Music Scenes and Migrations
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Music Scenes and Migrations

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223 pages

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Essays by Brazilian and European scholars on musical place and transnationalism across the Atlantic triangle connecting Brazil, Africa and Europe

‘Music Scenes and Migrations’ brings together new work from Brazilian and European scholars around the themes of musical place and transnationalism across the Atlantic triangle connecting Brazil, Africa and Europe. Moving beyond now-contested models for conceptualizing international musical relations and hierarchies of powers and influence, such as global/local or centre/periphery, the volume draws attention instead to the role of the city, in particular, in producing, signifying and mediating music-making in the colonial and post-colonial Portuguese-speaking world. In considering the roles played by cities as hubs of cultural intersection, socialization, exchange and transformation; as sites of political intervention and contestation; and as homes to large concentrations of consumers, technologies and media, Rio de Janeiro necessarily figures prominently, given its historical importance as an international port at the centre of the Lusophone Atlantic world. The volume also gives attention to other urban centres, within Brazil and abroad, towards which musicians and musical traditions have migrated and converged – such as São Paulo, Lisbon and Madrid – where they have reinvented themselves; where notions of Brazilian and Lusophone identity have been reconfigured; and where independent, peripheral and underground scenes have contested the hegemony of the musical ‘mainstream’.

List of Illustrations; Acknowledgements; Introduction, David Treece; Part 1 Colonial and Postcolonial Transnationalisms, Migrations and Diasporas; Chapter 1 The Cimboa and Cape Verdean Transcultural Heritage, Luiz Moretto; Chapter 2 Lundus , Street Organs, Music Boxes and the ‘Cachucha’: Early Nineteenth- Century Transatlantic Crossings between Europe and Rio de Janeiro, Martha Tupinamb á de Ulhôa; Chapter 3 Música caipira and Rooting, Ivan Vilela; Chapter 4 Lusofonia as Intervention: Postcolonial Intercultural Traffic in Lusophone Hip Hop Events, Bart Paul Vanspauwen; Chapter 5 ‘A Piece of Brazil in Lisbon’: Brazilian Musical Practices in the Portuguese Capital, Amanda Fernandes Guerreiro; Chapter 6 ‘Calentando la Ciudad’: Intimacy and Cosmopolitanism among Brazilian Musicians in Madrid, Gabril Dan Hoskin; Part 2 Relocating Rio de Janeiro; Chapter 7 Samba, Its Places and Its City, Cláudia Neiva de Matos; Chapter 8 Between Temple Yards and Hillsides: Rio de Janeiro’s Samba, Its Spaces, Humour and Identity, Fabiana Lopes da Cunha; Chapter 9 The Construction of a Canonical Space for Samba and Choro within the Brazilian Social Imaginary, Micael Herschmann and Felipe Trotta; Chapter 10 The National Arts Foundation and the Monumentalization of Rio de Janeiro’s Popular Music as National Heritage, Tânia da Costa Garcia; Chapter 11 Samba, Anti-Racism and Communitarian Politics in 1970s Rio de Janeiro: Candeia and the Quilombo Project, David Treece; Chapter 12 Samba, Pagode and Mediation: From Backyard to Disc, Waldir de Amorim Pinto; Part 3 Demetropolitanizing the Musical City: Other Scenes, Industries, Technologies; Chapter 13 Brazilian Post- Punk in the Catalogue of the Independent Record Company Baratos Afins, Marcia Tosta Dias; Chapter 14 M ú sica Pesada Brasileira: Sepultura and the Reinvention of Brazilian Sound, Jeder Silveira Janotti Junior; Chapter 15 Digital Culture, Music Video, and the Brazilian Peripheral Pop Music Scene, Simone Pereira de Sá; Chapter 16 An Introduction to the New Social Place of Brazilian Rap: The Work of Emicida, Daniela Vieira dos Santos; Chapter 17 Another Music in a Diff erent (and Unstable) Room: A Route through Underground Music Scenes in Contemporary Portuguese Society, Paula Guerra; Notes on Contributors; Notes; References; Index.



Publié par
Date de parution 30 juin 2020
Nombre de lectures 2
EAN13 9781785273865
Langue English

