Dialogues with Marjorie Mazzei Raggo: The Daughter Behind the Man Behind the Glasses

Marjorie Mazzei Raggo (left), daughter of Professor Julio Mazzei, with your truly (Sep 2016)

The following transcription encompasses an ongoing dialogue between me and senior producer, editor and creative director in AV Marketing, Marjorie Mazzei Raggo, the daughter of the late, great soccer trainer and New York Cosmos coach, Professor Julio Mazzei. Marjorie and I corresponded for several years about her father’s book, which I translated into English and titled “Your Friend in Soccer: Julio Mazzei.” Below is the gist of our back-and-forth conversations, most of which took place between October 2012 and January 2021. However, our friendship and enthusiasm for World Cup Soccer continues to this day!

Josmar Lopes – I’m so glad that your family gave the go-ahead for me to start the translation. I agree with your mom about the original title. Professor did go into some detail about The Magic of Soccer towards the beginning of his book; but, as I read further into the later chapters, it occurred to me that he wrote more of an autobiography as well as a brief bio of his life and career as Pelé’s mentor and interpreter. So how about this for a title: Your Friend in Soccer: The Life and Career of Professor Julio Mazzei? I like the sound of that better. Besides, it captures exactly who Professor was, along with using one of his favorite signoffs. You let me know if that fits his story better (I think it does).

Marjorie Mazzei Raggo – Love that title! Let’s go with that for now. 

Josmar Lopes – Marjorie, I received a very interesting e-mail from my producer friend, Claudio Botelho, in Brazil. He would like very much to read your dad’s manuscript. I think I told you that a possible musical about Pelé is in the works in Rio. It happens that Claudio and his partner, Charles Möeller, are doing research about the project, specifically the parts that pertain to your dad’s relationship to Pelé. Right now, Claudio’s in rehearsal for a play, How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. Isn’t that title a scream? Wish I knew the secret to that!
Do let me know soon if your mom agrees to this proposal. In my humble opinion, it’s an excellent way to get the news out about your wonderful dad and the great sport of soccer. (Oh, pardon me. I meant
futebol.)

Marjorie – I don’t know how my mom will feel about handing a copy of Professor’s manuscript to a stranger. The other thing is that Pelé would have to approve this before anything. Is he on board with this musical? I don’t want him to think we’re trying to make money off of this so we need to proceed with caution. Needless to say I’m torn as to how to proceed. I would like nothing better than to share these stories with anyone that might be interested but there are steps that need to be taken so as not to ruffle any feathers. Any suggestions?

Josmar – My apologies for being overly enthusiastic where my friend Claudio is concerned. I get carried away sometimes with his energy and feedback about musical matters.
                Before you wrote me, I received a follow-up e-mail from him, saying, in essence, “Don’t worry about the manuscript. It’s not necessary at this point.” He told me that he would rather do a musical about Carmen Miranda a thousand times more than one about Pelé. He doesn’t see much conflict in Pelé’s life, but it’s what these big New York production companies want, so he’s looking at the possibilities. It doesn’t mean anything will come of it, though, so I wouldn’t hold my breath over it. 
                Don’t worry about providing him with a copy of the manuscript. And since you’ve voiced your concerns about the project, you can rest assured that I will keep our business arrangement between us. I agree with you: We don’t want to ruffle any feathers. My suggestion is that I do the best translation job that I can for you. That way, your mom will see that I’m being sincere in my efforts to bring Professor’s story to light. I understand how she feels, since my own wife is wary of such ventures (especially my connection with the Black Orpheus project).  
               Yes, what you’re doing is right! I would do the same thing were I in your shoes, so we are on the same page! As I mentioned to you before, the translation will take take some time — over a year and a half, if not longer. There’s plenty of time to do a good job and get it right. At this point, I’m working from the beginning, doing the “easier” chapters first, the ones that are more readily translatable; then, leaving the most difficult parts (the ones with Professor’s training methods) for last. Those will definitely require more time.

Marjorie – Poor Pelé, he gets dumped on again for not creating major drama in his life. Oy! Makes you think about how you want [your life] to be remembered, doesn’t it? What “clean” drama can I create in my life to make my life story more interesting? … LOL!

Josmar – I was curious about what your mom (and anyone else) thought of my translation of Professor’s book, so far.
I [also] have some additional news for you about that proposed Pelé musical: it seems that Pelé has decided to go with another bunch of producers in Brazil, instead of Claudio and Charles. Anyway, this has freed up my friends to suggest other projects to replace the aborted Pelé one, and guess whose play they decided to do next? If you said, “Joe’s play about Carmen Miranda,” then you guessed right! Claudio asked me to send him the latest version so the New York producers could read it and see if they wanted to go forward with it. What a turn of events, huh? This is not exactly a “rags to riches” story — not yet anyway — but there’s a chance this thing could take off. Both my friends have voiced their support for Carmen; they’d much rather do a musical about Carmen anyway… Well, that’s what they tell me.
I’m keeping my hands, arms, fingers and eyes crossed that the Musical Gods above will take pity on poor little me and grant my wish to see Carmen Miranda place her little feet back on the Great White Way. After all, it was back in 1939 that Carmen first set foot on Broadway and became an overnight sensation. Time to be great again!

Marjorie – To be honest we hardly spoke about the book because it is such a sensitive subject that I didn’t want to aggravate things. Mom did give me the “revised notes” version and I now have it with me. Let me know the best way we can go over them. Since they don’t show up in the photocopy, maybe I can just read them to you? They are not that many.

By the way, while I was searching for items about the Cosmos to give to the Cosmos historian, I found my father’s “binder” with a bunch of quotes about him in English, along with an English translation of his curriculum vitae. I know you mentioned about translating that part of the manuscript, that’s why I hope it’s not too late. I made a copy and will send it to you.
We also need to go over my mom’s notes at some point. I keep forgetting about that. I’m sorry I haven’t been any help to you on this project. Thankfully, I know you are doing a great job all on your own.

Josmar – Yes, I’ve been following your adventures in Cosmos territory and was amazed as well as pleased by your discovery of Professor’s “long lost” Cosmos binder. That is a true historical artifact, worth its weight in gold!
                I welcome whatever information you can send me. It will only help my translation. Just this week I finished Professor’s autobiographical data which comes at the tail end of his manuscript. That includes all of his many titles, books, lectures, participation in championship tournaments, exhibition games, videos, films, soccer clinics, you name it — a veritable treasure trove of detail. But anything additional you can send me will only help to give a more rounded portrait of this incredible man.
                Your mom’s notes would definitely assist me in deciphering what she wrote in the margins, very little of which I am able to read. Did you want to discuss them over the phone or photocopy them? Maybe we can talk tonight or tomorrow night, whichever is convenient.
                 I know you are aware of all that is happening in Brazil lately. Personally, I welcome the many demonstrations if only to call attention to the abuses and corruption that have gone unchecked there [for] decades. Whether anything positive will come of them is anybody’s guess, but let’s see what the future brings. Your brother is quite a passionate follower of what’s been going on, as is my niece (who demonstrated on Monday along Avenida Paulista).
 
The sleeping giant has finally awakened from her slumber.

Marjorie – I’m super excited about what’s happening in Brazil, even though I’m so not political. But you don’t need to know politics to see what is going on there. I feel this is more about the World Cup than those “20 centavos” increase in the bus fare. It’s funny to think that soccer might just be the thing that saves Brazil. It’s kind of poetic, don’t you think?

Josmar – Oh, yes, poetic justice — indeed! It’s not just the Confederations Cup or the World Cup; it’s the Olympic Games as well! Those costly and over-budget stadiums are only the outward symbols of the decadence and waste that’s taken hold of the country for years. Add to the rampant corruption, poor quality and services, yikes! Time to put an end to it all — although I’m not so sure these protests will succeed in bringing about real change. At least the bus and subway fares have gone down. In fact, I read they’ve gone down in some of the Northeastern cities. Sampa and Rio are next!

On a related note, in less than nine days, the Cosmos and Pelé will come back to thrill us once again. With that in mind, I am preparing a special translation of three of Professor’s chapters specifically relating to Pelé and to the Cosmos, in honor of the upcoming event. As soon as I have completed the chapters, I will send them to you. If you wish to publish them on Facebook or show your family and friends, by all means do so! I think it would be a great gift coming from you, to show solidarity with soccer and how much the sport has given to you and your family.

Marjorie – Those chapters would be awesome to share. Thank you for thinking of it. As you know we are in Texas and will return home tomorrow. 

Marjorie – These are great, Joe! Thanks so much for sending them.

As much as I would like to share them, and I agree we need a tease, I’m not sure it’s the best idea right now. These chapters go a little deeper than I thought they would and contain some personal information that I don’t feel is appropriate to put out there without Pelé’s consent. I also don’t want to step on the Cosmos’s toes by putting out my dad’s version of the team’s history on Facebook. I don’t want to make waves, plus I’m sure my mom would be upset at me for posting these before sharing it with her first. 

I’m sure you can relate to my concerns. That being said, please keep up the wonderful work you’re doing. I hope to run into some of my dad’s old soccer friends at the Cosmos opener and I will be mentioning the manuscript for sure.

Josmar – That’s more than fair! I share your concerns; that’s why I forwarded the chapters to you first. And yes, you’re right about the “personal” stuff. I didn’t realize how deep Professor got into Pelé’s business affairs until I re-read the early chapters about how Pelé got into financial difficulties — ouch! Those were real eye-openers.
                Perhaps the “teaser” we are looking for will come from your talking to your dad’s old soccer chums. Wow, so you’ll be at the Cosmos opener! I’m envious! Wish I was there to see it, but I’m sure you will take lots of photos, which I’m dying to see.

Marjorie – [My son] Frankie decided to write his college essay on the Professor, so your work could not have come at a better time. I knew I was doing the right thing by having it translated and now I have proof that I did the right thing. I always counted on my dad getting Frankie into college because he did that for so many other young athletes. It amazes me that he might be able to do that after all. Incredible, right?

Josmar – I am sure that Professor is looking out for his grandson from above. That is why he left his manuscript as his last legacy to you, knowing that one day someone (me, in this case) would translate it for Frankie to read and make use of. The stats about Professor’s birthplace and all I’m sure you and your mom can fill in. But those great stories about Steve Ross, Pelé, Idi Amin and the Cosmos … well, it’s all there now!

Marjorie – I had mentioned “our” book to [former Cosmos goalie] Shep Messing when I saw him, and he referred me to his co-writer David Hirshey. They wrote a book called The Education of an American Soccer Player, Shep’s autobiography. I just finished reading it and I loved it! It was funny, sad, educational and shocking. The writing is great. David contacted me today and we are meeting sometime soon to discuss the possibilities of taking your hard work to the next level. Fingers crossed!

Josmar – Well, as they say in the movie business, “Timing is everything!” I’m thrilled about what Shep and David told you. It will make Professor’s heart glow. I remember Hirshey as a sportswriter for the New York Daily News. He was (and is) a big soccer buff, which is great for a native-born American of his day.
There is so much I have to tell you that it would probably be better if we talk on the phone rather than writing it all down. That would be a book in itself! The long and the short of it is this: I’m halfway through with Professor’s manuscript. So far, I have translated or transcribed a total of seventeen chapters. There are thirty-five chapters all together, which means I have eighteen more to go, including three extremely long chapters: II – “A formação,” (The Formative Years); X – “O método” (The Method) which is very technical; and XXXIII – “A entrevista” (The Interview). My intention is to save these for last.

Marjorie – Yes, I’m super excited about David taking a look at what we got so far … he also had me send a copy to Lawrie Mifflin, who was a soccer journalist during the Cosmos years. I remember her as the only woman who could get into the men’s locker room after the game. That lucky, lucky woman! LOL!!! Anyway, David thought she could give us a different perspective. I will probably be meeting with them soon, so I’ll let you know what they say.

Josmar – Oh sure, I remember Lawrie! In fact, from my research I learned she used to play field hockey at Yale University. After getting her master’s in journalism, she worked for The Daily News and then the New York Times, so yes, I recall reading her stuff in the 70s and 80s. (Boy, that was a while ago!) I’m happy for you, Marjorie! I think that Lawrie is more involved in producing videos and films for the Times, so in that respect you two should have a lot in common! I’m excited — let me know what Lawrie thinks of the book so far, keeping in mind, of course, that it still needs to have that final “polish” before it’s ready for print. Let’s see what Lawrie says — I hope she gets as excited as we are about it.

I was exceedingly happy to learn that Professor’s manuscript may actually become a reality after all! It’s great to know that so many people are showing interest in its potential as a book, maybe even a bestseller. As we both are aware, there is little if any material available in English about your dad or his outstanding contributions to soccer in America.
           My own view is that his total commitment to not only bringing Pelé to the Cosmos, but the countless soccer clinics he put on, the hours upon hours he devoted to tours, the talks and live demonstrations he gave in support of the sport, would all be in vain if they hadn’t resulted in the unprecedented explosion of soccer in the U.S. during the past thirty or so years. You and I, along with the rest of the country, are eyewitnesses to this incredible event: there isn’t a college, high school or middle school around — especially here in the Southeast where I live, and elsewhere for that matter — that doesn’t have a soccer team to add to their luster. The Professor and my dad, too, would be absolutely thrilled to have been a part of it. Unfortunately, since neither of them is around today to have seen it, it is up to us, their offspring, to perpetuate their legacy and bring their vision for soccer to ultimate fruition.         

It’s great that young people like your son Frankie, and an untold number of fans, have embraced soccer as their sport of choice. I’ve written about this phenomenon on many occasions and will continue to do so once the 2014 World Cup gets under way. It’s a legacy that all Brazilians, by birthright, can share freely with the world. It may be one of the few things (outside of samba, bossa nova and Carnival) that we children of Brazil can call “our own.”

By the way, I went to our local bookstore the other day and leafed through Pelé’s book, Why Soccer Matters. For the sections that I read, I thought they were well translated, but outside of the photos (two of which were with Professor), I was disappointed in the layout. For one, there was no index, a real bummer; and for another, no bibliography or recommended reading. Not that I expected a doctoral dissertation from “the King,” but he should’ve given fans something more to chew on than just his side of events (that may have been the publisher’s choice). It was very different from Professor’s book, which is full of citations and additional reading material.

Marjorie – I did notice Pelé’s book was missing some information. I haven’t read it yet and I will send you a copy. I heard he spoke highly of my dad in the book … as he should. Can’t wait to read it!

And about our “book,” I met with David and Lawrie for some caipirinhas and they were honest to say that they don’t see an American market for it, mainly because it’s technical and was written for the Brazilian market … but that doesn’t mean we can’t improve on it. I said I’m going forward with the translation no matter what and they said they will be there to guide me once it’s finished, etc. They were really nice and Shep Messing also told me he spoke to a friend who showed a lot of interest and will put me in touch with him. So, keep doing what you’re doing, Joe, and we will revisit our situation when it’s completed.

