fresh round of collective kissing. Cariocas often get colds. My dinner with Guinga The composer Guinga is a rarity: a punctual carioca. We had agreed to meet at a buffet restaurant in his neighborhood at 6:30 pm. When I arrive at 6:33, he's already there, filling his plate. He greets me with a joyous "Pontualidade americana!" ("American punctuality!"), which instantly makes me feel very guilty for being three minutes late. Guinga is considered by music critics and many fellow musicians to be the most important composer currently working in Brazil. He released four much-lauded solo albums and (with lyricist Aldir Blanc) composed all the songs on Leila Pinheiro's prestigious disc Catavento e Girassol. He's also one of the top guitarists in Brazil. Yet this idol of many can't make a living from music. What pays the bills is his dental practice. Guinga is on the verge of fifty (although he looks considerably younger; fit and trim, he's also a crack soccer player), is happily married and the father of two daughters, and says he can't afford to buy an apartment in Rio. The first time I met him, I didn't expect to have a conversation. Guinga is famously shy and speaks no English. I'm shy as well. I had been invited to a club where he regularly plays soccer and would have been perfectly happy simply to sit on the sidelines and watch him kick the ball. When he showed up (punctual to the minute), it wasn't to play but to talk. And when he talks about music, the words flow of their own accord (in Portuguese, naturally). Guinga's knowledge of music, Brazilian and other, is vast. He talks about his admiration for the great American popular composers: Duke Ellington, Gershwin, Cole Porter, about how so much of American popular music was created by Jewish composers (he is not Jewish,,and I don't think he knows that I am). Like many Brazilian composers, he admires Ravel, but also Puccini and Wagner. He loves the music of Charles Mingus, Michel Legrand, and Kurt Weill (we hum "Speak Low" together). I tell him that I compared him to Weill in an interview, and that the interviewing journalist called his music "almost classical." We muse on the musical tastes of the young, and he tells me that the writer Nelson Rodrigues, when asked what advice he would give the young, said, "Get older." Guinga is a modern composer who adores older music. He asks what old Brazilian music I listen to and is extremely pleased when I name Ary Barroso. Guinga's father owned a cornplete collection of Orlando Silva's records, and now Guinga sings bits from Orlando's 1930s hits: "Pagina de Dor" by Pixinguinha and Candido das Neves and "Ultima Estrofe," which Candido wrote alone. Guinga compares Orlando Silva to Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra, suggesting that Orlando was as good as Sinatra. I perceive that he' s•trying to spare my "American" feelings and assure him that I consider Orlando Silva a better singer than Sinatra. Relieved, he agrees. About American songs he says that they flow easily, whereas Brazilian songs do it the hard way, their melodies meandering all over the place. He illustrates his remarks by singing melodic snatches. He points out that American popular music is piano-based and Brazilian music guitar-based, circumstances he attributes to economics. Among jazz pianists he singles out Bill Evans. I mention Thelonius Monk, and Guinga concurs that the man was a genius, saying, "Monk played
Marcos Sacramento fan club No adult likes to admit to being a groupie, but I'm visiting Rio to meet my idol. It's therefore a relief when another adult whom I greatly admire, the poet and lyricist Sergio Natureza, tells me, "Marcos is one of the greatest singers of this century. He's my idol and he doesn't know it." Soon I find that I'm but a Johnny-come-lately, the greenest recruit in a select fan club that includes the music critic and historian Sergio Cabral (who declared after hearing Sacramento for the first time: "Finally, a singer!"); the eminent music collector, researcher, and producer Paulo Cesar de Andrade (who lured Sacramento out of rock and into classic samba); the composer Paulo Baiano (who says, "Marcos is the best singer in Brazil, and I've known it for twenty years."); and just about anyone who has the good fortune to be around while Sacramento employs his seductive timbre. If you know him, the opportunities are many, as he bursts into spontaneous song at the drop of a hat: at parties, in the car, walking in the street. He knows the lyrics of countless old sambas, valsas, and morellos. He breaks into Stevie Wonder songs, Cole Porter songs, French chansons, Italian opera, old TV program jingles, and Carnaval tunes from his childhood. He imitates Ademilde Fonseca, Aracy de Almeida, and Linda Batista. He improvises hilarious Spanish versions of Brazilian songs. He intones "Segura o Tchan" in the styles of Caetano Veloso, Maria Bethania, and Nana Caymmi. We're transfixed by his voice and charisma. He's shy and doesn't even notice. Rehearsal The Lira Carioca ensemble is meeting to rehearse its next show, which will be devoted to songs from the 1920s, many of them never recorded. The repertoire was selected by the music researcher and pianist Fernando Sandroni, founder of the ensemble. The Sandronis are a distinguished family, offsprings of an important newspaperman. They're also a musical family. Fernando's niece is the singer Clara Sandroni. Clara's brother Carlos is a songwriter. Lira Carioca's previous show and disc were devoted to the works of Sinh6, the "King of Samba"—also from the '20s. They're just beginning to learn the new repertoire. The rehearsal takes place at Sandroni's elegant house in Gavea. The musicians make a ragtag appearance amidst the Chinese porcelains and the burnished woods. With pauses for coffee and cake, they run through a number of songs I've never heard. The instruments are piano, flute, cavaquinho, and contrabass— the drummer isn't here tonight. The voices are a soprano (Clara) and a tenor (Sacramento). Eventually they perform a song I know: the gorgeous "Linda Flor" (Ai IWO by Henrique Vogeler, Luiz Peixoto and Marques Porto, recorded by Isaura Garcia (1944), Elizeth Cardoso (1956), and Maria Bethania (1990)—the latter in a tender duet with Joao Gilberto. Then the group launches into a delightful bit of fluff by Ary Barroso and Lamartine Babe called "Oh! ...Nina! ... " from the 1927 musical revue 01019 a Beca. I tell Fernando that Sergio Cabral doesn't mention this song in his book on Ary Barroso. Fernando says, "Cabral didn't know about it—I told him." Ary was only 23 when he composed this catchy tune, and lyricist Lamartine was a couple of years younger. Fernando is kind enough to write out the lyrics for me:
24 BRAZZIL - JUNE 1999