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Music Scenes and Migrations
Music Scenes and Migrations
Space and Transnationalism in Brazil, Portugal and the Atlantic
Edited by David Treece
Anthem Press
An imprint of Wimbledon Publishing Company
This edition first published in UK and USA 2020
75–76 Blackfriars Road, London SE1 8HA, UK
or PO Box 9779, London SW19 7ZG, UK
244 Madison Ave #116, New York, NY 10016, USA
© 2020 David Treece editorial matter and selection; individual chapters © individual contributors
The moral right of the authors has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020936470
ISBN-13: 978-1-78527-384-1 (Hbk)
ISBN-10: 1-78527-384-1 (Hbk)
This title is also available as an e-book.
List of Illustrations
David Treece
Part 1 Colonial and Postcolonial Transnationalisms, Migrations and Diasporas
Chapter 1 The Cimboa and Cape Verdean Transcultural Heritage
Luiz Moretto
Chapter 2 Lundus , Street Organs, Music Boxes and the ‘Cachucha’: Early Nineteenth-Century Transatlantic Crossings between Europe and Rio de Janeiro
Martha Tupinambá de Ulhôa
Chapter 3 Música caipira and Rooting
Ivan Vilela
Chapter 4 Lusofonia as Intervention: Postcolonial Intercultural Traffic in Lusophone Hip Hop Events
Bart Paul Vanspauwen
Chapter 5 ‘A Piece of Brazil in Lisbon’: Brazilian Musical Practices in the Portuguese Capital
Amanda Fernandes Guerreiro
Chapter 6 ‘Calentando la Ciudad’: Intimacy and Cosmopolitanism among Brazilian Musicians in Madrid
Gabril Dan Hoskin
Part 2 Relocating Rio de Janeiro
Chapter 7 Samba, Its Places and Its City
Cláudia Neiva de Matos
Chapter 8 Between Temple Yards and Hillsides: Rio de Janeiro’s Samba, Its Spaces, Humour and Identity
Fabiana Lopes da Cunha
Chapter 9 The Construction of a Canonical Space for Samba and Choro within the Brazilian Social Imaginary
Micael Herschmann and Felipe Trotta
Chapter 10 The National Arts Foundation and the Monumentalization of Rio de Janeiro’s Popular Music as National Heritage
Tânia da Costa Garcia
Chapter 11 Samba, Anti-Racism and Communitarian Politics in 1970s Rio de Janeiro: Candeia and the Quilombo Project
David Treece
Chapter 12 Samba, Pagode and Mediation: From Backyard to Disc
Waldir de Amorim Pinto
Part 3 Demetropolitanizing the Musical City: Other Scenes, Industries, Technologies
Chapter 13 Brazilian Post-Punk in the Catalogue of the Independent Record Company Baratos Afins
Marcia Tosta Dias
Chapter 14 Música Pesada Brasileira: Sepultura and the Reinvention of Brazilian Sound
Jeder Silveira Janotti Junior
Chapter 15 Digital Culture, Music Video, and the Brazilian Peripheral Pop Music Scene
Simone Pereira de Sá
Chapter 16 An Introduction to the New Social Place of Brazilian Rap: The Work of Emicida
Daniela Vieira dos Santos
Chapter 17 Another Music in a Different (and Unstable) Room: A Route through Underground Music Scenes in Contemporary Portuguese Society
Paula Guerra
Notes on Contributors
1.1 Pascoal Fernandes playing the cimboa . (Photograph: Luiz Moretto)
2.1 Paradigmatic comparison between ‘Maria Cachucha/Maria Caxuxa’, and ‘Lá no largo da Sé’. (Provided by the author)
4.1 ‘How long? Shall they kill our prophets while we … stand aside and look? (Bob Marley)’. Graffiti by Slap Slapsktr, in reference to the hunger strike by Luso-Angolan rapper (Ikonoclasta) Luaty Beirão in 2015. (Photograph: Bart Vanspauwen)
6.1 An advert for the Mais Brasil FM carnival festivities, Madrid. (Sourced by the author)
6.2 Fabio Goiano and partner performing at El Rodeo, Madrid. (Provided by the author)
6.3 An advert for the Brazilian-themed bar El Rodeo, Madrid. (Sourced by the author)
13.1 Cover of the album Akira S e as Garotas que Erraram by Akira S e as Garotas que Erraram. (By kind permission of Baratos Afins Discos)
17.1 Mão Morta Gig at the Cinema Império, Lisbon, 10 October 1987. (By kind permission of José Faisca)
13.1 Albums and Artists: Baratos Afins Label, 1980s–Post-Punk
We gratefully acknowledge the support of King’s College London, for making awards from its International Partnerships Fund, Arts and Humanities Faculty International Collaboration Fund and Modern Languages Research Initiatives Fund, to make possible the symposium ‘City to City: Urban Crossroads in the Music of Africa, Brazil and Portugal’ (2016), which gave rise to this publication; and for the award of a publication subvention by the Faculty of Arts and Humanities.
We thank the anonymous peer reviewers for their comments on the draft of this book, and the editorial team at Anthem Press for bringing the volume to fruition.
Finally, we thank the following for their work on the translation of texts from the Portuguese:
Ana Oliveira and Lucy Robinson, respectively, for the translation and for the revision of Chapter 17 ; Chris McGowan for the translation of Chapter 2 ; Ingrid Bejerman for the translation of Chapter 14 ; Julia Felmanas for the translation of Chapters 8 , 10 , 12 , 13 and 16 ; Saulo Adriano for the translation of Chapter 3 and Simone do Vale for the translation of Chapter 15 .
David Treece
In his interdisciplinary account of black culture, religiosity and territoriality, The Temple Yard and the City ( O Terreiro e a Cidade , 2002), Afro-Brazilian scholar Muniz Sodré opens his discussion of space and modernity by recalling how, in classical antiquity, music had a special, symbolic value in defining the boundaries of the city:

Broadly speaking, […] the pre-Socratics (especially the Pythagoreans) see space as that entire ambit inside which the inhabitants of a community move about. The myth of Linus [the inventor of melody, rhythm and songs], the son of Apollo, founder of Athens, can bring some clarification to the matter. It is said in the myth that, when Linus died, the people, trees and animals wept. The Athenean space extended as far as the echoes of their laments, as far as the music was able to resound. (Sodré 2002 , 22) 1
By imagining the constitution of urban space in these terms, as the sonic, material projection of our humanity into the environment we inhabit, the myth of Linus eloquently draws attention to the unique capacity of music to give temporal and spatial form to our collective inner lives, and so to ‘gather up and reveal to us the structures of the internal and external social worlds and the relations obtaining between them’ (Shepherd and Wicke 1997 , 129). It is this articulatory, relational power, intensifying our shared sense of being and identity in time and space, which gives music its distinctive social meaning, as Micael Herschmann and Felipe Trotta remind us in the pages of this book: ‘However individualized musical experience may have become today […] it is still largely an experience of encounter , based on the setting up of social (and communicative) relationships […]. Since that sociability is achieved through music, it must be in verbal and non-verbal sonic communication that we will find the key to the sharing of worldviews, thinking and values that suffuses musical experiences’ (see Chapter 9 ).
Much has been written in recent years on the topic of music, space and place. 2 But what special challenges are posed by the phenomenon of popular music-making within the multi-continental spatial field occupied by Portuguese-speaking peoples and territories, that of the so-called Lusophone world?
Evidently, this is a space articulated by shared, violently disruptive and exploitative colonial and postcolonial histories, by the distinctive movements, migrations and crossings within, between and beyond the territories that are a product of those histories, and by the diverse cultural, social and political identities which have been constructed, in part, through the activity of music-making in various kinds of space and location, whether national, regional, urban, cosmopolitan, Atlantic or virtual. As this book will demonstrate, far from demanding a single, unifying model for theorizing this field, the best recent scholarship has drawn on, and contributed to, the variety of approaches produced in the last three or four decades to make sense of the complexity of musical place, space and movement in this context, not least in its articulation between the local and the international.
All the contributions here, while acutely conscious of the profound, far-reaching impact and legacy of the colonial experience, are equally sceptical, whether implicitly or explicitly, of earlier centre-periphery models for conceptualizing the historical consequences of the Portuguese colonial empire’s expansionist project for those peoples of the African, American and Asian continents who fell under its dominion (Buchholz 2018 ). Such models are justifiably criticized for taking for granted a hierarchical, unidirectional flow of cultural ‘influence’, ‘impression’ and ‘spread’ from metropolis to colony that leads little room for recognizing the creative agency of subject communities and individuals and their powerful role in constructing, transforming and subverting the cultures and identities at the ‘centre’.
A landmark contribution to the field of English-language studies on Brazilian popular music, Perrone and Dunn’s Brazilian Popular Music and Globalization (2001), argued that ‘the relationship of the system of national forms to European and American models is fundamental’ (Perrone and Dunn 2001 , 8). With the benefit of nearly twenty years’ hindsight, it is striking to note how, in that collection of essays, ‘internationalization in Brazilian popular music’ is posed insistently as a matter of surveying the problems and anxieties of imitation, appropriation, influx, influence and their contestations. Non-hierarchical or more decentralized alternatives beyond that paradigm get just a brief mention, as if they were as yet only glimpsed on the horizon of the globalizing imperative (Perrone and Dunn 2001 , 30–31).
One such alternative is the concept of cosmopolitanism. As Stuart Hall already remarked in 1992 when considering the contemporary postcolonial landscape,

the products of the new diasporas created by the post-colonial migrations are obliged to come to terms with the new cultures they inhabit, without simply assimilating to them and losing their identities completely. […] they are irrevocably the product of several interlocking histories and cultures, belonging at one and the same time to several ‘homes’ (and to no one particular ‘home’). (Hall 1992 , 110)
Thomas Turino invokes the concept of cosmopolitanism as a means of analysing cultural phenomena that do not share geographical proximity but are connected across space by what he calls ‘cosmopolitan loops’, that is to say, different forms of media, interchanges and shared habitus (Turino 2001 , 7). With specific reference to the field of music, meanwhile, Martin Stokes has also argued in favour of a shift away from the language of ‘globalization’, with its emphasis on assimilation and absorption, towards thinking in terms of musical cosmopolitanism, thus inviting us