Josmar – Re: what David and Lawrie had to say about Professor’s book: Yes, I agree, of course it was aimed at and written for the Brazilian market. The way Professor tries to explain and describe the American mind-set in contrast to the Brazilian way of doing things (o jeitinho brasileiro) makes it fascinating (to me, anyway) as an insight into two distinct cultures: How they do business, how the two countries treat their fans, the differences in treating legal issues (for example, that plane trip to Bermuda to sign Pelé’s contract — that was something!).
               With that said, I am pleased to hear that Shep Messing and the others are willing to help out with advice and so forth. You know what, Marjorie? I have a feeling that they, and possibly quite a few others, are more than willing to do this (much as I am) as a favor to you and the Professor’s legacy, considering what he brought to the sport, so that it could thrive in this country. Whatever their reasons, the fact they are showing continued interest tells me the book can be shaped to meet a certain demand. We can talk more about this later.

Marjorie – I totally agree with what you said because they only got a little taste of the book … they have no idea about the rest.

Josmar – During my lunch break I was watching an ESPN video where you were interviewed. You were great! Very funny anecdotes, especially the one about Pelé having green fungus on his feet! Well, duh, that’s because they spray-painted the grass!
              It couldn’t have been timelier, since I just finished translating the chapter, “Buckets of Ice Water,” about how the Cosmos players had to soak their feet in ice water due to the soaring temperatures on the field (the use of artificial turf was to blame). Hah! From green to mean! That’s just how it was.
  I [also] remember that God-awful Downing Stadium at Randall’s Island. Geez, what a horror! It was a dump. I had seen Pelé play there in 1966, when Santos visited. It was the only match-up of Pelé with Eusébio, who was visiting from Portugal. I don’t remember the game very well since I was, what, maybe eleven or twelve years old. But I do remember that pitiful playing field and the crappy stadium. And they did NOT spray paint anything. It was as brown and dusty as the Sahara Desert!

Marjorie – I so enjoyed the last chapter you sent. I really didn’t know any of that and the timing was perfect because the subject came up of how my dad met Pelé. I was able to see the King during my Brazil visit but it was by chance. I went to visit the Pelé Museum which is AMAZING! You must go. After that, my mom suggested we go to his office which is nearby and I was like, he’s not going to be there …. But, lo and behold, he WAS and gave me the biggest kiss on the lips!!! Wow!! So great to see him!

Josmar – I just wanted to surprise you with a translation of the chapter “Marjorie,” from your father’s book. I remember you telling me how fond of this chapter you were. It’s my little “Easter egg gift” to you for being such a warm, caring and appreciative person. Let me know your thoughts on it. I hope it pleases you!
                 I had one question about another chapter: The one where Professor did a soccer film that you were producing. He mentioned the title
Hot Shot, and the lead actor as a guy named Jimmy Young. For the life of me, I can’t find anything about this film or the actor. If you could enlighten me about it or give me some more details (for example, the exact title, year it was released, name of the director, etc.), that would be most helpful.

Marjorie – Sorry I haven’t been in touch, there’s a lot going on. I’ve been thinking of you because I am being interviewed about my dad’s life and his contribution to soccer in America by a group of guys from Texas who are associated with the San Antonio Scorpions. They want to put a video together in honor of my dad, a mini-documentary I would say. One of the guys involved was part of a group of kids in their teens who my dad took to Brazil as part of an elite team from Texas to play soccer and attend an elite camp conducted by none other than the Professor himself. This guy says my dad changed his life back then and has held him in his heart ever since. I was very touched by his story and willingness to do this for my dad since as you know it has also been a dream for me to be able to do something like this for my father.                     
Because of this I have been gathering everything I have that might help them to get to know the Professor better. I realized I have many versions of your translated PDF but can’t tell which one is the latest version. If I recall, the last chapter you sent was the “Marjorie” chapter, but I think you sent it on its own and not as part of the PDF. Can you please do me the favor of sending whatever final version you have with all of the chapters you have completed? I will need to brush up on the subject, and I much rather it be in English. I can always refer to the original manuscript for the chapters you have yet to complete.

Josmar – I read with great interest some of your posts about your beloved dad. It’s amazing to me, even after so many years that have passed since your dad was active in soccer, how many people have such fond memories of him. He had quite a personality, I have to say, and charisma to burn. How much a man of his caliber is needed today in soccer, or in any sport!  No wonder he is missed by so many. 

I am so happy to hear that a video is being put together honoring his work. You’ll be glad to learn that progress is proceeding on the translation of Professor’s book. In fact, I’ve been working on parts of it for the past few weeks, in particular the Interview section towards the end, which is most informative. Speaking of the book, I am attaching the latest PDF version which has been thoroughly revised by yours truly. This is something I do at select intervals in order to make each chapter conform to your father’s writing and speaking style.  

And you’ll be glad to learn that I will be writing a chapter in my own book concerning the documentary, Once in a Lifetime, about the New York Cosmos. But more importantly, it will focus on the one person who was not interviewed in that film, but who appears in various parts of the documentary. And that person is your dad. I saw his photograph at several points in the film and resolved to have his story told. One interesting side note: I have never been able to unravel the details as to how my dad got to have lunch with your dad at one of the Brazilian restaurants in Manhattan. That encounter remains a mystery that my dad took with him when he passed on.  Nearest as I can recall, the luncheon must have been through the auspices of the BACC (Brazilian-American Cultural Center), either through Jota Alves (one of the founders of the organization) or João de Matos, the current owner. I believe we met him and his brother in NYC when my daughter Natalia and I went to visit. I’m sorry I didn’t get to speak with the de Matos brothers, but we were really pressed for time (what a whirlwind trip that was!). By the way, Natalia speaks fondly of you, saying that you were the nicest person she met in New York. “Of course,” I told her — “She is Brazilian!” What did she expect?  Haha!

Anyway, please let me know how your interview goes and, if you need assistance with anything from my part, I will be glad to help you.

Marjorie – Thanks so much! I’m honored that you want to tell the Professor’s story in your own book. Just don’t plagiarize your own words from his book … LOL! I can’t wait to read it!

Josmar – You’re welcome! I thought you’d like that! And don’t worry about plagiarizing: I’ll put into my own words what I know about his relationship to Pelé and the Cosmos and such. Besides, the documentary covers a lot of the same ground, so that will be useful. I think Professor would be thrilled at the rise of Women’s Soccer in the USA. He envisioned it! And, as he himself said, he always got a big “kick” out of watching kids play. It was as if he saw the future even before it happened — uncanny! Your dad knew more than we did about how much influence soccer would have on young people in this country. What a fabulous guy! He was one of a kind.

Marjorie – If I get stumped on the interview I might need to “call a friend”… You!! 🙂

First meeting in Sep 2012 at Brasil Emporium Restaurant. We’re holding the draft of her father’s book

Marjorie – I just wanted to let you know I had a great visit in San Antonio and was treated like a VIP. I shared many of Professor’s stories with my generous hosts and their eyes would sparkle with every story. The interview went well, and I think I managed not to say anything stupid but you never know LOL. 

They asked if I could write a mini biography of my dad for his Wikipedia page since it’s so bare. I told them I would go ask my favorite writer and expert on the subject since I cannot put two sentences together. So, I’m asking if you would do me the honor of putting some words together about the Professor so we can add them to his Wikipedia page. They are going to try to go forward with the documentary about the Professor and I believe this would help to try and sell the idea. At this point it’s only on a wish list. They have so much to work on as far as getting funded and making sure they do this correctly from the beginning. The good news is that so many people have thrown in their hat to help us with the content. Everyone has something good they want to share about the Professor. So thankful for that!

Let me know if you can and have the time do write this mini-bio. There is really no rush, just something that should be done eventually.

Josmar – As promised, here is Professor’s biographical information. I basically took what Professor had already written and inserted some additional passages to make the transitions a tad smoother.

I kept the statistics of where he taught, where he worked, what he accomplished and all that. I think, and I’m sure you will agree, that your dad had one of the most impressive resumes, or curriculum vitae (as we Brazilians like to call it), that I have ever seen! He did so much to better himself, to make himself as technically proficient in the sport of soccer, and in the art of physical training and conditioning, than most people who worked in the area. And, more importantly, he did so much to help others, never thinking of himself but always seeking the betterment of his players. He also worked mightily for charitable organizations, as well as young children (boys and girls). In that, he was a true humanitarian and all-around “good guy.” That’s why he won the Good Guy Award back in 1982. I can’t help feeling that he would have been so proud of the US Women’s Soccer Team, along with Team USA in the Men’s Soccer Team, for their collective performances in the last World Cups. If only he were here to have seen them!

Well, Marjorie, let’s hope your friends can turn out a terrific documentary on the Prof. It is a long time coming.

Josmar – I’ve been working simultaneously on several chapters in Professor’s book, going back and forth. I am attaching the “Interview” portion, which turned out pretty well. It’s full of his uniquely “professorial” insights and knowledge of soccer, and his always fascinating take on the sport in Brazil.

As promised, I am currently writing that chapter I told you about devoted to your dad and his years with the Cosmos. It will become part of my book. I have a DVD copy of the documentary Once in a Lifetime, which has helped tremendously in providing background details and a different point of view. In viewing the film, I noticed that Professor appears frequently throughout the documentary, but that he is never identified. Would you know why the producers did not identify him? Was there a reason for that, or just an oversight? I am using that aspect as the motivation for my story: “Once in a Lifetime and the Untold Story of the Man Behind the Glasses,” will be the title.

Speaking of which, I was wondering why the Professor always wore dark glasses whenever his photo was taken or when he was being filmed. He didn’t “always” wear his trademark dark glasses, but I saw that in several scenes he did wear regular lenses. Was there a specific reason for the dark glasses? Did he have cataract surgery or eye problems that you knew of? I thought that readers might appreciate some additional personal insight about him.

Josmar – I have some great news for you: I finished the translation of Professor’s book! Hooray!!!

Yes, it has taken all of three years (to be exact) to get everything done, but I was able to do the last, big chapter on “The Method” (Circuit-Training and Interval-Training) over the past week and a half, including all of this weekend. I will be reviewing everything during the course of the week, checking for errors, tightening things up here and there, and giving it a last look before I send you the final draft.

It’s been a long time coming, Marjorie. I’m looking forward to your reaction, as well as the reactions of your son and husband. They will get a big thrill out of Professor’s stories, and his extensive interview about soccer in America and in Brazil.

Marjorie – Oh my goodness, Joe! I was just pulling up your e-mails to finally try to print out the “final” version of the manuscript and I find the below e-mail from you. I’m just reading this now and hope I’m not too late in answering your question.
My dad had poor vision but never any other problems with his eyes. He started wearing the dark glasses in the 80s and rarely took them off. They were designed by Porsche and became his trademark. He thought he was the cat’s meow wearing them. He was a trend setter that Prof!
Last time my mom came to visit she brought me two things, those glasses and my dad’s stopwatch which he wore around his neck throughout my entire childhood. As you can imagine these were the best gifts she could have given me. Each symbolized a part of my dad’s life. Priceless!!
As far as the movie is concerned, I know Pelé refused to participate because they would not pay the fee he wanted. At the time of the production my dad was already dealing with Alzheimer’s and was in no condition to be interviewed. It’s a shame because the theory the documentary portrays about the demise of the Cosmos is the same as my dad’s theory, which he talked about years before the documentary came out and he was always met with skepticism whenever he brought it up. My dad would have been a great addition to the lineup. Damn Alzheimer’s!!

Josmar – No problem! I figured you would get around to my e-mail sooner or later. Thank you so much for the information about the Professor’s trademark glasses. This is great stuff! I will definitely use it in my chapter. And thanks for the extra data on the documentary about Pelé and your dad. When we talked, you also mentioned an aborted movie project about Professor and the “King.” If I recall correctly, I think you told me that Anthony Quinn had been penciled in to portray your dad. That would have been an awesome choice! He had the mannerisms, the voice and the acting ability to do it justice. Quinn would have made a great Professor Mazzei! I wonder who they had in mind to play Pelé (probably, Pelé himself — that wouldn’t surprise me!). Too bad the movie went nowhere, again probably due to Pelé having led a clean life.

Speaking of the documentary, I did some research of my own. By watching the documentary over and over again, and then freezing the frame every time I caught a glimpse of the Professor’s form, I was able to determine that he appeared a grand total of (are you ready for this?) twenty-one times! Yes, that’s right. Some appearances, either via film footage or still photograph, lasted anywhere from a few seconds to several minutes. I intend to incorporate this newly discovered data into my chapter. I also took extensive notes of every appearance, including timings (beginning and ending of scenes), the circumstances of his appearance, what he wore in each appearance, what he was doing, etc.

When I am done writing the chapter, I will forward this data to you. That way, you can watch the documentary again and see more of your father than you or your family had ever imagined. It’s my way of preserving your dad’s legacy in a way that was never thought of. Like my own dearly departed parents, Professor will always be with us.

Marjorie – That is awesome, Joe, I will have to watch it again once you send me the info but first I need to find my copy of the movie. Not sure if I lent it to someone but worst case scenario I’ll just buy another copy online.

Josmar, you dropped from the sky to help me and I’m sure it was my father who pushed you!

Josmar – Thank you for your gracious e-mail! I too am very thankful that we got together.

Don’t know if I mentioned this before, but one of the main reasons I am so devoted to perpetuating your dad’s legacy is that I recognize there is a huge gap in the story of soccer in this country. People need to know that Pelé’s coming to the U.S. was due to a variety of factors, many of which had a lot to do with your dad’s intervention and influence. In that respect, both the Professor and Pelé were pioneers. In another respect, my documenting of your dad’s experiences, and my translating of his book into English, will serve as lasting memoirs of his accomplishments in the sports world. By doing that, I am also perpetuating my own legacy by leaving something for my daughters. This is why I have been so preoccupied with my writings — about Brazilian culture, Brazilian pop music, Brazilian opera and musical theater, Brazilian movies and soccer, and such — for the last, oh, ten or more years.

Josmar – I wanted to see how you are coming along with reading the translation of Professor’s book. You know me: I get curious about what people think of my work. I’d like your feedback, especially if you feel that I am deserving of that bonus you mentioned (hee, hee!).

Anyway, get back to me when you can. Oh, and let me know the latest about that additional material you found in Brazil about the Professor. Those sound like a goldmine!

Marjorie – Great to hear from you as usual! I have good news and bad news. The bad news is I haven’t started reading the final translation yet. I’ve been so busy and I keep meaning to print it at work, but I keep forgetting to. But the good news is you will get your bonus! A promise is a promise.

I have been thinking about adding a preface written by me that introduces the book and explains how it came about, how I found out it even existed and also bring up the fact that my dad developed Alzheimer’s during the writing of it. If I decide to do it will you help me write it? I want it to be heartfelt and fit the subject. I think it would add a special touch, don’t you? Let me know what you think. I promise to start reading it ASAP!

Joe, I am so glad we did this and I can’t wait for Frankie to read it. Thank you so much for your dedication to this project and for sticking with it as you did. I am forever grateful.

Josmar – I would be thrilled and honored to help you write the dedication to your dad. And I am so happy you asked me. I am all for you doing this. I believe the Professor, if he were still with us, would be smiling that big Brazilian smile of his at the thought. And YES, I accept your terms about the bonus. Whatever is most convenient for you, dear friend!

Josmar – I wanted to discuss the Foreword to Professor’s book. I think you don’t do yourself enough credit as a writer. There was a post you shared a few months ago — it may have been on Professor’s birthday, but I could be mistaken — which I thought was very well written. It came from the heart, Marjorie, which is probably the best gauge of a person’s sincerity as any I know. 

