Bossa Nova: The Story of the Brazilian Music That Seduced the World (38 page)

He left right after, but his lightning-quick appearance was enough to paralyze Menescal’s bewildered musicians, who were accompanying Norma, for a few moments. The latter made the observation: “Tom has arrived and has finished with you guys. But he can’t finish—ever. Can I sing now?”

Os Garotos da Lua, who had been promised by Bôscoli, did not appear, except for one: Toninho Botelho. Introduced without formalities of any kind, he sang “Não faz assim” (Don’t Do That), by Oscar Castro-Neves and Bôscoli, and left without causing much fuss. None of the young people in the audience knew where that older gentleman had come from (in fact, Botelho wasn’t even forty years old), except that he was a member of some obscure vocal ensemble. They would certainly have been very surprised had Bôscoli identified him as one of the parties responsible for bringing João Gilberto to Rio years earlier and, indirectly, for the existence of that very show.

Perhaps even Botelho himself was not aware of this.

In the audience of the “First Samba-Session Festival,” two men, André Midani and Aloysio de Oliveira, were taking in what was happening in the amphitheater with very different sets of eyes and ears. The former was identifying, in both the artists and audience, the possibility of a new market, one that needed to be immediately explored. The latter identified a market merely in the audience, to be supplied with the creative genius of Jobim, Vinícius, and, perhaps, Carlinhos Lyra, as composers—but he insisted that the vocalists be experienced, like Sylvinha Telles, Alayde Costa, Lúcio Alves, and now, João Gilberto. The other guys were too novice for Aloysio, as either singers or musicians, and besides, none of them “had much of a voice.”

That was also where, for Aloysio de Oliveira, the difference between the young gang led by Ronaldo Bôscoli and the older gang to be led by himself originated. And he knew in which one of the two he preferred to invest. Midani wasn’t bothered: he had Menescal, Bôscoli, Nara, Chico Feitosa, Normando, Vinhas, the Castro-Neves brothers, Luizinho Eça, and whoever else seemed young and hip, to put his ideas into practice. The first idea would be to record a disc with the youngsters.

The newspapers gave ample coverage to the samba-session night at the School of Architecture, implying that none of the boys had committed a mortal sin by having drooled over Norma Bengell. A group of students from the Catholic University persuaded Norma to visit Father Laércio to strategically “ask his forgiveness for the trouble she had caused him,” in order to put an end to the matter. The issue continued to generate repercussions, and resulting interest was printed in the general news section for cultural events, together with discussions on the type of music that had been performed at the School of Architecture. Was it some kind of jazz? The expression
samba moderno
(modern samba), which had been used up until then, was finally and definitively replaced by
bossa nova
—used with significant marketing astuteness by Ronaldo Bôscoli in
Manchete
, assisted by his disciples Moysés Fuks, in
Última Hora
, and João Luiz de Albuquerque, in
Radiolândia
magazine.

Invitations for new performances in auditoriums began to rain down. When Bôscoli decided to put on a show at the Naval Academy at the seashore, on November 13, which was supposed to be just another samba-session festival, it became known as “the Second Command of Operation Bossa Nova.”
When a quartet composed of Luizinho Eça and three of the Castro-Neves brothers started playing the upbeat “Menina feia” (Ugly Girl), Bôscoli, who was emceeing, came out on stage and felt he had to explain exactly what bossa nova was. Not managing to come up with a suitable explanation, he took the easy way out: “It’s what’s modern, completely new, and cutting-edge in Brazilian music.”

The audience at the Naval Academy understood just fine. It was composed of around one thousand Naval cadets and young officers, all with shaved heads, crammed into an auditorium that would have comfortably seated about six hundred. It was what Bôscoli classified as “bossa nova in a battlefield.” Bossa nova was an expression which was used and abused throughout the entire two-hour show, as if it were a prize that everyone there had just won. There was an even better prize: the privileged sight of the beautiful figure of Norma Bengell, wearing a precursor to the miniskirt.

Bôscoli roguishly thanked Odeon for the presence of their contracted artists, Lúcio Alves (invited by the bossa nova crew to join the movement), Sylvinha Telles, Alayde Costa, and Norma Bengell—as if Odeon, through André Midani, weren’t just as pleased with the turn of events. It was a great show, much more professional than the one at the School of Architecture. There was one more important show in 1959, to show the world that the guys were here to stay. It was held in the auditorium at Rádio Globo, in Rua Irineu Marinho, on December 2. For the first time, bossa nova was aired live, and placed within easy reach of thousands of people. The cast was the same as always, but this time, there was an important addition: the vocal ensemble Os Cariocas. Hortênsia was no longer a part of the group, and they were reduced to the members who became the official band, Severino, Badeco, Quartera, and Luís Roberto. They sang “Chega de saudade” and “Menina feia,” and put on a startling performance. With voices that were more velvety and finely tuned than ever, Os Cariocas were coming full circle from their start with “Adeus América” (Goodbye, America) in 1948 and were beginning another. Bossa nova was the music that they—and other Brazilian vocal ensembles of the past—had been dreaming of since the start.