to think about how people in specific places and at specific times have embraced the music of others, and how, in doing so, they have enabled music styles and musical ideas, musicians and musical instruments to circulate (globally) in particular ways. The shift of emphasis is significant, and, in my view, highly productive. Most importantly, it restores human agencies and creativities to the scene of analysis, and allows us to think of music as a process in the making of ‘worlds’, rather than a passive reaction to global systems. (Stokes 2007 , 6)
The present volume has its origins precisely in this phenomenon of musical cosmopolitanism and transnationalism as observed in connection with the migrant experience in Europe. 3 Three of the studies presented here, those by Bart Vanspauwen, Amanda Guerreiro and Gabril Hoskin ( Chapters 4 – 6 ), examine the activities of diasporic Portuguese-speaking musical communities in the cities of Lisbon and Madrid, bearing out both Stokes’s perspective and George Lipsitz’s observation regarding the connective power of music in immigrant communities to build unity between and across geographical spaces and dispersed peoples and individuals; given its status ‘as a highly visible (and audible) commodity, [music] comes to stand for the specificity of social experience in identifiable communities when it captures the attention, and even allegiance of people from many different locations’ (Lipsitz 1994 , 126).
A multi-continental postcolonial space such as that of the Portuguese-speaking world has also suggested non-binary paradigms that are more specifically geared to its historical, cultural and geographical distinctiveness. One of these – Lusofonia (‘Lusophony’) – is modelled on the Community of Portuguese-speaking Countries (CPLP) or ‘Lusophone Commonwealth’, a political association founded in 1996 to foster cultural ties and, more recently, political, diplomatic and trade cooperation between its nine member nations (Angola, Brazil, Cape Verde, Equatorial Guinea, Guinea-Bissau, Mozambique, Portugal, São Tomé e Príncipe and East Timor). As a linguistic-cultural and geopolitical concept, Lusofonia has been regarded critically as a neocolonial construction, an attempted reconfiguration of Portugal’s now dissolved material empire as a heterogeneous symbolic ‘community’. It displays uneasy resonances with earlier imperialist discourses advocating the notion of Portuguese colonial exceptionalism, such as Gilberto Freyre’s Lusotropicalism , and Lusofonia has doubtless played its part in state efforts to reinvent Portugal’s postcolonial identity in the world (Margarido 2000 ; Almeida 2004 ; Arenas 2005 ; McKnee 2012 ; Vakil 2013 ). Yet, as Bart Vanspauwen’s study of Lusophone hip hop in Lisbon over the last 20 years suggests ( Chapter 4 ), this has not prevented young musicians from engaging creatively and critically with the concept in the context of the new multiculturalism.
The diasporic-migrant experience has also, paradoxically perhaps, provided a context for the reinvigoration of another spatial (as well as political and cultural) category, that of the national , which had perhaps appeared to be on the wane. Within Brazil, certainly, especially since the late 1980s – following the end of the cycle of state-sponsored initiatives to monumentalize Rio de Janeiro’s popular music traditions as ‘national heritage’ (examined by Tânia da Costa Garcia in Chapter 10 ), and the disintegration of the nationalist discourses of social consensus after the end of the 1964–85 military dictatorship – there has been a marked decline in the authority of musical nationalism as narrative and discourse, in favour of regional, local, community-based and ethnic identities and affiliations. In the case of the Rio de Janeiro-based Quilombo project of the mid-1970s (explored in Chapter 11 ), anti-racist communitarian ideas of Afro-Brazilian and popular identity, rooted in the collective musical practices and traditions of the city’s northern suburbs, explicitly challenged the nationalist discourse of ‘racial democracy’ which the spectacle of Carnival had increasingly come to embody. More recently, within the post-1990s hip hop movement of the São Paulo periphery, a ‘new school’ generation represented by the rapper Emicida (examined by Daniela Vieira dos Santos in Chapter 16 ) has also taken on the national myths of cordiality and social mobility, if somewhat more ambivalently and uneasily. In both cases, the lugar de fala or ‘enunciatory place’ of black identity and agency is simultaneously the lugar territorial or territorial locus of Brazil’s urban peripheries, suburbs and morros (hillside communities).
But for the migrant Brazilian musicians of Lisbon and Madrid, whose condition is that of heterogeneous communities within a host city abroad, ‘national’ identity, which they might imagine to have left behind them at home, can all too easily return to haunt them, as Guerreiro and Hoskin discuss in Chapters 5 and 6 , respectively. Contending with the pressures of social integration, economic survival, and local culture industry and tourism agendas centering around ideas of cultural ‘authenticity’, these musicians find themselves obliged to relinquish their own, often non-canonical musical tastes, such as música sertaneja , axé , forró and pagode , in favour of repertoires, typified by samba and MPB (Música Popular Brasileira), that correspond to local expectations and notions of brasilidade or ‘Brazilianness’. In these spaces inhabited by transnational musical communities, as Biddle and Knights argue, the national becomes a symbolically fluid ‘territory’, unstable in its encounter with ‘real’ nation states and with ‘real’ national and nationalist aspirations (Biddle and Knights 2007 , 14).
As other contributions to the present volume illustrate, music-making has been a rich, and sometimes vitally expressive, means of articulating the migrant experience and migrant identities in earlier historical moments, too, from the colonial period across the mid-nineteenth century to the early twentieth century. Música caipira (the subject of Ivan Vilela’s essay in Chapter 3 ), the music of São Paulo’s peasant communities, emerged out of the colonial encounter between an Amerindian heritage and guitar-based balladeering traditions from Europe, and it went on to become the voice of the migratory experience of the caipiras who made the transition to the region’s towns and cities, especially from the early twentieth century. For Luiz Moretto ( Chapter 1 ), in their journeys across the Atlantic world the one-stringed fiddles, such as the Cape Verdean cimboa and other versions encountered in continental Africa and in Brazil, have functioned as ‘instruments of agency’; that is, not just as the artefacts of a particular material culture, but as active agents in the encounter between different cultural traditions, giving rise to modern creole identities. Meanwhile, the transatlantic world of Martha Tupinambá de Ulhôa’s ‘Lundus, street organs, music boxes, and the “cachucha”’ (explored in Chapter 2 ) is that of the popular song-forms and early recording technology which interacted as they travelled to and fro between Europe and Rio de Janeiro in the 1830s.
Indeed, another way of conceptualizing this transnational space is precisely in terms of the Atlantic paradigm itself, which has been such a focus of academic interest since it was theorized by Paul Gilroy in terms of the black diasporic experience (Gilroy 1993 ). From 2007, serious attention began to be given to mapping the Lusophone dimension that had been largely absent from this model. In Cultures of the Lusophone Black Atlantic , Naro, Sansi-Roca and Treece argued, as had Gilroy, for the special significance of music, both as metaphor and as cultural practice, in expressing the dynamic of the Atlantic space:

There is no better example of the contrapuntal movement of Atlantic history than the fate of black music-making whose conceptions of time, space, and motion have so profoundly reshaped those of Western, or even global musical culture. […] Musical experience – itself a central thread of Atlantic cultural history – is in many ways akin to the fluid, temporally dynamic, multidimensional fabric of oceanic space. […] This ‘ocean of sound’ is a virtual, contingent space, structured and made meaningful only insofar as it is ‘performed’ in real time, in the historical present, by those voices, bodies, vessels, and instruments that vibrate and move across it. Music can therefore encourage us to think of the colonial experience with a simultaneous attention to its historical and geographical dimensions, as a temporal and spatial process, a dynamic field of resonances, rather than as a static entity, a unitary map of frontiers and pathways. (Naro, Sansi-Roca and Treece 2007 , 6)
In this context, Rio de Janeiro is the ‘Atlantic’ city par excellence. Considering the roles played by cities as hubs of cultural intersection, socialization, exchange and transformation, as sites of political intervention and contestation, and as homes to large concentrations of consumers, technologies and media, Rio de Janeiro figures prominently in this book, given its historical importance, first as an international port after its elevation to the status of Imperial capital in 1808 and then as Brazil’s national capital until 1960. In the wake of the reconfiguration of the city’s physical and cultural landscape, after a drastic programme of urban reforms at the turn of the twentieth century levelled the popular tenements of the city centre and evicted its predominantly Afro-Brazilian residents, music played a key role in articulating the new geographies of social and ethnic identity that these communities were forced to reinvent within the matrix of African religiosity, recreational traditions and festivities and the emergent cultural industries (the topic of Fabiana Lopes da Cunha’s essay in Chapter 8 ).
In the cartography of samba, musical identity, meaning and toponymy are densely bound up with each other, as sites of musical tradition and activity, histories, memories and mythologies, individual artists and subgenres form a dense fabric that offers a rich source of material for the very discourses of the samba repertoire (see Chapter 7 by Claudia Neiva de Matos). The space and location of urban popular music in Rio de Janeiro, as anywhere else, has been a contested terrain, in which certain genres (such as samba and choro ) have competed for legitimation within and sometimes against national markets, state cultural policies and nationalist discourses and narratives in journalism and academic scholarship (see Chapter 9 by Herschmann and Trotta), or are reinvented and renewed, as in the case of the 1980s pagode , the theme of Waldir de Amorim Pinto’s essay ( Chapter 12 ).
Notwithstanding the prominence given here to Rio de Janeiro, the volume also considers other urban centres within Brazil and abroad, towards which musicians and musical traditions have migrated and converged, where they have reinvented themselves, where notions of Brazilian and ‘Lusophone’ identity have been reconfigured, and where independent, peripheral and underground tendencies have contested the hegemony of the musical ‘mainstream’, whether national or international. While several of the essays exploring these trends work with topics in which geographical locatedness is still familiarly connected to cities or their neighbourhoods, in two cases the idea of musical location moves in fascinating new directions. The first of these is Marcia Tosta Dias’s study of the independent record company Baratos Afins ( Chapter 13 ) which, as a recording label and record store housed in a São Paulo shopping arcade, functioned from the early 1980s as an extraordinary focus and reference-point for musical activity and consumption ranging across jazz, rock, instrumental music and MPB. The other is Simone Pereira de Sá’s analysis of digital culture and YouTube video consumption, which draws on actor-network theory to map what she terms the Peripheral Brazilian Pop Music Network, a field dominated by genres such as sertanejo and funk ( Chapter 15 ) .
A common thread in many of the histories narrated here is the role of music in struggles over the occupation and ownership of public spaces. Speaking of recent disputes in Rio de Janeiro around community ownership and state appropriation of cultural space in the regenerated port area (the historical ‘cradle’ of modern samba and black urban identity in the city), Micael Herschmann recalls Henri Lefebvre’s Le Droit à la ville (The Right to the City, 1968), in which Lefebvre envisaged, not a city determined by the decision-making of urban administrators and by capitalist imperatives, but one co-created by its inhabitants in accordance with their collective, day-to-day interests. And here Herschmann invokes the idea of the ‘musical city’:

In a number of cities around the world, musical culture has become a kind of battle-ground, involving conflicts and tensions about pertinent themes such as gentrification, tolerance, security and accessibility. Furthermore, musical scenes and circuits are seeing their social significance steadily strengthened in the fabric of everyday existence upon which urban life is based. As such, we can claim that increasingly, and in different parts of the globe, actors are constructing a ‘musical politics’, which repeatedly makes its demand for what Henri Lefebvre named the ‘right to the city’. (Herschmann 2018 )
A fundamental concept mentioned here is that of musical scenes . Deployed extensively elsewhere in this volume – most notably in Herschmann and Trotta’s essay on samba and choro, Jeder Janotti Junior’s examination of ‘Heavy Brazilian Music’, Simone Pereira de Sá’s study of digital culture, music video and peripheral pop, and Paula Guerra’s concluding essay on underground music in contemporary Portugal, where it is theorized at length – a scene is a way of mapping ‘clusters’ of cultural life in terms of the intersections between territory, musical genre and social activity. Although used informally for many years by musicians, audiences, journalists and others, it was first conceptualized academically by Will Straw ( 2004a ; 2004b ), in an effort to move beyond subculture as the defining conceptual framework for examining the relationship between music, community and place. Scene is conceived as a more expansive and flexible means of explaining collective investment in particular music genres, no longer being solely tied to physical community spaces, but also coalescing around more trans-local networks embracing a variety of urban and regional settings. Bennett and Peterson’s key innovation ( 2004 ) was the addition of the virtual scene, suggesting the possibility of scenes in a purely mediated, online context with no physical basis as such. In his essay in this volume, Janotti proposes a further dimension, that of sonorities , which he defines as