My suggestion would be to use that post as a starting point for your Foreword. You can add bits and pieces of information to it. For example, how you learned about your dad’s unpublished manuscript, how it came into your possession, the trip you made recently to Brazil to speak with the fellow with the photographs (i.e., the input of the publishers), why you decided to have it translated now after so many years in limbo, how we met and how we collaborated on bringing the book to a successful conclusion.

If you stick to that line of thinking, I am certain you’ll be able to write something heartfelt and personal. It will be memorable from the standpoint of Professor’s daughter writing a lovely ode to his life and career — a life and career devoted to the sport he loved above all others. THAT, dear friend, will be your contribution to your dad’s legacy.

As far as my own book is concerned, there’s no rush to do that just yet. I just wanted to know if you were willing to contribute a Foreword or Dedication, which I believe you are. I’d rather not put the words on paper myself, since it will be a hundred times more meaningful to me and anyone who reads it if you wrote the words yourself. And I believe you are fully capable of doing that!

As you know, the Foreword is kind of standard issue with books. Usually, it’s written by a person who knows the author or has knowledge of the subject matter being discussed. It can be anything you want, as long as it involves Brazil in some way: soccer (naturally), popular music, bossa nova, culture, politics, food, anything and everything Brazilian. 

Josmar – Thank you again for a most enlightening and entertaining telephone call yesterday! I was so very pleased with our conversation, and especially thankful that you liked my work on Professor’s book. I did my utmost to make it sound as if Professor was in the room speaking, in his own inimitable fashion, of course!

Marjorie – Always so nice to hear from you and I can’t wait to read everything. Looks amazing!

All is well here, and we are getting ready for my mom’s visit in about two weeks. I’m anxious and praying that I was not crazy to bring her here. It’s something I just had to try. Fortunately, she is doing better now than she was last year when I brought her to Miami. My brother will come up to see us as well so it will be a nice treat for us to be together. I pray that she can make it to Frankie’s first game and I’m also hopeful that I can take her to a Cosmos game. I’m hoping the Cosmos organization can have some sort of homage to the Prof. It’s the least they can do. Fingers crossed!!

Josmar – Attached is the FINAL DRAFT of my piece about your dad and the Cosmos. This chapter will be part of my book (only two more chapters to go!) about Brazil’s Fat Lady

I was curious if Frankie has had a chance to read your dad’s book in translation. I’m sure that NOW would be the best time for him to get to know his granddad.

Marjorie – I simply loved your piece on the Prof. So well deserving. I must confess I need to watch the movie again because I only remember seeing him in it a couple of times. Yesterday I was interviewed by Univision. They are doing a piece on the life of the King and heard about how influential my dad was so they reached out. I have been brushing up on the subject by reading you know what for days! The Professor’s bible always comes in handy. I don’t know how I could have done any interviews without that. It’s also amazing how everything I question just drops into my lap out of nowhere. I know my dad is handing it to me, literally dropping stuff from the sky. It really is something incredible.

Josmar – Thank you so much for the compliments! You have the Professor’s blood and wisdom in your veins! I am happy to learn that Frankie is OK after his groin injury (those are excruciatingly painful — ARGH!!!). Glad to hear your mom is doing well, too — so much to be grateful for in this world. We can consider ourselves lucky. 

I am most pleased that my translation of Professor’s book has met with your approval. I’m only saddened that he was not able to be interviewed for that documentary. However, you should definitely see the film again and try to spot the many times your dad appears — I was ASTOUNDED at how he always popped up at the appropriate times! I wanted my piece to mention that (and to count the many instances he showed up). He truly was the man behind the glasses. 

It’s safe to say, dear friend, that without your dad’s foresight and his knowledge and wisdom of the sport (as well as his bubbling personality), neither Pelé nor many other occurrences in the soccer world would ever have taken place. You can be one hundred percent certain of that!  ⃝

Copyright © 2022 by Josmar F. Lopes

The Drummer Speaks — Memoirs by William “Buddy” Deppenschmidt III

William “Buddy” Deppenschmidt III (1936-2021)

On Thursday, March 25, I read, with heavy heart, guitarist and bandleader Ken Avis’ sad notice and jazz writer David Adler’s detailed obituary about my close friend, jazz drummer William “Buddy” Deppenschmidt III’s passing on March 20, 2021, of complications due to COVID-19.

I knew Buddy well, we talked often on the phone together.

At first, way back in 2004, I wrote a somewhat disparaging piece about him, entitled “Damn the Drummer, Where’s the Composer,” about his claim to have been instrumental (no pun intended) in bringing the classic Jazz Samba album on Verve to light, and (most importantly) the music of Brazilian bossa nova to the U.S.

Later — to be exact, seven years later, in 2011 — after receiving Buddy’s letter, I contacted him via email and landline. We became fast friends. The unusual aspect of all this was that it took him seven years to respond. Imagine, seven years! That’s how patient the man was. I asked him why he took so long to write. His response: “Because I was busy teaching and playing.” It was only after some of his students brought my piece to his attention that, after letting his initial reaction simmer for seven years, he finally decided to write back.

The funny thing was that he understood where I was coming from (and told me so, many times). He even sent me a lengthy printout of his curriculum vitae, but the best thing was that I ultimately came around to take up and champion his cause (well supported by the facts) that he, along with Keter Betts, the bassist, and Charlie Byrd, the great jazz guitarist, were THE key figures in that 1961 U.S. State Department visit to Latin America that brought the Brazilian bossa nova beat to American ears. Much later in our relationship, Buddy sent me his original itinerary for that trip, which I’m glad I made a photocopy of and will treasure as a personal keepsake. Of course, I mailed the original back to Buddy. It meant so much to him. It surprised me, too, that he still kept it, but that was Buddy. His seemingly rough exterior was only a cover for what I ascertained to be a sentimental streak. You loved him more for that.  

I had the utmost pleasure and fun in meeting and interviewing Buddy at the Strathmore Music Festival for the JAZZ SAMBA SYMPOSIUM, held there in June 2014. Afterward, we went to lunch together, where we were joined by famed audio engineer Ed Greene. We remained close friends afterward, and corresponded with each other via snail mail (Buddy hated computers) and frequent telephone calls. And, Ken Avis — by the way, Buddy’s response to Chuck Redd’s question about why jazz musicians were wearing tuxedos was a classic retort. What Buddy actually said was, “Because we were a class act!” That left the audience in attendance laughing their heads off. But, again, that was classic Buddy. He had an answer for every occasion, no matter the subject.

Buddy Deppenschmidt at the JAZZ SAMBA SYMPOSIUM, Strathmore Music Centre, June 2014

He was a REAL gentleman, too. And why was that? Didn’t he hobnob with some rough sorts (and heaven knows, some jazz giants could be really obnoxious)? Not Buddy. He treated everyone he met with the same deference and respect he gave Brazil’s music and musicians. And his love was genuine. I should know. I am Brazilian born. I’ve written about Brazil. I lived and worked in the country. My parents were Brazilian. All my relatives are Brazilian or have Brazilian blood flowing in their veins. I could sense that Buddy was not the type to put on airs. He was curious about Brazil, but most especially about the sensuous and beguiling music that would charm and seduce the world. And he was right.

This is why words cannot express my sense of loss for such an estimable artist and friend as Buddy Deppenschmidt.

In his last years (from about 2017 to 2020), Buddy had come down with a debilitating cough that, no matter how hard he tried, was simply unable to shake. The loss of his home in Bucks County really set the man back, more than most people can imagine. I will not go into the particulars at this stage, mostly out of respect for our friendship. Perhaps one day, I or someone with a knack for putting down Buddy’s eventful life onto paper, will take up the daunting task of documenting his life story. It’s a story worth telling.

Yet, despite his travails, Buddy never lost his sense of humor. He came from a musical family — he even gave me a treasure trove of self-made CDs and much, much music from his dad, Buddy Sr., and fabulous stories about his Danish-born grandmother who loved to listen to opera and famed Wagnerian tenor Lauritz Melchior (also of Danish descent), whom grandma went to see often. Buddy told me a story that, when he was very young, he would sit on the floor in his living room and listen, all afternoon long, to big band music and classical music recordings — but especially jazz.

A few years ago, before Buddy was relocated to a nursing home in Doylestown, PA, he tried, at my urging, to write down his memoirs. You have to understand something about Buddy: He was a simple high school kid. He never attended college or had advanced degrees. What credentials he had were earned on the street. That may sound like a cliché, but it was pure Buddy. That’s who he was, and that’s how he expressed himself: rough, ready, stinging at times, but truthful and to the point. I never let his cantankerous nature get in the way of our relationship. And, boy, could he get cantankerous! And cranky, too. Still, I treated him as if he were a second father: with love, with kindness, with understanding, patience, and with respect.

In closing, here, for the first time, is the sum total of Buddy’s “memoirs,” just as he wrote it. In his voice, in his tone. It’s fitting that he should have the last word. It’s also fitting that he ended his reverie with that long-ago trip to Brazil. And you know something…. although he would never admit it, I think Buddy was a Brazilian at heart.

Rest in peace, old friend….

A younger Buddy Deppenschmidt at his Drum Kit

The Drummer Speaks — Memoirs by William “Buddy” Deppenschmidt III

I was born on February 16, 1936, in Philadelphia and lived there until [I was] four years old. At age four my mother and father divorced and she and I moved back to my mother’s hometown of Richmond, Virginia. She had met my father there while he was playing tenor sax with the Johnny Brown Orchestra at Tantilla Gardens, a famous ballroom in Richmond and where I would, many years later, play with the Newton Thomas Trio. Life is so unpredictable!

At any rate, I went to Westhampton Junior High School where at age ten and in the fifth grade I joined the band. They came to my homeroom and asked, “Who would like to get in the band?” I raised my hand! The next question was, “What instrument do you play?” Well, I didn’t play any instrument and I didn’t know what to say. So I turned to the guy sitting next to me, who had said he was in the band and, coincidentally, whose name was also “Buddy” — Buddy Tyler — and said, “What instrument do you play?” He said, “Drums,” so I said “I play drums.” That’s how much serious thought went into that serious career choice (smile).

Anyway, I gave it my all. Buddy Tyler and I used to march around our neighborhood with our parade drums slung on our drum slings playing our marching beats and, believe it or not, no one complained. Guess we were in a very tolerant neighborhood.

I got my first drum set when I was in my second year of high school because I had been offered an opportunity to play in a small Dixieland band called the Sophocats. Their drummer was going off to college and they thought I had talent. Well, we played for school dances and many university fraternity parties, etc., and I learned to play the drum set “on the job.”

I had an endless library of phonograph records at home (classical, big band, Dixie, jazz, ragtime, boogie woogie), you name it, we had it! So I was always listening to music. As soon as I got home from high school I’d lie down on the floor with my head in front of the speaker and listen and analyze the music.

My dad said, “If your mother says you’ve been practicing, I will get you a really good drum set next year.” Well, I didn’t need a calendar! And he kept his promise! He got me a beautiful 1950s Gretsch set and it sounded great!!! That’s the set I took to South America, Central America and Mexico (not to mention all over the United States!) and recorded on it, too. You hear it on The Guitar Artistry of Charlie Byrd and I think it’s the best drum sound I have ever heard and I’ve listened to a lot of records!

I am talking just the drum sound. I am surely not intending to brag about my playing, although I thought it was pretty good for having been with the band only four days! Check it out — on the Riverside label owned by Fantasy in California. They bought all of Riverside’s masters when Riverside went out of business.

Back in Richmond, I was getting quite a lot of work and listening to a local Latin radio station [where] the D.J. spoke in Spanish. I didn’t understand a word but the music was terrific. After countless hours of listening to those Latin rhythms, I started playing all those Latin beats pretty well and as a result I started to get gigs from the Arthur Murray Dance School since I was one of the few drummers in town who could play a good rumba, samba, tango, mambo, etc. It was great experience and a lot better than working in some “fast food joint.”

I continued to stay busy in Richmond. Soon after high school, I went on the road with the Ronnie Bartley Band, a territory band that toured the mid- and Southwest United States. Upon returning to Richmond, I began playing with the Newton Thomas Trio. Newton was an amazing self-taught jazz piano player that played all the tunes in any key even though he couldn’t read a note of music. If we were backing up a vocalist and she said, “That key’s too high for me,” he would take it down a half tone or a whole tone or whatever. I don’t know how he did it! And he was a country music D.J. at one of the local radio stations as a “day gig.” What a guy!

Anyway, we were playing the Virginia Beach Jazz Festival and we surprised everyone, to say the least, even Dave Brubeck and Charlie Byrd, who were also on the bill. No one expected us to bring down the house, but we did! Two nights later, Charlie Byrd, his drummer and his wife, and Charlie’s wife [Ginny] came into the club where Newt and I were working and offered me a job. The rest is history which I will explain later.

Shortly after that I moved to D.C. from Oceanview, VA, and joined Charlie Byrd’s Trio which included bassist Keter Betts and after being with him only four days we had a recording date. Charlie said, “Have you ever recorded?” And I said, “Oh yes, I’ve made tapes.” He said, “I mean a commercial recording.” And I said, “Oh, no.” He said, “Well, we have a recording date on Saturday.” That was just four days away! And it went very well! In fact, Charlie called the record “Charlie’s Choice” because he thought it was his (to date). It later was reissued and the name changed to The Guitar Artistry.

Well, it was about six months later that we got the State Department tour of eighteen South American, Central American countries and Mexico City (three months) in 1961, March to early June. Needless to say, it was an education, a vacation and I also got paid for doing what I loved to do! I guess it doesn’t get better than that!! I felt truly blessed.

We started in Caracas, Venezuela. And after our first concert we were asked to do a command performance at the president’s palace. I was taking my shoes off (as I always did when I played drums) and someone said it was wrong to do so in the president’s palace, and I said to her, “If you played piano, would you do it with gloves on?” I think she got the message! (Smile)

 From Venezuela we went to Brazil, which was my favorite country. We went to all of the major cities except Rio. It was there that I fell in love with the music and the people of Brazil. We were in Fortaleza, Recife, Salvador da Bahia, Belo Horizonte, Curitiba and Porto Alegre. I made several friends in Brazil. 

Copyright © 2021 by Josmar F. Lopes

Family Time — A Change of Scenery

Gordon Scott as “Coriolanus: Hero Without a Country” from 1964

The month was mid-July, the year 1971. I had just turned seventeen, still thirteen months shy of my high school graduation. Unsure of what to do, unclear as to what path I might lead, I struggled with the thought of what the next four years would be like. Fortunately, another trip to Brazil was being planned. That was good. Once again, I would meet up with our relatives and friends, most of whom I had not seen or heard from since 1965.

However, the years had not been kind to our family. Grandpa Chico had passed away in 1967. Other relatives and not-so-near relations had gotten older, much older in fact. Both grandmothers were still around, thank goodness, but some previously married couples had split and gone their separate ways. Others had tied the knot or gotten engaged, but had not chosen their mates wisely. On the brighter side, the next generation had finally begun to mature, giving hope to people that a younger crop of Brazilians — new leaders, new singers, new artists in general — would be capable of filling the weighty shoes left vacant and behind by their antecedents’ demise.