At the famous apartment: Nara Leão, Roberto Menescal (guitar), Bebeto (flute), Dori Caymmi, and, in profile, Chico Feitosa

Collection of Roberto Menescal

J
oão Gilberto had no time to take part in those student entertainments. He was on the road, looking after his career. Really. At the time when one of those shows was held, for example, he had gone to do two performances in Belo Horizonte, at the invitation of his friend Pacífico Mascarenhas. Both went off almost without a hitch. At the first, at the local Automóvel Clube (Automobile Club), he had already been introduced on stage by Pacífico and was receiving a big hand when he suddenly saw something wrong with his guitar and wouldn’t allow the curtains to be opened. Pacífico, unaware of what was going on, introduced him again. More clapping and still no singer. When Pacífico peeked behind the curtains to see what was going on, he discovered that João wanted him to tune his guitar. The show started somewhat late, but finished on time, and was only moderately successful. Belo Horizonte was still not all that enthusiastic for bossa nova, as they said in those parts.

The following night, João Gilberto locked himself in the bathroom at the Hotel Normandie two hours before the show at the Yacht Club and wouldn’t come out. Pacífico thought about breaking down the door, but this was very much against his nature—not to mention his name. He preferred to talk João Gilberto into coming out, as you do with someone who threatens to throw himself out of a window. Right when the show was due to begin, João sheepishly opened the bathroom door, went to the club, and delighted the three hundred people who were in the audience.

In those days in Belo Horizonte, he was capable of many other personal niceties. A local blind musician went to look for him at his hotel, and the two of them played the guitar together for several hours. On leaving, the young man praised João’s guitar. Without hesitation, the latter said, “It’s yours. Keep it.”

The opaque eyes of the young man appeared to shine with a beautiful and unparalleled luminosity. He did not want to take the guitar, but João Gilberto said, “I insist. Take it as a souvenir.”

The young man thanked him a thousand times, and left, very happy, with the guitar. In fact, the guitar did not belong to João Gilberto but to Pacífico Mascarenhas, who witnessed the entire exchange with disbelief—and who, of course, had no intention of intervening in João’s generous gesture.

The trip to Belo Horizonte had another positive aspect. Pacífico took João to the home of the pianist Talita Fonseca, where he met another member of Samba-Cana, the student Roberto Guimarães. Roberto sang “Amor certinho” (Sure-Fire Love) for him, and for João, it was love at first sight upon hearing the song. But obviously not at first hearing, because he made Roberto sing the entire song at least fifty times that night, until he could be sure that he had learned it. The student had no idea, meanwhile, that he would hear the
song recorded by João Gilberto on his next album,
O amor, o sorriso e a flor
(Love, a Smile, and a Flower).

As it happens, João Gilberto wasn’t the first person to record this song. Jonas Silva, his predecessor in Os Garotos da Lua, did so before him. He was accompanied by a group that few other singers could boast: João Donato on trombone, Ed Lincoln on piano, Bebeto on double bass, Milton Banana on drums—and João Gilberto himself on the guitar.

In fact, it was João Gilberto who taught him “Amor certinho,” and Jonas recorded it that same year of 1959 for the minuscule record label Rádio, on a double 45 r.p.m. that also contained Jobim’s “A felicidade” (Happiness), Johnny Alf’s “Rapaz de bem” (Nice Guy), and the obscure “Se você soubessse” (If You Knew). His precedence was merely symbolic, because the record that Jonas made passed unnoticed, and the official release of the song came when it was recorded by João. The year before, when the only known samples of real bossa nova were “Chega de saudade” and “Bim-bom,” Jonas recorded another double 45 r.p.m., this time for Philips, on which he sang current hits like “Cheiro de saudade” (The Scent of Longing), by Luiz Antônio and Djalma Ferreira; “Saudade querida” (Beloved Longing), by Tito Madi; and even one of the first compositions by Chico Feitosa and Ronaldo Bôscoli, “Vocêzinha” (Little You). Again, he was accompanied by star performers, like Copinha on flute, the legendary Vadico on piano, Baden Powell on guitar, and Raul de Barros on trombone—none of whom were associated with bossa nova at the time, not even young Baden. But Jonas’s vocal style, which remained the same as he had always sung, was completely bossa nova. “I never knew how to sing any other way,” he would explain, almost apologetically.