socio-technical processes, the fruit of a symbiosis between human bodies and sonic objects (such as instruments, amplifiers, equalizers, loudspeakers, sound reproducers, headphones) and which, in the case of recordings, presuppose a collective labour involving musicians, technicians and producers.
Organized into three parts, the overarching structure of this book describes a tidal motion, from the shifting currents of the transatlantic crossings and internal migrations that have shaped the colonial and postcolonial field of Lusophone music-making, to a nexus of arrival, encounter and struggle where the local, the national and the international meet in the entrepôt that is the city of Rio de Janeiro, and back outwards to the contemporary ‘ocean of sound’ that is the decentralized, deterritorialized and transnational virtual space of the twenty-first century.
Part 1 , Colonial and Postcolonial Transnationalisms, Migrations and Diasporas , focuses on the musical movements and fluxes that have traversed the Atlantic world since the colonial period, including the diasporic extensions of African instruments and music-making; the role of early forms of mechanical music-recording in mediating between Portuguese and Brazilian popular songs in nineteenth-century Rio de Janeiro; the story of música caipira in articulating the experience of ‘rooting’ and ‘uprooting’ in the twentieth-century migratory movements of the São Paulo peasantry, and the contemporary phenomenon of Brazilian musicians living in the cities of Lisbon and Madrid, where they negotiate the needs and expectations of their expatriate communities, tourists and local audiences.
Part 2 , Relocating Rio de Janeiro , considers how, in its identification with key musical traditions such as samba, pagode and choro, the city has been a contested space – geographically, symbolically and politically – whether in the memories and mythologies of key neighbourhoods and locations of music-making as expressed in the musical discourses themselves, through music’s involvement in material and symbolic forms of community life and popular culture, including religion, carnival and other festivals, or through the competing claims of official state institutions and policies, the recording industry, and grassroots communitarian initiatives. In these efforts to map the city’s musical history and geography, every topographical term and toponym – morro , asfalto , Cidade Nova, Lapa, subúrbio , terreiro , Pequena África – is replete with meaning.
In Part 3 , Demetropolitanizing the Musical City – Other Scenes, Industries, Technologies , we explore how contemporary developments in the independent, underground and peripheral music scenes in Brazil and Portugal have challenged traditional narratives and hierarchies that dichotomized the field in terms of national tradition versus internationalism, mainstream versus margins and pop versus popular . Genres such as sertaneja universitária , funk , heavy metal, post-punk rock and rap are considered in the light of profound shifts in the economies and technologies of the music industry, including fluctuations in the phonographic sector, the internationalization of audiences, and the rise of YouTube, among other video-based digital platforms, as a predominant medium for the consumption of music.
Part 1
Colonial and postcolonial transnationalisms, migrations and diasporas
Chapter 1
Luiz Moretto
Bowed stringed lutes, and among them the one-stringed fiddle, are one of the counter-hegemonic cultural practices that have mediated critical, decolonial perspectives in the former Portuguese empire. They are an example of how musical objects can function as ‘instruments of agency’ (Bates 2012 ) in the interactions between people and their material world, and of how, through processes of revival and reinvention of traditional practice, such agency can give rise to modern creole identities. Taking one such case, this chapter examines the material culture of the Cape Verdean cimboa , exploring its likely connections with practices in continental Africa, and the significance of the revivals it has undergone in contemporary Cape Verde and Brazil. 1
The Cape Verdean one-stringed bowed lute, or cimboa , can be found today in the interior of the island of Santiago, where it is associated with dances of the archipelago and autochthonous rhythms such as the batuku. The municipality of São Domingos, a site of traditional batuku practices, was home to the renowned singer Ntóni Denti d’Oro, the cimboa player Mano Mendi and his apprentice Pascoal Fernandes, who in recent years has extended fiddle practice across other genres in an attempt to legitimize its revival (Bithell and Hill 2014 ). Considering one-stringed fiddles and their geographical distribution in Africa, and based on the instrument’s characteristics as defined by Jacqueline Djedje (2008), I speculate that the cimboa could be a Cape Verdean recreation of the Gambian Fulbe nyanyeru or riti . 2 This essay also draws on ethnographic data from the narratives of Brazilian musician Gentil do Orocongo, to posit a link between his one-stringed bowed lute and the Cape Verdean cimboa.
African fiddles spread to diverse regions as enslaved peoples who were forcibly displaced from the continent managed to take knowledge of some of their artefacts with them, including their musical instruments. As a consequence, these instruments should not be regarded simply as the artefacts of a particular material culture; they are not only representative of that culture but are themselves agents in the encounter between different cultural traditions. The narratives provided by my interviewees support the idea that the cimboa has been put to new uses in contemporary Cape Verde.
In Brazil, according to the oral narratives, the cimboa was introduced by a Cape Verdean who arrived on the island of Florianópolis. The Cape Verdean citizen taught a Brazilian musician to play the instrument and he, in his turn, incorporated the music into the practices and style familiar to him and his community. Thus, the fiddle’s morphology and sound were transformed and integrated by this player into the musical genres familiar to his artistic practice within Brazil.
The Cimboa : Fulbe Heritage?
The cimboa or cimbó is similar to instruments found in Upper Guinea such as the nyanyeru and riti . Upper Guinea, which today includes the countries of Senegal, Gambia, Guinea-Bissau, Guinea, Sierra Leone and Liberia, originally comprised a number of small states with distinct political and ethnolinguistic boundaries, including Futa Jallon in central Guinea and the territories of the Mandinka and Wolof peoples, among others. The Portuguese gathered slaves from all these different regions of Upper Guinea and brought them to Cape Verde, which lay on the trade route from Africa to the Americas, to be used either as forced labour or for export to the Americas (Eltis and Richardson 2010 , 96). Among those ethnic groups transported to the archipelago were the Mandinka, Wolof and Fulbe (Carreira 1983 ).