With age, comes maturity. But maturity, as I later learned, is a relative thing. Some people mature early on in life, while others do not. Some never reach that point of adulthood, no matter their physical age. Some refuse to let go of the past, never profiting from their mistakes. The error of their ways, the wrong turns, and the bad company they kept continued to stalk their paths regardless of how much time had elapsed. That is sad.

My father, for one, suffered greatly from the past. Anxiety neurosis, that was his problem, along with perfectionism. In times of stress, dad lashed out at whoever was present. It took an unreasonably long time for him to come down from the “high” his fixations had left him with. In the interim, recipients of his wild mood swings (my mom, myself, my brother, dad’s brothers and sisters, and principally his mother) would either suffer in dumb anguish or lash out in equal measure — not a wise choice, under any circumstances.

Dad was never more volatile than when we vacationed together as a group. I was told, by those who knew him, that when he was a traveling salesman for the Confiança Company he would be unable to sleep the night or two before a trip. Too worried about some misplaced document or leaving behind something important, dad would waste hours of precious time needlessly fussing over the slightest details. He carried this defect over into his personal life, in that he made every plane ride, every bus journey, every family outing a living hell, no matter where we went or who we had gone to visit. We had to watch what we said to him, too, or there would be a tongue-lashing the likes of which would have made a longshoreman blush.

There were times when I wanted to bust out of this mind-numbing confinement. In Brazil, where I was surrounded by others less troubled by dad’s bouts of nerves, I found relief. We could go out on our own, explore the neighborhood, chat with people of our age group. We could forge new relationships, build better associations with some of the younger members of our family. In other words, we could finally enjoy ourselves by, basically, just being ourselves instead of minding our every spoken syllable.

It was during this time that I was introduced to two distant cousins, Ana Maria and Suely, sisters of roughly similar age (perhaps a few years apart and a little older than I was). The daughters of my father’s ex-partner “Noca” and his wife, Lisbete, one of mom’s first cousins, they were openly pleasant to me and my brother. Ana Maria had two girlfriends, Márcia and Edna, who were a foot or more from each other in height. Márcia was the tallest (I nicknamed her girafa) and the most personable — man, what huge blue eyes; Edna was the shortest (we called her formiga, or “ant”) and the more serious of the two. I paired up with Márcia, while my brother took charge of little Edna.

One evening (it might have been either a Friday or a Saturday night), all five of us (with the exception of Suely, who was engaged to a fellow named Flávio) went out to the movies. It was my first double-date; in fact, it was the first double-date I had ever been on with members of the opposite sex. I can’t for the life of me recall if we paid their way or if mom and dad had reimbursed them later for the tickets. It wouldn’t surprise me if they had, since I was completely unaware of the finer points of dating.

The city square known as Largo da Concordia, where movie theaters were situated – Bras, Sao Paulo, circa the 1950s

Nevertheless, there we were, locked arm-in-arm, escorting Ana Maria and her friends to the local fleabag theater. Ana Maria had told our parents that we were going to see a Gordon Scott picture, the title of which was Corionlanus: Hero Without a Country. It was one of those Italian-made sword-and-sandal epics from the mid-sixties. Luckily for me, I was absolutely captivated by these types of films; anything relating to Hercules, Samson, Maciste, and Goliath was right up my alley. Steve Reeves was my favorite strongman, but Scott would do in a pinch.  

After a fifteen- or twenty-minute stroll down endless winding paths, whereby I engaged in flirtatious banter with my date — Márcia was certainly a chatterbox, which helped ease my apprehension somewhat — we arrived at our destination. And there it was, a big color poster of the musclebound Mr. Scott, a former lifeguard and movie Tarzan, as our titular Roman general. Was this really happening? I started to tense up. Being completely naïve about feminine wiles it never occurred to me that muscleman pictures were not the sort of thing that bright-eyed young ladies were into.

Well, well, was I in for a surprise! Instead of leading the charge to screen glory with Coriolanus, Ana Maria stepped up to the ticket-booth and handed over our money to where they were showing something called O quanto amor, o qual amor (“How Much Love, Oh What Love”), the Brazilian equivalent of the Italian sex comedy La Matriarca (translated in the U.S. as The Libertine) from 1969. The film starred French-born Belgian actress Catherine Spaak, who I wrongly assumed to be American (and associated with Star Trek’s resident alien, Mr. Spock), and French leading man Jean-Louis Trintignant. An Italian sex comedy, of all things! Where the characters spoke Italian and French. With Portuguese subtitles. And nudie shots of T and A (“tits and ass,” for the uninitiated).

What was Ana Maria thinking? What fancy ideas had gotten into her head? I couldn’t tell. I was too disheartened (and not very amused) by this last-minute bait-and-switch my cousin had pulled on us. I didn’t hold it against her, though. Really, what choice did I have? Maybe it was Ana Maria’s way of getting her and her friends to see something foreign and unique. Remember, this was years into Brazil’s military dictatorship. Censorship of television and the press was customary and to be expected. The movies, especially foreign-dubbed ones (including those made in the USA), were practically the only means where some kind of freedom of expression was exercised, but to a limited degree. The other reason was more practical: unescorted girls at the movies were easy prey for wolves on the prowl. Although this was undoubtedly a bold move on her part, I couldn’t blame my cousin for doing it. I just didn’t have the heart to reproach her. She was family.

After the film had ended, the girls walked me and my brother back to our Aunt Iracema’s house, where our family had been staying. Boy, what dopes we were back then! Neither of us had the slightest clue about etiquette, never mind the social graces. The truth is, we boys, as the “gentlemen” of the group, were supposed to have escorted the girls to their homes. Then, and only then, could we return to our dwelling. I’m sure the girls didn’t mind returning us to our roost. After all, we were their guests, we did not officially reside in São Paulo, and we were not familiar with the surroundings. Nor could we have found our way back if we wanted to, so many were the twists and turns we confronted that it would have taken half the night to get to where we needed to be. If you ask me, this was a blessing in disguise.

We went on one more date, this time with two of our visiting cousins, Dario and Dan. There might have been one other person involved, but I can’t remember. All I know is that I was pleased to see Márcia again — and I sensed the feeling was mutual. And where did we go? Why, to the movies, of course, to the same fleabag arena that good old Coriolanus had been playing in. Except this time, the main attraction was a recently released first-run feature, Brother John, starring Sidney Poitier, which was more my style (and with the dialogue in easier-to-follow English).

Poster for the movie “Brother John” (1971), starring Sidney Poitier

I felt more at ease this time around. And when it was over, we did the right thing: my cousins and I, along with my brother, escorted the girls to their homes. I have no recollection of how we did it, but we also managed to find our way back to Aunt Iracema’s house. Nothing like prior experience to help pave the way.  

I learned something else about those two date nights: that girls have a mind of their own; that they know what it is they want; and, most startling of all, they know exactly how to go about getting it.   

Copyright © 2021 by Josmar F. Lopes

‘Let It All Go to Hell’: The Brazilian Stars That Brought Sunshine to My Cloudy Days (Part Three)

Time to Name That Tune!

Elis Regina and her Mia Farrow look (Photo: last.fm)

There are billions of stars in the evening sky

But only one can be viewed with the naked eye

— The Author

The month was mid-July, the year 1971. I had just turned seventeen, still thirteen months away from my high school graduation. Unsure of what to do, unclear as to what path I might lead, I struggled with the thought of what the next four years would be like. 

Another trip to Brazil was planned. I would once again meet and greet our relatives, most of whom I had not seen or heard from since 1965.

Over on the distaff side, Elis Regina Carvalho Costa, at age twenty-six, was already Brazil’s most popular recording and concert artist. She was born on March 17, 1945, in the southern city of Porto Alegre, State of Rio Grande do Sul. Yet, wherever I traveled around the vicinity of São Paulo, and whoever I discoursed with — especially in the households of cousins, friends, and family members my age or older — the topic would unavoidably come around to the singer’s powerful vocals.

That’s where I stumbled.

“Elis … Elis … What’s her name again?” I would inquire.

“Elis Regina,” came the response. “Why do you ask? Don’t you like her?”

I must confess that, at the time, I felt embarrassed, confused, and completely out of my element at being placed in the delicate position of having to defend my ignorance of this subject.

My excuse for having been put in such a tortured, tongue-tied state was that I had no idea who Elis Regina (her stage name) was or what she had sung that made her so popular. Although I kept hearing one of her songs on countless occasions, once our Brazil trip was over and we returned to busy New York City, for the life of me I could not recall the title of that piece, nor could I tuck away the melody into any conceivable corner of my memory for future reference. I knew the number to be extremely catchy, though, and oh-so-heavily pop driven. But beyond that, I was left adrift.

Psychologically, I must have blocked the song from my subconscious. Indeed, there could be no other explanation for my apparent brain freeze. Not that I disliked the number — to be honest, I reveled in its light and airy feel, coupled with the loose approach that Elis took in the Philips album that introduced it. It reminded me of something Sinatra might have taken a “nice and easy” approach to in his day. But no matter how hard I struggled, no matter how many Google searches I launched throughout the coming years (and then some!) in a last-ditch effort at naming this enigmatic tune, I was unable to pin the title down.   

And then, out of nowhere, the mystery was solved.

One weekend in mid-August 2020, I happened to have been on the cellphone with my brother Anibal, explaining to him that I had just about finished the Fat Lady’s story; that the last thing I needed to get straight was this missing chapter about the pop star, Elis Regina. Our discussion then turned to that unnamed number and my lingering frustration with it.

“Oh, yeah, I know it,” he stated calmly.

“What? You know it? After all this time?”

“Sure,” he confirmed. Instantly, my brother began to hum the mysterious tune, the one that had been wracking my middle-aged intellect for so long.

“My God, you remembered! That’s it!” I shouted. “That’s the song!”

Exhilarated at the prospect of having finally unraveled this decades-long conundrum, I rushed to the living room and handed the cellphone to my wife, Maria Regina, our resident expert on matters Brazilian and — another stroke of luck — the one person who considered her namesake to be among her favorites.

“Dear, quick! What’s the name of this tune? My brother’s going to hum it for you.”

Thank goodness my wife remembered the song, but, like me, the title had completely escaped her. My hopes seemed to have been dashed in the moment of claiming victory. Still, both she and my brother continued to hum the number together. Well, if they didn’t know the title, at least they were familiar with the melody (and to my surprise, my wife even mouthed some of the words). There was hope after all!

After a quick look-up on YouTube, it finally came to her: the title, that seemingly unattainable object of my desire; the one that had so eluded detection for nearly half a century.

“Here it is,” she announced triumphantly. “ ‘Vou deitar e rolar.’ ”

Ah, so that’s it! “Vou deitar e rolar,” (loosely translated as “I’ll make my bed and lie in it”), written in 1970 for the album … Em Pleno Verão (“… At the Peak of Summer”). The authors were songwriter-guitarist Baden Powell and poet-composer Paulo Cesar Pinheiro, both natives of Rio de Janeiro and known quantities in the pop-music field. Produced by the ubiquitous Nelson Motta, with arrangements by Erlon Chaves, Elis Regina’s bandmates included José Roberto Beltrami on piano, Luiz Claudio Ramos on guitar, Luizão Maia on bass, Wilson das Neves on drums, and Hermes Contesini on percussion.

As bouncy as a Copacabana beach ball, as refreshing as the carioca dew at sunrise, this irresistible number was delivered by a performer at the absolute “peak” of her profession. The song makes reference to a young girl who, aware of having been two-timed by her lover, shoves the betrayal to his face by vowing to “do her own thing” no matter what. He’s shown the door with a hearty “Hah-hah-hah-hah-hah,” a hilarious sendoff that indicates to her former paramour that she who laughs last, laughs best.

I thanked my brother for his timely assistance. His response told me all I needed to know about what he thought of this little mini-project of mine: “You can take the boy out of Brazil, but you can’t take Brazil out of the boy.” Amen, brother, amen.

The song illustrated both the highs and the lows of a remarkable singing career that began at age fifteen and ended prematurely at thirty-six.

A young Elis Regina from the 1960s

 A Flickering Light that Burned Too Bright

Ambitious, audacious, extroverted, and charismatic on the stage and on live television, the highly-charged personality known as Elis Regina was also capable of turning shy in private, even reserved to the point of inhibition. Decidedly pugnacious when the mood suited her, she was fearless and confrontational. At times, Elis experienced a devastating stage fright before performing — astonishing for one so gifted with such a natural-born propensity for picking the right style for every occasion.

For example, in 1965 she debuted on national television, in the First Festival of Popular Music, with “Arrastão” (“Fish Net”), a song about a poor Northeastern fisherman written by singer-composer Edu Lobo with the poet Vinicius de Moraes. Sporting a beehive hairdo (which made her look like one of The B-52’s) and extending her arms high above her head, Elis swung her limbs in a backwards swimming motion (very 1960’s, we might add). To most viewers, she appeared to mimic the rotating blades of an airplane, movements that baptized her with the first of several nicknames: “Hélice” Regina, or “Propellor” Regina. It also won her nationwide acclaim.  

At other times, Elis would turn destructive — what today might be diagnosed as bipolar disorder, earning her the sobriquet pimentinha (“little pepper,” which also described American cartoonist Hank Ketcham’s Dennis the Menace). She took no prisoners. And by taking a virtual wrecking ball to her associations with both men and women, Elis damaged their personal property as well: The well-worn story of her flinging ex-husband Ronaldo Bôscoli’s entire Sinatra collection into the sea is, unfortunately, all too true (the discs were last “spotted” somewhere off the coast of West Africa).

I can hear it now: “Let it all go to hell!”

That sounds like something Furacão (“Hurricane”) Elis would have said. With few exceptions, her choice of repertoire was also frequently eclectic as well. Despite kicking off her recording career with the 1961 album, Viva a Brotolândia (“Long Live Teenybopperdom”), devoted to adolescent drivel, Elis displayed a seasoned professional’s knack for capturing exactly the sound the pubic was yearning for.

The essence of Elis Regina – Expressed in this beautiful mosaic

And contrary to what most pop-music mavens might have believed, she did not possess a natural “voice” for bossa nova but rather developed her skills through trial and error. Elis eventually came to grasp what the bossa nova idiom had begun to imply: that is, as a window into other Brazilian song forms and influences. In her mind, samba and pop blazed a much wider (and richer) trail, and were a lot more diverse and meaningful than,say, bossa nova’s basic “love, flower, ocean” themes would have you believe. In that, she shared the sentiments (on and out of the spotlight) of her nearest rival, Nara Leão, only less overtly. 

Yet, of all the aspiring female talents at or below her level of excellence (and there was quite a hefty assortment to choose from), Elis Regina is the only one, in my mind, to have been considered worthy of comparison to her illustrious predecessor, the equally volatile Carmen Miranda.

It came as no surprise that both Carmen and Elis were of Portuguese descent, as were a sizeable proportion of Brazilians. Both artists were short of stature (five-feet-two-inches tall), both came from poor working-class backgrounds, and both had extraordinarily productive careers inside and outside Brazil, despite some negative reaction from the public and press. With respect to financial compensation, they were the highest paid female entertainers of their generation. Accordingly, both died from substance abuse: in Carmen’s case, from alcohol mixed with barbiturates and amphetamines; in Elis Regina’s, from cocaine and Campari.

