, who lived with him. João Gilberto was like a shuttlecock thrown from one side to another. But this time, the eviction was painless. João packed up his junk, stuffed it into a matchbox-size suitcase, and left for where, he soon found out, he should have gone a long time ago: Ronaldo Bôscoli’s apartment in Rua Otaviano Hudson.

Bossa nova comes out of its shell: Sylvinha Telles singing, Norma Bengell and Bôscoli on the right, and the whole gang at the “First Samba Session Festival,” September 22, 1959

Collection of João Luiz de Albuquerque

T
he photographer, Chico Pereira, adjusted the lights and lenses in his studio and instructed the star to smile for his
Chega de saudade
(No More Blues) album sleeve photo.

“You know I don’t smile, Chico,” replied João Gilberto, supressing a smile.

It was February in Rio and the temperature outside had already exceeded thirty degrees Celsius (86 °F)—imagine what it must have been like inside the studio. But João Gilberto was wearing a wool sweater, a white sweater with two blue stripes around the cuffs and bordering the V-neck, which he had asked to “borrow” from Ronaldo Bôscoli. It wasn’t that he was cold. He merely wanted to hide the narrow-striped, short-sleeved shirt he was wearing, which didn’t seem very flattering to him, although it was the best one he owned. João placed his hand on his chin, struck a “cool” and solitary Montgomery Clift–style pose for the camera, and just as Chico Pereira fired the flash, the spotlight illuminating the back of the picture went
pfffft
and burned out.

Chico only realized this upon developing the film. In the photos, there was a shadow behind João Gilberto that looked like a hatchet aimed at his head. It was the shadow of the spotlight. The photos would have to be redone, but there wasn’t time. When André Midani, who was responsible for the album sleeves, approved one of them regardless, Chico said “to hell with it,” and the cover was printed like that. And, ah yes, João forgot to return Ronaldo Bôscoli’s sweater.

Ronaldo would never have ventured to ask for it back, as João Gilberto lived with him and therefore had free access to his closet, just like Ronaldo helped himself to the contents of Nara’s father’s closet. Sometimes, the expensive socks and underwear that Bôscoli would appropriate from the lawyer Jairo’s dresser drawers would suddenly materialize on João Gilberto, to whom it was all somewhat of a novelty. For the first time, among the many houses in which he had stayed since he had left Salvador in 1950—nine years earlier—he was finally able to make himself completely at home with no restrictions.

Not that he would have changed his behavior. The following were now living permanently in Ronaldo’s studio apartment, which was the size of a doll’s house: Bôscoli, Chico Feitosa, João Gilberto, and that amiable messenger boy (six feet tall, with a 600-watt voice), Luís Carlos Dragão. The four of them were enough to completely crowd the place, bringing to mind a scene from the Marx Brothers’
A Night at the Opera
, but their number was frequently further augmented by the presence of Luís Carlos Miéle, a stage manager at TV Continental, whose beard took up enough space for one more. Miéle, who had only one pair of pants (although it
was
a pair of dress pants), was becoming a permanent fixture in the apartment.

Despite this population explosion, João Gilberto made himself at home. For example, he would occupy the bathroom for at least two hours every time he went in. The others weren’t petty enough to be bothered by this and would go downstairs to a neighboring bar to use the facilities. They were even generous enough to share their toothbrushes with him, should he have needed them.

But his arrival upset the straightforward schedule of the apartment. As João Gilberto’s hours of activity were mainly at night, the others were awakened by him in the early hours, hearing him talk and sing as if he were planning to take a vow of eternal silence the following day. The difference was that, at nine in the morning, João Gilberto would decide to go to bed, while Ronaldo, Feitosa, and Miéle left for work. Bôscoli was a reporter for the magazine
Manchete
and freelanced at Odeon as a writer for record sleeve text and press releases; Chico Feitosa now worked at the magazine
Sétimo Céu
(Seventh Heaven). It was normal for João Gilberto to come in at four in the morning and wake them up to listen to a new harmony he had created for an old song, which he had just remembered, like “Doralice” or “Trevo de quatro folhas” (I’m Looking over a Four-Leaf Clover). The recital would continue until sunrise, until João went to sleep and the two journalists dragged themselves, half-asleep, to their jobs—humming “Doralice” or “Trevo de quatro folhas,” after having heard each one twenty times.

On one of the rare occasions when he managed to go to sleep and wake up at a reasonable hour—because he was attending a lunch with President Juscelino Kubitschek in the old
Manchete
building in Rua Frei Caneca—Bôscoli got a shock. As he was getting ready, he searched for his best suit and couldn’t find it. He also noticed João Gilberto’s absence. He hadn’t yet come home. There was no sign of him or the suit. When he found out that João Gilberto had needed the suit for a performance in São Paulo, Ronaldo did what he had to do; he put on his second-best suit (which he wore every day) and went to lunch with the President.