Santiago was the island with the highest number of forcibly displaced Africans, and the wild areas between the mountains and the valleys were often settled by runaway captives who formed communities or ‘maroons’. The cimboa provides a melodic accompaniment to the batuku dance genre that originated in the rural interior prior to the urbanization of the archipelago (Hurley-Glowa 1997 , 119), where I interviewed a cimboa maker and musician. The main rhythmic pattern of this genre shapes the character of fiddle playing in the batuku ensemble, which follows a number of cultural parameters and aesthetic features relating to song, percussion and dance.
The cimboa is fashioned out of a buli (a hemispherical gourd covered with goatskin). Its neck is fixed through the body resonator with a tuning peg at its tip and a hank of horsehair, and its bridge is made of a small piece of gourd. Similar fiddles are played by members of ethnic groups such as the Fulbe, while the Dagbamba play the nyanyeru , goje and the gondze . However, the term cimboa could be of Mandinka origin. Ethnologist Jean-Yves Loude believes that it derives from cimbi , ‘a Mandinka word referring to a type of kora in Western Africa’ (Loude 1998 ). Loude is probably referring to the Mandinka simbi , a seven-stringed bowed harp that is generally played by hunters but is also a part of the repertoire of instruments used by the jelis , a caste of musicians. 3 In terms of its construction, the cimboa is similar in shape and size to the nyanyeru fiddle of the Fulbe or possibly the Mandinka. However, despite a certain degree of relatedness between these ethnic groups due to intermarriage and corresponding customs, the Mandinka, according to Jacqueline Djedje (2008), refer to the fiddle as a susaa and rarely perform on it.
Across the wide variety of fiddles in West Africa, ‘the placement of the resonator hole(s) is a feature that distinguishes the geographical location of a fiddle’ (Djedje 2008, 28). In West Sudan the hole is placed in the body of the (gourd) resonator and may indicate an association between the cimboa and the cultures of this region. Like the body resonators of other West African fiddles, the resonator of the Fulbe fiddle is round and covered with the skin of a lizard. Unlike fiddles in the Central Sudan and Volcanic provinces, however, the resonator hole of the Fulbe fiddle is placed in the sound box, not the skin. Although fiddle size varies to suit the taste of the performer, the dimension of the body resonator used by the Fulbe tends to be smaller – anywhere from 5 to 6 inches in diameter, compared to 6 to 12 inches for those used by the Hausa and Dagbamba (Djedje 2008, 65). In fact, the cimboa ’s resonator hole is placed on the side of the gourd resonator and is also smaller than in other similar continental instruments.
While the cimboa ’s construction displays these affinities with continental instruments, its use in batuku , however, is an aesthetic experience that is unique to Cape Verdean Kriolu culture. Batuku in Cape Verde is more than simply music and dance; it is a social event immersed in the oral narratives of the secular rites of the Cape Verdean people. Performers of batuku dance and play music at festivities and religious events such as weddings and baptisms, and proffer political opinions and advice in the form of improvised verses. The dancers, who today are mainly female groups called batukaderas , perform on a terreru or te reru , a circular structure in a yard or on a stage. Historically, migration depleted Cape Verde’s male population, and as a result women have assumed a special position in the local culture, sustaining the ‘cultural ring’ for those within and beyond the shores of the archipelago.
Seated in a circle, the batukaderas play polyrhythmic textures by striking the rolled-up panos or cloths worn rolled around their waists; in the absence of membranophones, batuko performers give the beat by this method and by clapping, this percussive aspect of the dance being called txabetas (Hurley-Glowa 1997 , 125; Tavares 2005 , 45). The other parts of batuku are sambuna , an initial session which consists of a simple, stereotypical song accompanied by clapping and ‘drumming’ on the panos (Tavares 2005 , 44), 4 and the batuku dance, the torno , characterized by a pronounced wiggling motion of the hips known as da cu torno (literally, ‘give with turns’). Another part of batuku is the finaçon , solo vocalizing of a kind of oral poetry, in which the singer declaims improvised verses in a rhythmic style, accompanied by the percussion of the panos and the melody of the cimboa , but without dancers. Although the finaçon is considered a different musical genre from the batuko (Silva 1949 , 46), the boundaries between the two are not always clearly discernible, even for those who come from Santiago (Hurley-Glowa 1997 , 34), as both practices employ the same pattern of an ostinato rhythm, with some variations.
Mano Mendi and Pascoal Fernandes
Cimboa players Mano Mendi and Pascoal Fernandes – the latter also makes the instruments – were both members of Ntóni Denti d’Oro’s batuku group. Following the death of Nhó Henrique, Mano Mendi was often referred to as one of the few remaining musicians to revive the cimboa tradition. The music of Nhó Henrique, who worked as a street sweeper in the city of Tarrafal and who used to perform with the finaçon cantadeira (female singer) Nha Bibinha Cabral (Nogueira 2007 , 177–78), can be heard on the album Cape-Verde Islands – The Roots . 5 His death in the 1990s is said to have marked the passing of the last generation of cimboa players; Mano Mendi, however, continued to keep the tradition alive until his death in 2009, alongside a few other musicians such as Miguel Tavares, Joaquim Fonfon, Valentim and João de Gongon (Tavares 2005 ).
Born Pedro Mendes Sanches Robalo in 1927, in Ribeirão Chiqueiro, a village in the municipality of São Domingos, Mano Mendi earned a living as a peasant farmer. In 2006, he was asked to lead a workshop on the construction of the cimboa and the traditional techniques of playing the instrument as part of a project, Salvaguarda da Memória da Cimboa, which had been established to reawaken interest in the cimboa. He was also featured in the documentary Dix Petits Grains de Terre, performing with Ntóni Denti d’Oro’s ensemble. 6 The group recorded the album Cap-Vert, Batuque et Finaçon – Ntóni Denti d’Oro , which is analysed later in this chapter. 7
Pascoal Fernandes, a cimboa maker and musician who learnt his technique from Mano Mendi, has since developed a different approach to the instrument, finding other uses for the fiddle which he elaborated on during the interview. He performs other Cape Verdean musical genres on the cimboa besides batuku, as he considers that this is a way to keep its practice alive (Figure 1.1). Pascoal, an ex-army captain, studied in the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR) and is knowledgeable about the history of Cape Verde, particularly the legacy of colonialism in the archipelago, and he volunteered information related to the historical-cultural context of batuku and the practices associated with the cimboa .