What surprised me the most, in researching this topic, was that few if any authors have pointed the above coincidences out to readers. How strange. One can only conclude that Carmen and Elis had artificially extended their lives beyond all reasonable limitations because of their early demise. As iconic symbols of their respective fields, they had outlived the normal passage of time to become goddesses of popular song.

At first, Elis, to her good fortune, managed to survive the so-called “curse of twenty-seven,” the age at which many of her contemporaries (Brian Jones, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison) had succumbed to personal demons with their premature passing. That Elis’ cocaine use came near the end of her short life is doubly unfortunate.

Still, in spite of their professional accomplishments, Carmen and Elis’ private lives were anything but tranquil. Carmen’s sole marriage to a non-Brazilian was, if anything, loveless and abusive, while Elis’ two marital relationships ended in separation and divorce. The difference between them being that Elis left three young children for posterity (a boy, João Marcelo, from Bôscoli; and a boy and a girl, Pedro and Maria Rita, from second husband, pianist Cesar Camargo Mariano), whereas Carmen left no progeny behind.

 That ‘Sinatra’ Moment

A pair of Aces: Sinatra & Jobim, together on American television

If the Brazilian Bombshell’s latter-day notoriety as an emblem of gay culture has brought renewed interest in her artistry, then Elis Regina’s elevated status as Brazil’s most complete singer-performer can be reasonably assured.

As far as her fans were concerned, Elis’ time had finally come. Between February 22 and March 9, 1974, at MGM Studios in Los Angeles, the recording of the album Elis & Tom took place. An acknowledged “greatest hits” package of Antonio Carlos Jobim’s most accessible song works, involving three of his favorite songwriting partners (Vinicius, Chico Buarque, Aloysio de Oliveira), a number of items on eponymously titled Elis & Tom were arranged by the singer’s soon-to-be-husband Cesar Camargo Mariano.   

Listening to the album after so many years, the first thing one notices is that Elis had modulated her famously potent delivery to this more-intimate lounge setting. Compare her rendition of “Corcovado” (sung in Portuguese) with Frank Sinatra’s “Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars” (in Gene Lees’ English translation) from Francis Albert Sinatra & Antonio Carlos Jobim on Reprise (1967). Seven years — a lifetime in the recording industry — separate these two accounts; yet, how strikingly similar they sound: mellow, low-key, and softly executed, with a lighter than average orchestration (flute, clarinet, piano, violins, guitar, drums, percussion) on Elis’ version, and a jazzy interval taking up the middle portion, ending with Jobim’s participation (on voice and piano) at the fadeout.      

Oddly enough, “Corcovado” and “Triste” are the only two numbers found on Elis and Frankie’s respective forays (originally, “Triste” was not a part of either Francis Albert & Antonio Carlos or on Sinatra & Company, his 1969 follow up). Still, one can draw some basic conclusions, and a viable contrast, regarding these two settings, as performed by two incredibly gifted artists: first, to Sinatra and Jobim on “How Insensitive” — see the following link to my original article: (https://josmarlopes.wordpress.com/2012/09/03/brazils-musical-polyglots-part-two-the-american-side/); and, second, to Elis Regina on Tom and Vinicius’ sorrowful “Modinha.” Her voice, curt and trembling with barely restrained emotion, sets the norm for expressivity in this thoroughly committed, let-it-all-hang-out interpretation. 

The common denominator on both albums, of course, is Jobim. You would be shocked to learn that Jobim was hardly, if at all, impressed with Elis upon their initial encounter back in Rio in 1964. “Who’s this hick from the sticks?” he wondered upon catching sight of her at a recording studio. “She still reeks of burned charcoal,” hinting at her “down home” country roots and lack of refinement.

Hah-hah-hah-hah-hah, who’s laughing now, Tom?

The composer was forced to eat his words (mercifully, Elis never caught on) when the two of them appeared together to record, at that later session, what became the standard of all standards, the classic “Águas de março” (“The Waters of March”). After years of subpar translations, Jobim decided to convert the Portuguese lyrics himself into plausible English: “A stick, a stone, it’s the end of the road / It’s the rest of a stump, it’s a little alone.” Sung, here, in the original Portuguese, Tom and Elis play off one another beautifully in a joyfully brash battle of words, an “I say this, you say that” game of give and take — each egging the other on for as long as they possibly can. One could almost see them in your mind’s eye, smiling and giggling at the end result.       

You can also take the Sinatra connection a step further in that, during the latter part of the sixties and seventies, Elis Regina sported a stylish Mia Farrow-like haircut (courtesy of Rosemary’s Baby). Farrow, you may recall, was at one time briefly married to Sinatra. If one were to exercise some amateur analysis, I’d say the Brazilian singer conveyed a strong stylistic and unconventionally intimate connection to Ole Blue Eyes that went beyond international boundaries.

Tom Jobim meets Elis Regina. Object: Sublime music

Another, more moving performance in a similar vein, considered by many to be one of her finest, is Elis’ superb interpretation (on several YouTube videos) of the 1973 Chico Buarque-Francis Hime number, “Atrás da porta” (“Behind the Door”). The poetic lyrics by Chico, heavily laden with dramatic irony, sadness and pathos, and Hime’s simple, minimalistic theme express all the hurt, hate, love, and longing of a submissive woman left to beg and claw her way back from humiliation by a man who treats her no better than his pet dog.

Incredibly, a devastated Elis, sobbing real tears, allows us a glimpse into the immense tragedy that has engulfed this scorned lover. Is it over the top? Possibly. But If you want to call it “operatic,” then who am I to argue. In my observation, there’s a close affinity (and unstated pertinence) to Judy Garland and her sad ending, as envisioned in Peter Quilter’s hit Broadway play, End of the Rainbow. As with most artists of this caliber (Sinatra being at the very top), Elis Regina’s ability to turn a heartbreaking experience into a transcendent personal statement eclipses all other contemporary efforts.

Besides the obvious sincerity she brought to everything she did, our only concern is this: Were her reactions based on real-life circumstances or were they carefully rehearsed performance art? A little bit of both, one would think. Certainly, no singer of her generation has had as much awareness of and insight into the human condition as expressed in Brazilian popular song; and no subsequent artist has had as better a claim to the title of Brazil’s greatest interpreter of her music as Elis had. Her personal magnetism drew more people into her art than nearly any other performer, male or female.

Now, after all these years, I can finally respond to the question that was posed at the beginning of this essay: “Do I like Elis Regina? Yes, I do. I like her very much.” And there you have it: that guy Jairzinho, O Rei Roberto, the clown Chacrinha, and the pop star Elis Regina. Three singers, one host, all Brazilian. This began as a story of my youth. It ends with a plea for absolution. “Let it all go to hell?” I don’t think so. Better to preserve whatever memories we can still hold on to, the raison d’être for any discussion around Brazil’s Fat Lady. They may be all she has left.

Copyright © 2020 by Josmar F. Lopes

‘Let It All Go to Hell’: Brazilian Stars That Brought Sunshine to My Cloudy Days (Part Two)

The clownish TV host, Chacrinha (Abelardo Barbosa)

Days of ‘Whine’ and Roses

The interval between our first visit to Brazil and the one our family made in July 1971 was, indeed, an historically turbulent one. Censorship, in the form of suppression of the news and print media, had expanded to alarming proportions; the free-flow of ideas and the exchange of divergent opinions — and with them, the freedom to express those ideas and opinions — were vastly curtailed.

The critical year of 1968, for example, was one marked by violent demonstrations and brutal crackdowns throughout Continental Europe and the United States. Brazil was no different. But how much could a seventeen-year-old youth from the South Bronx have known of these events? Having lived and grown up in a New York City Public Housing Project, could he have been cognizant of the harsh realities facing the country of his birth? Was he attuned to the problems encountered by native-born artists, singers, songwriters, journalists, politicians, and the like, or did he remain blissfully unaware; just going about his business with nary a care in the world for what others thought or what they were going through?

“Let it all go to hell!” he would say.

No, that couldn’t have been the attitude. That’s not how Brazilians, especially the ones I got to know and love and respect, reacted to the troubles afflicting their beleaguered homeland. A large portion of the population, including most of my family members, were working-class stiffs who took what was occurring with their country in measured strides, not in resignation. If they also took their solace in song and other forms of entertainment, where expressions of hurt, loss, and frustration could be collectively shared via these means, who could blame them.

Chacrinha with songbird Robert Carlos

The Popular Song Festivals continued to be nationally televised, of course, but their glory days were over and coming to a swift and ignoble end. Tropicália had already been banned if not prohibited outright from public performance. It happened that the music and stagecraft that helped shape the tropicalismo movement were labeled as subversive and beyond the mainstream for the ruling classes to stomach. It would be many years before I, too, discovered how forward-thinking and “out there” this specific music genre had been.

And what of the others, the so-called “Jairzinhos” of their time? They had also come and gone: Having rightfully served their purpose, they were now being escorted off the platform. No longer did the former main attraction, Brazil’s Jair Rodrigues, who continued to hold sway as a human prancing pony, mow his audiences down with silly grins and pointless gestures. True to his tranquil nature, “that guy Jairzinho” continued on his merry way while remaining oblivious to the situation at hand.

An Uncommon Man

Most, if not all, of the television programs in São Paulo that I witnessed back in 1971 were preceded by the distinctive Censura Livre (“Cleared by the Censors”) logo before they began. And that included the ever-popular, late Saturday-afternoon show A Buzina do Chacrinha (“Chacrinha’s Horn”) on TV Globo. The clownish emcee Chacrinha, portrayed by comedian and Pernambuco-born actor José Abelardo Barbosa de Medeiros (1917-1988), was an eccentric and jovial radio and TV host from popular culture who personified (in attitude, if not in looks) not only the carefree and quick-witted prankster and folkloric disrupter of legend Macunaíma, but more appropriately the Common Brazilian Man.

Chacrinha wearing an outrageous “horn hat”

Resembling a potbellied, bespectacled, and top-hatted Harpo Marx, especially with that noisy contraption he carried by his side, the mildly pompous Chacrinha was the hardworking maidservant’s dream, a domestic’s ticket to possible fame and good fortune; and the one person in all of Brazil who could command the respect of the masses in a program tailored to their tastes.

Amateur contestants, rookie aspirants, and veteran competitors alike were corralled into shockingly simplistic (and occasionally embarrassing) skits, games, talent contests, and anarchic diversions (for example, the host’s tossing of live codfish into audience members’ laps), backed by an ever-present chorus line of leggy showgirls. All were at the mercy of Chacrinha’s earsplitting hooter and his fawning fan base, which consisted of everyday citizens: young and old, male and female.

Chacrinha, who never took himself too seriously, had about him an air of nonconformity. “I’m here to confuse you, not to explain things” was one of countless aphorisms designed to both distract and bemuse the wary visitor into submission. Faced with an avalanche of contradictory statements, it became increasingly difficult for anyone to pin Chacrinha down about anything. You might compare him to a resurrected anarchist, a person of his time but born at the brink of Modernism. The best one could say about this peculiar fellow was that he looked and acted outside the box.

Although I hadn’t known about it at the time, Chacrinha had been responsible for furnishing Caetano Veloso with the unambiguous title to one of the singer-songwriter’s most requested numbers, the song “Alegria, alegria!” According to Caetano’s account in Tropical Truth: A Story of Music and Revolution in Brazil, Chacrinha had appropriated the lyrics from a similarly-titled song by samba artist Wilson Simonal. And it didn’t take long for Caetano to do likewise, thus a classic was born out of the chaos.

Chacrinha (top) with the young Caetano Veloso, circa 1971

Another expression he employed with abandon, and that I recollect with mild amusement, was the recurrent phrase, “É hora! É hora!” (“It’s time! It’s time!”). Time? Time for what, I wondered. With finger raised and placed in the space between his nose and upper lip, the host would shout to the crowd: “É hora da Buzina! É hora da Buzina do Chacrinha!” I took this to mean, “It’s time for Chacrinha’s horn to blow!” And with the antics of funnyman Jack Benny’s The Horn Blows at Midnight reverberating in my head, the blast from the pernambucano‘s honker signaled the end of a contestant’s “dream” before it had begun.

From the above descriptions, one might have inferred that Chacrinha was a most congenial and approachable individual. Quite the opposite, his guile-driven nature was coarse and aggressive and anything but warm and fuzzy; and he certainly wasn’t ingratiating. You might also have picked up familiar elements from American TV-game shows such as Let’s Make a Deal, Truth or Consequences, and The Price is Right. And you’d be right on the money! Commercialism and mass marketing had begun to pervade the average Brazilian household as much as it had the American variety.

Seu Abelardo, as he was familiarly termed, knew his public well. For unlike many others, Chacrinha had kept in touch with reality by dexterously placing his pudgy hand on the nation’s pulse. In relation to Brazil’s economy and politics, the garrulous presenter sensed how the situation in the country had deteriorated over time and which had negatively affected his lower-class adherents. His outlandish mode of dress and outspoken demeanor were but covers for what lay beneath: an instinct for survival, shrewdly applied and projected, and utilized not to make fun of his guests but to throw the censors off his trail.

As a form of social criticism and a message to those who took undue advantage of their constituents, that wise-old clown Chacrinha and his popular television program represented a method of masking the people’s contempt for their government in ways they would better understand and appreciate.

What a way to spend a Saturday afternoon!

(End of Part Part)

To be continued….

Copyright © 2020 by Josmar F. Lopes

‘Let It All Go to Hell’: Brazilians Who Brought Sunshine to My Cloudy Days (Part One)

The ‘Jovem Guarda’ crowd: Erasmo Carlos (l.), Wanderlea, Roberto Carlos

Remembrances of Memories Past

This is a story of my youth. More precisely, a story about what I remember of my youth from the limited times I visited Brazil — and how a song (no, several songs) transformed my opinions about the family and country I left behind.

My earliest recollections are, by curiosity and contradiction, both clear and vague: of seeing myself as a toddler, running wildly about our home in São Paulo; of bumping my eyebrow onto the sharp edge of a dining-room table and going to the doctor immediately afterwards to get my supercilium stitched up; of badly scraping my knee and wrist outside a street in the South Bronx, along with comparable mishaps. Depending on who was recounting the story, the accidents were either my fault entirely or the fault of someone else. Blame for their occurrences, I soon surmised, was swiftly assigned but not always fairly distributed.

Some of these memories get tangled up with the rare times my family returned to São Paulo and its surroundings. Over the years, it has become practically impossible for me to differentiate between one event I experienced at age five and similar incidents that took place a few years later. Anyone forced to recall their youthful wanderings, either in the writing of one’s memoirs or through therapy and analysis, will have faced a comparable predicament: invariably, specific episodes and personalities are remembered with clarity and intent; while others (dates, times, and places), not so much, and vice versa.

With the above caveats in mind, my first exposure to Brazilian popular culture occurred on or about the year 1965, a pivotal point for music in Brazil and for my growing awareness of a Brazilian identity growing inside this ten-year-old brain. It was the same year that bossa nova became a worldwide sensation. But in the country itself, a onda (that is, “the wave”) had receded. You could say it was paying a fond adieu to all that had come before. Yet, I remained oblivious.

By the time that our family had set foot again in “Sampa” (in the winter of 1965), the heat that bossa nova had produced around the pop-music world had substantially abated. New styles began to emerge by dint of the latest advances. The prevalence of television, for example, and, along with it, the phenomenon of mass viewership took hold of Brazilian audiences like nothing else before. Not inconsequentially, the military had staged a government takeover the year prior, in April 1964, which forever altered Brazil’s musical landscape — for better or for worse.

Tanks invade the streets of Rio de Janeiro during the military takeover of April 1964 (Photo: Agencia O Globo)

Strangely enough, bossa nova had completely bypassed my Brazilian-born parents, who, by their having moved to the South Central Bronx, remained remarkably uninformed as to the artistry and output that had circumnavigated the globe. In the interval between the year they left their homeland (1959) and the time that we, as a family of four, made our first return trip to the big city (1965), bossa nova had been replaced by popular song contests, possibly as a distraction from the bitter reality of military rule.

To get right down to it, bossa nova espoused a greater degree of sophistication, subtlety, and nuance than what had come before (choro, samba, and samba-canção). The artists who composed the music and wrote the lyrics, and then performed those same numbers, which abounded in poetic imagery and reflective ruminations, came out of an entirely separate reality, distinct and apart from that of the majority of Brazilians. The sparseness of the orchestration (for guitar, voice, drums, and percussion) belied the complexity of its arrangements. Too, the imaginative use of language and jazz-influenced instrumentation raised the intellectual level of both performers and listeners to undreamed-of heights.

Despite some awareness on my part, my limited knowledge of Portuguese prevented me from fully absorbing and appreciating the genre. Naturally, I was much too young, therefore deficient in the cognitive skills necessary to wrap my arms around bossa nova’s form. Despite this disparity and my lack of cultural refinement, a treasure trove of memorabilia laid before me: everything from MPB, bubble-gum music, iê-iê-iê, and Brazilian rock-‘n’-roll to classically derived constructs. These were much easier to absorb, due to their utter simplicity and absence of erudition. But bossa nova? Not a chance, at least not yet. Creatively speaking, the country had taken two steps forward, one step back.

Still, one couldn’t fault my parents for not having “kept up” with the latest trends. They had more pressing matters to concern themselves with — namely, making a life for us in New York City, and raising and caring for two small boys in a strange, bewildering land with its own distinct and immensely diversified culture.

As I mentioned, we immigrated to the U.S. in September 1959. Although my mother and her boys remained at home in the Bronx, my father had gone back to Brazil every other year up through 1965, and then some. Those excursions had something to do with his attending the annual Carnival pageant (in Portuguese, pular Carnaval). At the time, I had no comprehension of what that actually meant or entailed. Yet despite his weeks-long absences, dad always managed to bring back plenty of trinkets, souvenirs, and assorted keepsakes, provided, for the most part, by his and my mother’s respective families.

Family. A word, a term, a concept this soon-to-be-eleven year old was but vaguely familiar with. The only “family” I knew, to be exact, was my younger brother Anibal, my father Annibal Sr., my mother Lourdes, her younger sister Aunt Deolinda, her husband Uncle Daniel, and my two older cousins Dario and Daniel Jr. A year or more before we made our trip, another of my mom’s charming sisters, Aunt Iracema, had spent a year in the Bronx living with us. In fact, she had immigrated to the U.S. in 1963, but returned to São Paulo in order to care for her ailing father Francisco, or “Grampa Chico” as we called him. He had been struck at age sixty-five with throat cancer.

Gather ‘Round the Television Set, Boys

“Quero Que Va Tudo Pro Inferno” – Original Single by Roberto & Erasmo Carlos (Discos CBS)

Much of the bounty dad had brought back from his trips was comprised of phonograph records, usually of the compacto duplo type. These dandy little items, known in the U.S. as EP’s (or “Extended Plays”), had the capacity for two songs per side, for a total of four numbers in all. A healthy smattering of long-playing records, Brazilian magazines (Manchete, Veja, Marie Claire, etc.), O Guia da Televisão (“TV Guide”), tasty and highly edible sweets, and a half-dozen or so children’s books comprised what remained of the lucre.

To me, the unfamiliar names of these Brazilian artists and entertainers, to be found among this random assortment of knick-knacks, were foreign-sounding and nearly unpronounceable. These were difficult enough for adults, but you can imagine how challenging they were for us kids. To compensate, I used what nascent abilities I possessed of the Portuguese language to try my hand at reading the Brazilian versions of Walt Disney comics: Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck, Goofy, Pluto, and Scrooge McDuck, anything I could get my little hands on.

To pass the time, I took it upon myself to draw these and other cartoon characters (Yogi Bear, Huckleberry Hound, Quick Draw McGraw, The Flintstones) on makeshift writing pads; when those were unavailable, my mother would tear open brown-paper shopping bags for me to scribble on. I even tried jotting down my impressions of these characters in feeble-sounding Portuguese. Little did I know that my childish efforts at words and images would come in handy decades after the fact. On the days when I didn’t feel like drawing, I would listen attentively to the music.

One good thing did come out from all of these activities: the more songs I heard, the more I liked and learned from them. It never occurred to me that Brazil harbored such a wealth of music programs to accompany what I encountered in our makeshift record collection. Since I had grown up outside the country, I wasn’t privy to what the native population had been exposed to on an ongoing basis. To have noticed these melodies at the time this form of music was becoming more widely accepted and circulated proved a timely fluke.

One program that I heard mentioned was the weekly Festival de Música Popular. My boyish earbuds were primed for absorbing these fantastic new sounds. Consequently, earing the likes of Jair Rodrigues, Caetano Veloso, Chico Buarque, Roberto Carlos, Erasmo Carlos, Wanderléa, Agnaldo Rayol, Dalva de Oliveira, Nana Caymmi, Gilberto Gil, Agnaldo Timóteo, Elis Regina, and so many others shaped my appreciation for Brazilian music and song. The weird thing about all this was that I had never seen this music program while staying in Brazil, nor had I laid my eyes on these artists in any capacity, that is to say, until much later in life. I only learned about them from hearing my relatives discuss the merits of this or that singer who appeared on this or that showcase.

Speaking of which, the show Jovem Guarda on the newly christened TV Record had one of the highest national ratings (known as IBOPE) of any of these programs. Another was O Fino da Bossa (“The Best of Bossa”) and on the same network. Not knowing anything about ratings or programming, I became frustrated with my relatives’ efforts to initiate me into the electronic medium.

For instance, I heard so much talk about a fellow named Jair Rodrigues and his smash hit, the nonsense number “Deixe isso pra lá” (Alberto Paz/Edson Menezes), that in my infantile carnium I honestly believed that I had seen Jairzinho on Brazilian television.

‘O Fino da Bossa,” with Elis Regina & Jair Rodrigues

What typically transpired was that every time I found myself in someone else’s house or apartment, I would question the occupants about “that guy Jairzinho.” Their response would be, “Oh, you should’ve been here last night when he was on TV,” or “Come by our house next weekend, you are sure to see him then.” Seeing my disappointment, they would compensate by describing, in minute detail, Jairizinho’s over-and-under handsaw movements, which became his signature gesture; topped off with that broad, toothy grin, a smile that all-but enveloped the beaming audience but that, to me, seemed to emulate a dark-skinned version of Lewis Carroll’s Cheshire Cat. What Chubby Checker and the Twist did for people’s hips, Jair Rodrigues did for Brazilians with his bare hand. Despite their kind offers to come over (usually, on the weekends), our time with the relatives was limited. Alas, I never got to see Jairzinho perform, no matter how many people I talked to or visited.

That same, frustrating response followed another popular singer of the period, the song idol Roberto Carlos Braga. Although he hadn’t yet become brega, a variant on his official surname (and what, in Portuguese, meant “tacky”), Roberto Carlos was the nearest thing to a world-renowned celebrity that Brazil had at its disposal, outside of soccer star Pelé. Still, there was one song of Roberto’s that, for me, stuck out from the rest of the mawkish round of ballads and teenybopper tedium. And that was the song, “Quero que vá tudo pro inferno” (“Let It All Go to Hell”).

I first heard this number in New York, possibly a year or more after we returned from our trip. Oddly (well, maybe not so oddly), I became fixated on the title — especially the “hell” part, which, if you were fortunate enough to have grown up in polite society, or in a somewhat religious environment, was strictly verboten. (You would REALLY burn in hell if you dared to speak the “F ”bomb in public!) Mesmerized by that word inferno — especially the way Roberto lingered over the “r” (“in-ferrrrr-huh-no”) in his capixaba accent — I listened carefully to the lyrics over and over again, not understanding the words or sentiments being expressed, yet all the while wondering to myself how the hell Roberto got away with saying this forbidden term:

De que vale o céu azul e o sol sempre a brilhar
Se você não vem e eu estou a lhe esperar
Só tenho você, no meu pensamento
E a sua ausência, é todo meu tormento
Quero que você, me aqueça neste inverno
E que tudo mais vá pro inferno

De que vale a minha boa vida de playboy
Se entro no meu carro e a solidão me dói
Onde quer que eu ande, tudo é tão triste
Não me interessa, o que de mais existe
Quero que você, me aqueça neste inverno
E que tudo mais vá pro inferno

Não suporto mais, você longe de mim
Quero até morrer, do que viver assim
Só quero que você me aqueça neste inverno
E que tudo mais vá pro inferno

(Copyright © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC)

Roberto Carlos “Compacto Duplo” from CBS Records

What is the blue sky worth or the ever-shining sun

If I’m left pining for you to be here by my side?

All I have is you, you are always in my thoughts

But your absence is a constant torment

All I want is you, to warm me through this winter

And that it all goes to hell

What good is this playboy life of mine

If I get in my car and this loneliness persists

Wherever I go, this sadness always follows

I don’t care about anything, and what’s more

I want you to warm me this winter

And let everything else go to hell

I can’t take it anymore, you away from me

All I want is to die, than to go on like this

I want you to warm me this winter

And let everything else go to hell

(English translation by the author)

Now, I ask you, what did I expect? Something insightful along the lines of a Shakespearean sonnet? Witty poeticisms analogous to Baudelaire? This was nothing more than easy-listening music, a love poem pure and simple. Years later, I read that Roberto had written these verses to Magda Fonseca, his girlfriend at the time, who had gone abroad to study English in the U.S. His songwriting partner, Erasmo Carlos (né Erasmo Esteves), helped him to hammer out the lyrics. The orchestration was of its time: a bombastic Hammond organ solo, spiked with a “Roy Orbison meets the Beach Boys” aesthetic, surrounded by a surf-rock beat. The end result: Twenty-four-year-old Roberto’s honest expression of longing (caused by Magda’s absence) and his frustration with conditions in military-run Brazil spilled over into youthful rebelliousness.

Hell, I was all of eleven years old. What did I know of youthful rebelliousness? I knew nothing of the military’s overthrow of the Brazilian government, or that the CIA had orchestrated the bold power grab, or that barely three years later (in 1968) the suppression of dissidents would only add to the country’s ills by making things worse for the populace, leading to the expulsion of songwriters and others associated with the genre of Tropicália and such. Roberto Carlos’ “pure and simple” love poem, a monster triumph upon its release, signaled both the beginning of public outcry and the end of rebellion.

What I, myself, took away from our visit was not rebellion but a sense of togetherness. For the first time in my young life, I experienced a closeness to my Brazilian family members I never knew existed: from aunts and uncles I had not grown up with, from grandparents and cousins I had hardly known, and from newfound friends and acquaintances I had never met. I came away with the impression they all enjoyed each other’s company; that they exuded a spirit of fun just by being together and, you’ll pardon the expression, “in the moment.” Their openness to me and to my brother was warmly received and, to be honest, completely unanticipated.

Having spent several extremely cold winters and blisteringly hot summers in the Big Apple, and having my first and last names constantly misspelled and mispronounced by people unfamiliar with our language, the balmy sun-filled skies of São Paulo seemed to reflect back at me in the sunniness of the dispositions I encountered during our month-long stay. I felt accepted, understood, loved, and listened to, for once, by those inside and outside the family circle — feelings that were roughly alien to me for the first six years of our residence in the Bronx.

It would take another six years before I was able to recapture those feelings.

(End of Part One)

To be continued….

Copyright © 2020 by Josmar F. Lopes

Epilogue: What’s in Store for Brazil’s Fat Lady? (Part One)

Bidu Sayao (c.), with conductor Jean Morel to her left, and composer Heitor Villa-Lobos at far right, 1946

“I Got the Music in Me”

When I began the writing of my book Brazil’s Fat Lady Can’t Sing, But She Can Still Do the Bossa Nova, my enthusiasm for opera and, if I may be all inclusive, for soccer, cinema, bossa nova, pop music, musical theater, and most matters related to Brazil was at its unassailable peak. With the passage of time (by my count, almost a decade and a half), the glow of that enthusiasm has dimmed in proportion to events as they continue to spiral out of control — both in Brazil and elsewhere.

If that is the case, well, then, so be it. To the extent these subjects have revealed themselves to be somewhat flawed, I remain convinced of their efficacy. I am not so naïve as to believe the institutions that have existed in Brazil, or that have endured throughout the world, have continued to function at top speed and full tilt. That these institutions have been influential in bolstering the production of opera and film, in maintaining the support of men’s and women’s soccer, in driving the investment in and promotion of new musical-theater material, and in contributing to the vitality of the popular song format cannot be denied.

On the other hand, there is no question that music, not soccer, is Brazil’s lifeblood. Yes, you read that right. Author, musicologist, and accomplished vocalist Vasco Mariz, in the Introduction to his book História da Música no Brasil (“The History of Music in Brazil”), made note of the fact that “the Brazilian people have always been musically inclined.” I have yet to encounter anyone who disputes that claim. Considered a participatory event, music is an expression of the public’s taste (or mood) at any given moment. It can manifest itself in any number of ways, most commonly in communal gatherings, rock concerts, soccer stadiums, church functions, birthday parties, after-school programs, wedding celebrations, and fêtes in the park; in street demonstrations and political rallies, in local and national news coverage, indeed wherever music may be found and heard.

Vasco Mariz, ‘Historia da Musica no Brasil” (“The History of Music in Brazil”)

Along similar lines, the genealogy of Brazil’s musical styles can serve as a blueprint for the country’s vaunted diversity: In the beginning, there was choro, and choro begat samba, which begat samba-canção; the combination of samba and samba-canção with cool-jazz begat bossa nova; and bossa nova begat Música Popular Brasileira (MPB). With Música Popular Brasileira and the influx of British Merseybeat, as well as American rock-n-roll, one can chart the next stage of development in the shorter-lived Tropicália movement — itself a compendium of the musical, artistic, literary, and audiovisual ideas re-imagined as a form of protest.

While bossa nova hit the world’s shores with the force of a typhoon, by comparison Tropicália was a mild ripple — except in its place of origin. But which genre has proven to be more resilient, both musically and artistically, or more challenging and inventive? For the Young Guard and the older generation of that era, Tropicália was everything and it was nothing; it came from everywhere and nowhere at once; it created and destroyed, constructed and deconstructed the country’s musical foundations. Transformative is another term used in connection to the genre’s impact.

In the same instant that Tropicália was commenting on the present, it paid homage to the past while hurtling toward an uncertain future. A typical aesthetic of Tropicália was its drawing from a rich variety of sources. Another was its use of “opposites” to disguise one’s true feelings from authorities who were forever policing what performers could or could not say or do in public.

To illustrate this point, when the tropicalistas sang “Alô, alô,” what they meant was “Goodbye, goodbye,” one of several methods employed for avoiding confrontation with the censors. Unfortunately, it didn’t always work to their advantage. For their efforts, they, along with like-minded individuals, were treated with either suppression, imprisonment, torture or exile — and often all four, even to their death.

Tropicalistas (Top row – from left to right: Jorge Ben, Caetano Veloso, Gilberto Gil, Rita Lee, Gal Costa; bottom row – Os Mutantes Arnaldo Baptista and Sergio Dias Baptista)

All told, the most significant and intellectually stimulating of Brazil’s musical-poetic creations registered as a giant blip on the country’s radar, so radically disturbing it proved to the status quo.

Others have tried to define this typically Brazilian methodology of taking from multiple references to suit their artistic purposes. For instance, British rocker and former Police front-man, Sting, once proposed that “pop music should be a great mongrel,” wherein the ability to glean “from any source” and from any country’s musical traditions would result in a cornucopia of stylistic forms and elements — all of them perfectly suitable for public consumption.

This same thought process originated in Brazil decades before with Modernist poet, polemicist, playwright, and novelist José Oswald de Andrade’s 1928 “Cannibalist Manifesto,” where the term antropofagia, or anthropophagy (known by the more familiar expression “cannibalism”) was initially coined. Oswald de Andrade was speaking figuratively, of course, about the phenomenon of ingesting foreign cultures through their music, art, literature, poetry, philosophy, and so forth. What came out in the end evolved into something fresh and exhilarating, as well as distinctly and, to his eyes, unapologetically Brazilian.

Jose Oswald de Andrade (1890-1954), author of the “Cannibalist Manifesto”

There are multiple examples of cultural cannibalism throughout Brazil’s history, about which I have touched upon in my work. There is the case of Carlos Gomes, a Brazilian opera composer who (first) went about in search of a theme, and (second) in search of an individual style to fit that theme. Another artist who flourished in the wake of Oswald de Andrade’s cannibalist theory was Carmen Miranda. What Carmen was forced to accept — or, rather, what Hollywood imposed upon her to admit — was what today is called “cultural appropriation,” defined as “the inappropriate use by a dominant culture of borrowing,” as it were, “from a subordinate culture.”

Significantly, for the first decade of her career — that is, prior to her coming to North America — Carmen achieved recognition in her field for performing sambas, marchas, marchinhas, samba-choro, samba-batuque, and similar styles. As in Sting’s example above, Carmen drew from a variety of sources to expand the range and content of her repertoire. She did not write her own songs, but rather had songwriters compose them for her. In Brazil, these songwriters offered their services willingly, knowing that Carmen would interpret their work to the best of her ability and talent.

Carmen Miranda in ‘The Gang’s All Here’ (1943)

By comparison, Carmen’s compatriot, soprano Bidu Sayão, took the opposite position in that she exuded a typically Westernized approach to such operatic staples as Manon, Susanna, Zerlina, Violetta, Mimì, Mélisande, Micaëla, and others, as befit the requirements of the time. As always, Bidu’s innate Brazilianness shone through in the way she carried herself on and off the stage, and the manner in which she led her later life away from it.

Separately from Carmen but contemporaneous with her and Bidu’s chief period of activity, composer Heitor Villa-Lobos thrived for a time as Brazil’s most voracious musical artist and nationalist educator, a “cannibal” in all but name only. His insatiable appetite for folk, street-wise, native Brazilian and non-native sources, in addition to the variety of styles he applied those sources to, was unequaled among his peers.

After Carmen, Villa, and Bidu, cultural cannibalism continued unabated and, we make note, unabashedly Brazilian, which supports Oswald de Andrade’s theory in action as well as in fact. It was carried over into the classic song output of Antonio Carlos Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes, which came about through the power of classical and jazz compositions, Greek mythology, Brazilian folklore, and various other sources, expanded upon at length in the preceding pages of my book.

And let’s not discount the contributions of Brazil’s musical and/or dramatic theater to the country’s artistic diversity. It has impressed me, to no end, how rich and fertile this overlooked facet of Brazilian culture has been; one that has witnessed a substantial growth pattern over the past five or more decades, thanks to the creativity and vision of Villa-Lobos, Chico Buarque, Paulo Pontes, Augusto Bial, Carlos Lyra, Gerald Thomas, Charles Möeller, Claudio Botelho, and that ageless national treasure Bibi Ferreira.*

  • Just as this portion of the text was completed, the disheartening news was received that Bibi had passed away at age 96 on February 13, 2019, after suffering cardiac arrest. Much of her obituary in the Brazilian media was taken up with her 77 years as a performer, singer, actress, writer, director, and producer. One article described her having sat on Carmen Miranda’s knee, which must have taken place sometime in the 1930s. She also studied theater in London (thankfully, not during one of those infamous blitzkrieg bombings) during the early 1940s.

(End of Part One)

To be continued …..

Copyright © 2019 by Josmar F. Lopes

Flames Over Rio 2016 (Part Five): The Olympic Light Burns Twice as Bright

Oscar Schmidt waves to the crowd at the Opening Ceremony of Rio 2016

Oh, but wait! Who’s that big guy carrying the Olympic flag? That’s Sestão! Sestão? Who the hell is Sestão? Why, it’s Oscar! Oscar Schmidt. No doubt he’s filled out some, but the form was still the same, and so was that unmistakable grin. Schmidt’s imposing six-foot-nine-inch frame towered over everyone else. Yes, Oscar Schmidt, Brazil’s all-time leading scorer in Olympic and professional basketball, if not in ALL of basketball, on hand for the opening ceremony.

After undergoing surgery for brain cancer in both 2011 and 2013, Oscar looked healthy and fit as he stood proud and tall in his all-white suit. Waving to the thousands of cheering fans in attendance, he held the Olympic banner aloft, alongside seven other Brazilian athletes and former Olympic medal winners, to include women’s soccer champion Marta.

Many moments later, the Olympic torch-lighting ceremony resumed with the presence of retired tennis player Gustavo “Guga” Kuerten. At about the middle of the runway, Guga paused and kissed the next torchbearer’s hand. Upon receiving the flame, the torchbearer raised it high overhead. Guga held on to the torchbearer’s hips and bowed, gallantly, to former basketball sensation Hortência Marcari. Strolling sideways down the runway, the still elegant Hortência reached the long-awaited individual who would take hold of the flame and light the Olympic cauldron.

“Guga” Kuerten & Hortencia holding the Olympic flame at Rio 2016

For the next two weeks, the cauldron would burn bright, a symbol of the unquenchable light that illuminates the inner flame of every Olympian; the light that coaxes the ancient spirits of Mount Olympus down from the clouds and back down to Mother Earth. Entrusted with this sacred duty, the bearer of the Olympic flame must be an athlete of unrivaled ability; a sportsperson of the highest order as well as unquestioned integrity and esteem.

Vanderlei Cordeiro de Lima came from the small town of Cruzeiro do Oeste (Western Cross) in the southern State of Paraná. He was raised in Tapira, an even smaller town in the same state. Like many young Brazilians before and after him, Vanderlei had childhood dreams of becoming a stellar soccer player. Instead, he turned to running.

The aim of most runners is to go the distance, to extend themeselves beyond the norm. This became Vanderlei’s mantra as well, his reason for doing what he did. Through the inspiration of his coach, Ricardo D’Angelo, Vanderlei went from half-marathons to running “the whole nine yards” (actually, 42.2 kilometers, or 26.2 miles for a full marathon).

“We have a great relationship,” Vanderlei said of Coach Ricardo, “and when I started running, he was starting his coaching career. We both learned a lot together.”

He qualified for the Atlanta Games in 1996, and went on to finish the Tokyo Marathon in 1998, taking second place. In that same year, he placed fifth in the New York Marathon with a near-personal best of two hours, ten minutes, and forty-two seconds. While training for the 2000 Sydney Games, Vanderlei hurt his foot, leading to a seventy-fifth place finish with one of his slowest times ever (two hours, thirty-seven minutes, and eight seconds).

“I had to stop three times and walk,” Vanderlei reported. “Nobody knows what I had to go through to finish there. I got injured while preparing in Mexico, and I was never able to recover fully.”

He did recover fully, however, nearly matching his personal best, in 2001, in Japan, and winning in São Paulo in 2002. Previously, he had taken the gold at the 1999 Pan-American Games in Winnipeg, Manitoba, and struck gold again, in hot and humid Santo Domingo, at the 2003 Pan-American Games.

“I don’t know how I managed to finish that race. The race was the toughest of my life. I don’t remember ever having that many thoughts of abandoning a race. I believe all those who were able to finish were heroes. I remember having no strength to complete the final lap at the track, and people told me I passed out for a few minutes at the end.”

His greatest ambition — and, indeed, the ambition of all marathoners — would be to run in the 2004 Athens Games, where Vanderlei could trace the steps of the legendary messenger, Philippides (or Pheidippides in some accounts), from the ancient city of Marathon to the Greek capital of Atenas, or Athens.

“That was a singular moment in my career,” he remembered. “It took twelve years of preparation for me to reach that point. Considering what happened, I look at it positively that I won an Olympic medal.”

Vanderlei Cordeiro de Lima with the Brazilian flag at Athens 2004

He was going all the way. Not for silver, mind you, not even for bronze. Vanderlei had his heart set on winning the gold. He had trained for years for this moment. At the 35 kilometer mark, he found himself in the lead at Athens 2004, a mere half-a-minute ahead of his nearest challenger. Buoyed by an inspirational letter he received from Coach Ricardo (sent through another coach), Vanderlei appeared on the verge of victory.

The letter, in part, read as follows: “Remember the tough hill at 35km. If you are feeling well, take your risks, because if you don’t risk, you will never win.”

“I thought a lot about that letter,” Vanderlei reflected afterwards. “Especially once I started feeling well in the race … Perhaps some athletes thought I wasn’t going to lead for a long time, but that didn’t bother me at all.”

What never entered his mind was the fate of that fabled Philippides run. Charged with announcing the news of the Greek victory over the invading Persians at the Battle of Marathon (490 B.C.E.), Philippides ran the nearly 40 kilometer route (or 25 miles) to Athens. Upon reaching the city’s gates, the exhausted herald approached the ruling body and declared, “Hail to you! We’ve won!” Immediately after, the messenger collapsed and died.

To Vanderlei’s surprise — and to the surprise of spectators and journalists who lined the busy streets of modern-day Athens — he was rushed upon by a man dressed in an orange kilt, a green beret, and green socks. The man shoved Vanderlei off the course and onto the sidewalk, preventing him from going on with the race. But thanks to a burly, bearded Greek onlooker named Polyvios Kossivas, who pushed the assailant away and helped the runner to his feet, Vanderlei continued the race. Losing his rhythm as well as his focus, it took all of Vanderlei’s skill as an experienced marathoner to recover his momentum.

Vanderlei Cordeiro de Lima is accosted by an assailant at the Athens 2004 Olympic Games

“The attack was a surprise for me. I couldn’t defend myself because I was concentrating on my race. I don’t know what would have happened if the Greek man who helped me so quickly hadn’t reacted the way he did. I give him a lot of credit for his courage.”

The assailant turned out to be a fanatical Irish priest named Cornelius “Neil” Horan, a man with a history of interfering in races and competitions. He was arrested (though given a suspended sentence) and fined a large sum. A year later, Horan was defrocked by the Catholic Church in Ireland.

“It was very difficult for me to finish,” Vanderlei summarized later. “With my sense of Olympic spirit I showed my determination and won a medal” — a bronze medal for third place.

Toward the end of the race, Vanderlei glided into the Panathinaikos Stadium with arms splayed in an airplane-like spread. Smiling broadly and blowing a kiss to the cheering stands, he wound his way over the finish line, physically drained and emotionally overwhelmed.

Nevertheless, his resolve to push on despite the mishap earned him a consolation prize: the prestigious Baron Pierre de Coubertin Award, given by the International Olympic Committee for those athletes who exemplified “the true spirit of sportsmanship.”

“When I entered the stadium, I was so happy that I had already forgotten the episode. It’s bronze but it means gold.”

This brought to mind the hallowed words of the Apostle Paul of Tarsus, who traveled to such far-flung places as Rome and Jerusalem, and, in between, the length and breadth of ancient Greece: “He fought the good fight, he finished the race, he kept the faith.”

For his having finished the race, Vanderlei was called upon once more, this time as one of the torchbearers charged with bringing the Olympic torch to Maracanã. But unlike his predecessor, the Greek Philippides, Vanderlei Cordeiro de Lima survived the ordeal and was accorded the honor of lighting the Olympic cauldron.

In an odd turn of events, Pelé, who was originally scheduled to perform the deed, decided on short notice, and within hours of the occurrence, to bow out of the ceremony, citing “poor health.” Could the former soccer great have been suffering the ill effects of prostate surgery? No, not possible. The surgery had taken place a year earlier, in May 2015. Cold feet, perhaps? Not likely. Whatever his reasons were, Pelé, unlike his fellow athlete Oscar Schmidt, had failed to show up.

The next in line would be Gustavo Kuerten, but Guga would have none of it. He graciously stepped aside to allow Vanderlei to take his proper place at the top of the steps leading to the cauldron.

Olympic marathoner Vanderlei Cordeiro de Lima lights the Olympic cauldron at Rio 2016

When Cornelius “Neil” Horan, the fellow who pushed the runner off course in Athens, got wind of the news, his reaction confirmed the delusional state he’d been in for some time.

“When I actually saw him with my own eyes, I really got angry,” the former Catholic priest confessed to the New York Times. “I look[ed] at Vanderlei and I [thought], ‘You would be nowhere the star if not for me.’ ” We trust that Mr. Horan enjoyed his plate of sour grapes that evening.

Horan achieved a degree of notoriety when he danced an Irish jig for talent judge Simon Cowell on a 2009 episode of Britain’s Got Talent. In October 2004, Horan was charged by an Irish court with indecency involving a seven-year-old girl, an unsavory act that allegedly took place ten years prior. He was acquitted of all charges. However, the real-life judge in that case reminded the jury that one of Horan’s “character” witnesses, a clergyman, referred to the ex-priest as “a bit of a nutcase.”

(End of Part Five)

To be continued….

Copyright © 2018 by Josmar F. Lopes

Flames Over Rio 2016 (Part Four): The Changing of the Avant-Garde

Rio 2016 Summer Olympic Games: Opening Ceremony

We Love a Parade

Brazil came out last. Not last in the competition, mind you, but as the last nation to present its eager group of athletes.

In all, the city of Rio had put on a spectacular showcase, an opening ceremony to end all opening ceremonies. Impressive and exhilarating, nationalistic and fervent, the coordinators did it the Brazilian way: in the biggest Carnival pageant on Earth, as they had envisioned. The mood was joyous, the celebration spontaneous. Brazil, perpetually on the cusp of greatness but never actually achieving it — to repeat an old dictum, always the bridesmaid but never the bride — had reached the summit of its abilities. Would that joyous mood last?

After the parade of athletes, there followed dull, interminable speeches by the Rio 2016 Organizing Committee President Carlos Arthur Nuzman, by the International Olympic Committee’s President Thomas Bach, and by two-time Olympic marathon champion, Kenya’s Kipchoge Keino. Although he was neither acknowledged nor introduced, Brazil’s Acting President Michel Temer rose from his spot in the stands and curtly declared the Rio 2016 games to be officially open. It was an astonishing lapse in Olympic protocol. A moment to remember, one to relish for what remained of one’s active life, had whizzed by in a twinkling of an eye. For his effort, Temer was greeted with a round of boos.

Brazil’s Acting President Michel Temer announces the official opening of the games

Next, the solemn procession and physical raising of the Olympic flag took place, followed immediately by the singing of that banal Olympic Anthem and the taking of the Olympic Oath.

The ceremony closed with a tribute to Brazilian composer Ary Barroso, a prolific purveyor of Carnival dance tunes and sambas from the first half of the twentieth century. His song, “Sandália de Prata” (“Silver Sandal”) from 1942, was introduced by Caetano Veloso and Gilberto Gil. The two old-timers were joined atop another of those circular platforms by carioca singer-songwriter Anitta.

Amid the goings-on, viewers caught a glimpse of Rio’s twelve samba schools (the lost tribes of native Brazil?) decked out, in their “official” regalia, in costumes of red, yellow, gold, blue, violet, and black. Their rhythmic back-and-forth beating of pandeiros and cuícas, the tireless blowing of ear-shattering whistles, and the ceaseless smacking of snare and bass drums culminated in a shower of colorful confetti, a parade of scantily-clad dancers, and a brilliant burst of fireworks.

Parade of Rio’s Twelve Samba Schools at Rio 2016

At the conclusion of the number, Caetano and Gil ceremoniously kissed Anitta on the cheek. The two male artists then gingerly departed the stage with their arms wrapped around each other’s wastes. I imagined that audiences around the world let out collective sighs of nostalgia and relief. I know I did, but more for how Caetano and Gil have aged, especially Gil. Whether knowingly or not, we were witnesses to the changing of the avant-garde: old song warriors, near the end of their respective careers, giving it their all, that final “hurrah” for old times’ sake. They have been close companions and musical partners for well over half a century, and for most of their adult lives.

With a degree of wistfulness for a lifetime of creative and personal achievement, and with the words as valid today as when he first wrote them, Caetano called to mind, in his autobiographical Tropical Truth (first published, in Portuguese, in 1997), his initial encounter with the Bahian-born Gil between the years 1962 and 1963:

“Gil seemed as happy to meet me as I was to meet him. One could have said that he had been seeing me on some transcendental television and was expecting that meeting as much as I was …. At times, through the years, I have heard Gil say, and been deeply moved by it, that when he met me he felt as though he were leaving behind a great loneliness: when he saw me he was sure that he had found a true companion. I think that to prize in me a vision of the world that encompassed music, in which he was so gifted, […] a vision that seemed like an enlargement of his own, he created an image of me as the master and, much as the great see greatness in those they admire, he dismissed my shortcomings. Better yet: he interpreted them in such a way as to give them a finer meaning. He therefore saw qualities in my music then that no other musician of equal talent would have seen, and in this way he not only encouraged me, he also taught me everything that I could possibly learn, becoming himself truly my master.” [i]

Caetano Veloso, Anitta & Gilberto Gil at the opening ceremony of the Rio 2016 Olympics

What a pleasant surprise it was to have seen two such old friends — the master and the pupil — back together on the world stage, performing and sharing the stadium lights with younger aspirants, in recognition of their past accomplishments. The promise of youth fulfilled at last, their careers have spanned two generations. Gil and Caetano have jointly shared the good and bad times, as colleagues and performers, and as respective cellmates. Their ups and downs, both politically and artistically, have risen and fallen, and have risen again, with the times — so much like the country itself.

Obviously, they are more weather-beaten today than they were in their glorious youth. Who wouldn’t be, given what they went through? But, to paraphrase a line from that old stadium rocker, Elton John, “They’re still standin’.” A might shakily, if “tropical truth” be told, with a puffy-eyed Gil tottering a bit on the edge of the stage platform, his voice frail and thin, his gait slow and measured, yet still game and willing; and still capturing the imagination of that younger generation of performers, as he and Caetano had done in their earlier excursions.

Not bad for two septuagenarians!

(End of Part Four)

To be continued…..

Copyright (c) 2018 by Josmar F. Lopes

[I]  Veloso, Caetano. “Tropical Truth,” Companhia das Letras, Sao Paulo, 1997, p. 178

‘Brazil’s Fat Lady Can’t Sing, But She Can Still Do the Bossa Nova’ — Preface to Life

The Fat Lady Sings!

Life is not worth living if one is insufficiently challenged or inspired by it.

My soon-to-be-finished book, Brazil’s Fat Lady Can’t Sing, But She Can Still Do the Bossa Nova, and the stories within it were inspired by several themes in my life, the main one being the dramatic and forever-fluctuating fortunes of Brazil’s operatic Fat Lady, a subject not so normally written about even in the country of my birth.

Innocently enough, this all came about not as a weighty historical tome (which I pray it has not become) but as a series of challenges in the form of freelance articles first published online at an unprepossessing Internet website. Why challenging? Because, as it became apparent, a great deal of my time and effort would be spent on the task of researching, studying, and analyzing the subject beforehand. While this is a regular, everyday part of most professional writing assignments, it proved especially daunting where this topic was concerned, due in large part to its having been written almost exclusively in the United States and not in Brazil, as one might have expected.

Nevertheless, as these pieces began to expand and coalesce into a more or less sequential retelling of the history of opera in Brazil, I decided at that point to push the rough outline along by adding tidbits and side-trips to the other under-explored regions of Brazilian culture, namely those of popular music and the worlds of professional soccer, musical theater, and the once derided Brazilian cinema. But how, one might ask, could these diverse areas have anything to do with the tantalizingly horned grande dame of the operatic stage? After all, in America, at any rate, movies are movies, sporting events are sporting events, and popular- and classical-music programs are, well, popular- and classical-music programs — “and never the twain shall meet.” This has been the time-tested thought pattern for any number of years now.

Yet, as a native-born Brazilian with a healthy curiosity about his origin and roots, and an in-bred concern for these same subjects — tossed in, like so much salad, with recollections of how Carnival, pop music, soccer, and the stage and screen all seemed to blend together into one big kettle of black bean stew — never had I felt that these seemingly independent activities should be divorced from one another, not by any means. This led directly into the other all-embracing theme of my work: the interconnectedness with, and close identification of, individuals and groups with country and subject matter.

Perhaps the early influence of my father Annibal, who had a vast and nearly encyclopedic knowledge of all these areas, was of primary importance to me in my quest for some illumination through the sometimes-murky cultural waters that Brazil appeared to bask in. Perhaps, too, my own life experiences would lead me to the fundamental conclusion that, in essence, we are dealing with the same, basic ingredient: and that is, popular entertainment.

This is not to say that “popular” entertainment should be equated with “mass” entertainment, although, in theory, there are many overlapping elements common to both terms. In this instance, popular entertainment can come to denote multiple or myriad diversions that are, by their nature, both pleasant and appealing to most sensible human beings, irrespective of class, color, and origin, or their economic station in life.

Staying with this theme, I can remember a time in Brazil’s not-too-distant past when highbrow entertainment would freely associate with its lower-browed brethren, and at any number of public gathering places. Older readers in the U.S. may recall, too, that classical music was referred to at one point as “that longhair stuff,” and by no less an accepted authority than America’s own favorite cartoon character, Bugs Bunny — accepted, that is, until the advent of the swinging sixties and early seventies, when the hippie lifestyle and counterculture movements all but wiped those precious sentiments off the map of our subconscious.

On another, more personal level, nothing could ever wipe from my subconscious the memory of such life-altering events as:

Jair Rodrigues, “Deixa Isso Para La”

  • listening to an EP, or “extended play,” of the ever-smiling, ever-joyful São Paulo-born pop stylist Jair Rodrigues, performing his biggest hit, “Deixe isso para lá” (“Leave that to the side”), from 1965, with its rhythmic, over-and-under hand movements — a possible prototype for today’s ubiquitous hip-hop and rap music;

 

  • remembering the time my sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Lawrence Bresner, knowing I was Brazilian, quite innocently inquired as to how to pronounce the exotic-sounding name of Astrud Gilberto (“Why, Astrud Gilberto,” I responded warily); he went on to mention a former top-ten tune of the period, “The Girl from Ipanema,” written by someone called Jobim (“Joe Beem?”), while, in the same breath, extol the scenic virtues of the film Black Orpheus; at the time, I had no idea who these two individuals were, or even where — or what — Ipanema or Black Orpheus might be;

 

  • seeing the fabulous soccer star Edson Arantes do Nascimento, or, as he was more commonly known to the sports world, O Rei Pelé, the “King” of the soccer field — live and in person — appearing with his home team, Santos, at the nearly dilapidated Downing Stadium on New York’s Randall’s Island, back in the mid-1960s;

 

  • getting drenched to the bone, along with my father, brother, uncles, and cousins (and everyone else who was present), at my first Corinthians soccer match in July 1971; the team, an old family favorite, won the game by some ridiculously lopsided score not even the record books could keep track of;

 

  • hearing future Bahian singing star Simone (née Simone Bittencourt de Oliveira) become an overnight sensation — and before our very eyes — at Madison Square Garden’s Felt Forum in the summer of 1974, years before her recording of Chico Buarque’s song, “O que será” (from the film Dona Flor and Her Two Husbands), reached the top of the worldwide charts; this was also my initial exposure to the Brazilian martial art and dance form known as capoeira;

 

  • experiencing my first — and most likely last — Carnival dance party in February 1979, inside the huge Corinthians sports complex, situated in the upscale neighborhood of Tatuapé in São Paulo; and, as a result, becoming the unlucky recipient of the worst damned headache I have ever had the misfortune to obtain after four non-stop hours of constant drum-pounding and samba-line strutting;

 

  • finding a complete recording of Carlos Gomes’ most famous opera, Il Guarany, at some out-of-the-way spot in the old downtown district of the São Paulo back in 1985; a monophonic long-play in near-sterling condition, it featured a cast of Brazilian no-name singers, piping away in fairly decent Italian; the most striking thing about this album was its total lack of a libretto or program notes, which my father never stopped pestering me about;

Grande Otelo

  • catching the amazingly talented pequeno gigante (“little giant”), actor, singer, comedian, and popular entertainer Grande Otelo (born Sebastião Bernardes de Sousa Prata in the state of Minas Gerais) — so often described as a dynamic, pint-sized version of Sammy Davis Jr. (as if such a thing were possible) — at the Scala Nightclub in Rio de Janeiro, during my July 1987 honeymoon; the same Grande Otelo who once caught the discerning eye of maverick filmmaker Orson Welles in his unfinished It’s All True epic;

 

  • having lived, from 1996 to 2001, in the “concrete jungle” of São Paulo, population fifteen million (and climbing), during the latter half of the Clinton presidency, and getting to know a longtime friend of my wife’s family, Oswaldo Lucchesi; an ex-employee of Banco do Brasil, the late Mr. Lucchesi spent the start of his banking career in the wilds of Manaus, near the mouth of the Amazon River, where he witnessed the filming of the jungle adventure Fitzcarraldo, which featured Grande Otelo in a supporting role;

 

  • making the acquaintance of my next-door neighbor: former Broadway dancer, painter, sculptor, and art instructor Jon Kovach, who upon hearing that my wife and I were Brazilian-born proudly related the jaw-dropping anecdote of how he once danced the night away with the incomparable Carmen Miranda and her sister, Aurora, at the Roxy Club in Manhattan during the late 1940s; and

Susana Moraes

  • placing a late afternoon telephone call, in September 2010, to the late filmmaker Susana Moraes, the eldest daughter of legendary poet, playwright, songwriter, and performer Vinicius de Moraes, and speaking with her about her father’s play, Orfeu da Conceição, the film Black Orpheus, his favorite partner Tom Jobim, our respective parents, and the marvelous times in which they lived.

I lost count through the years of the number of individuals I’ve come into close contact with as a result of my writings. These and other noteworthy episodes aside, I sincerely feel that this maiden literary effort of mine has, to no small extent, brought these seemingly disparate elements together into one engaging and, it is my wish, perfectly lucid anthology for laypeople interested in or curious about Brazilian classical and popular culture. Examples of artistic eclecticism abound throughout, and can be found on almost every page: from native-born artists studying opera abroad, to classically-trained conductors writing their own film scores; from avant-garde directors experimenting with cutting-edge theater pieces, to American jazz-pop vocalists composing songs dedicated to Brazilian masters; from soccer players and pop stars moonlighting as movie actors, to opera singers dressing up as their favorite Carnival participants; and many more.

This is what the vibrant and colorful body of individuals that make up the multi-faceted and multi-racial society of Brazil can do to those who dearly love its culture so. And, indeed, diversity is what the country and the Brazilian people are ultimately about and what I aspired to recreate with the writing of this book.

As a consequence, I have scrupulously tried to capture the flavor of these various events, hence the longwinded subtitle A Personal & Cultural History of Opera, Pop, Soccer, Cinema & Musical Theater in the Land of Carnival & Samba. As any writer will tell you, reinvigorating the past in print, especially if one was not present to experience it, is a supreme challenge to anyone’s abilities. One must rely almost entirely on the accounts of others, or, at best, on those whose research has succeeded in bringing these past occurrences to life.

That being said, I have attempted to personalize my stories whenever and wherever possible, in the expectation that by doing so one can extract a good deal of useful information from them, which will allow the reader to identify more closely with the situations described therein, as they surely have for me. To be precise, establishing and maintaining a Brazilian identity in the face of rampant globalization and growing multi-culturalism is at the heart of everything I write.

What qualifies me for such a momentous undertaking? Besides a lifetime of living and working in the United States and Brazil as a Brazilian-born American married to a native paulistana (a resident of São Paulo) — which has been of tremendous significance to me in augmenting my sometimes myopic perception of things — I basically grew up with these topics. In addition to having taken part in, appreciated, and studied all these various aspects in depth, I have paid particular attention to those that piqued my interest the most.

As examples, I cite my participation in Fordham University’s Film Club presentations, as well as having been enrolled at that school’s Rose Hill Campus as a student of art history, theology, philosophy, and modern and medieval history; my work as a consultant and transcriber of movies, shows, television programs, and miniseries for the Home Box Office Network of Brazil; and my fifty+ years as an active eyewitness to a fabulous assortment of classical, operatic, athletic, cultural, and/or cinematic events. As such, I find myself uniquely blessed in attesting to the views and opinions put forth in this text.

What might also have spurred me on to complete this worthwhile project was the anticipation of Brazil’s hosting the 2014 World Cup Soccer Tournament, along with the 2016 Summer Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro, the first time any South American nation has been accorded that prestigious honor. A book covering this wide swath of Brazilian culture would go a long way toward providing some needed background for people whose first exposure to the country these events would undoubtedly be. It is to be hoped that my efforts were not in vain. ☼

Copyright (c) 2018 by Josmar F. Lopes