Figure 1.1. Pascoal Fernandes playing the cimboa. (Photograph: Luiz Moretto)
Pascoal participated in the Institute for Heritage Research, a cimboa project funded by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) for the purpose of recovering the cultural traditions of the cimboa . With these funds, the Institute decided to provide training for all those working in the councils of Santiago, which had hosted a course about the instrument. A workshop held in Tarrafal took two members from each council to learn the technique of the cimboa : ‘I consider myself now in a new phase – the reintroduction of the cimboa into the musical field, having this opportunity to introduce the cimboa alongside other instruments common to genres like the funana, morna and coladeira. ’ 8
As regards the attitude of the colonial authorities to batuku practices, Pascoal’s assumption is that the Portuguese colonizer prohibited the batuku for political reasons:

The slaves always wanted to say something, but they could not speak, they had nowhere to speak, they had no chance to get up there […] So, it was through singing that the Caboverdianos [Cape Verdeans] expressed themselves. They criticised the priest, the master and the police, criticised [them] there in the terreru [the yard where batuku is performed]. In an effort to put an end to this popular criticism, one response that gained ground was to ban the practice. If you sang batuku , you would be harassed, receiving punishment; they would harass your family. 9
Whether batuko was actually prohibited, however, is a matter of debate. Lobban refers to the Catholic Church’s disapproval of batuko because of its sexual connotations, as well as mentioning the repressive measures sometimes meted out by the colonial rulers due to the implicit militancy of some of the verses:

The Portuguese authorities went so far as to ban the badius dancing the batuko style, which was projected as ‘too African’ and ‘too primitive’. Some badius in the twentieth century responded by ‘outrageously’ reinterpreting the meaning of Catholicism as the rebelado movement emerged. This merged Catholicism with a folk and personal spiritualism that the bishops and priests found repugnant. (Lobban 1995 , 73)
On the topic of the widespread beliefs and folk theories about batuko and its prohibition, Hurley-Glowa ( 1997 , 177–79) points to the lack of any documentary evidence that batuko was illegal, although oral narratives in Cape Verde indicate that the religious and colonial authorities may have used coercion or even tried to prohibit batuko music and its dance practices. After examining oral sources and the official archives, Nogueira ( 2011 ) refers to the ‘suppression’ of batuko . The official registers do indeed reveal that some form of coercion did take place – it became necessary to request permission to hold festivities associated with batuko . As far as the actions of the Catholic hierarchy were concerned, Nogueira has identified documents that reveal ecclesiastical requests to the administrative authorities to prohibit dance events during religious festivities. These were probably batuko events, as this was the most frequently performed dance in inland Santiago (Nogueira 2011 , 70).
Some of the oral narratives coincide with Pascoal’s comments that the Catholic Church considered the practice ‘obscene’ and the dance ‘lascivious’, and that the clergy prevented people who practised batuku from marrying or baptising their children in church. According to Jean-Yves Loude, the legal records of 31 March 1866 show that ‘the “batuque” was banned in the name of morality and [the] maintenance of public order. Offenders were liable to a fine and even prison […] It did not gain recognition until Cape Verde became independent in 1975’ (Loude 1988, 14). Batuko thus became a cultural icon of resistance for the movements fostered by revolutionary intellectuals.
The recording mentioned above, Ntóni Denti d’Oro’s album Batuque et Finaçon was one of the last performances of this kind of ensemble, which Cape Verdean musicians refer to as ‘old batuku ’, the most traditional form of batuku and finaçon . It combines older expressions sung in the linguistic variant of the Kriolu badio from inland Santiago with the contemporary guitar, as well as older African instruments such as the cimboa , tom tom and djembe , and is complemented by the batukaderas (singers and percussionists) . 10 Loude’s text accompanying the CD provides an ethnohistorical background for batuku based on Ntóni Denti d’Oro’s narrative. The singer’s metaphorical verses are set in the context of a polyphonic texture of voices, drums and fiddle, suggestive of an African aesthetic.
The Museu de Etnologia (Cape Verde’s Museum of Ethnology) in Praia hosts a permanent exhibition of traditional musical instruments that includes the cimboa . The one-stringed fiddle of Cape Verde is therefore still part of the national memory, symbolic of the cultural practices of the archipelago prior to independence. Within the re-contextualization of the musical and cultural traditions of Cape Verde, the continuity of cimboa practice depends on how individuals or groups of revivalists (including projects such as the Salvaguarda da Memória da Cimboa) interpret the idea of passing on a tradition. The particular social context and different perceptions of history may shape not only the rhetoric but also the actions of those dedicated to reviving the cimboa tradition (Bithell and Hill 2014 , 14). The revivalists do not regard the new approaches of contemporary cimboa players as ‘evolutionary’. However, it seems that rather than adhering to a concept of tradition based on notions of ‘authenticity’ in an attempt to re-create an imagined past, these musicians are re-contextualizing the practice by establishing a dialogue with other present-day musical genres. Furthermore, the cimboa also became a cultural resource in transit from one geographical location to another, and it played its part in a further process of musical creolization in Brazil.
The Cimboa in Brazil: Gentil do Orocongo
It appears that the only exponent of the one-stringed fiddle tradition to be remarked upon in Brazil in recent years has been Gentil do Orocongo. Gentil played a fiddle of his own design, an adaptation of the Cape Verdean cimboa , and his approach to the instrument was symbolic of a social process whereby it has become decontextualized (Ronström 2014 ). Gentil Camilo Nascimento Filho, better known as Gentil do Orocongo, lived in the island city of Florianópolis. He learned the art of cimboa making and playing from a neighbouring Cape Verdean family whose forebears arrived in Brazil about a hundred years ago, after the wrecking of a cargo ship. The story goes that a Brazilian from Bahia and a Cape Verdean were washed ashore together on a raft fashioned from the ship’s wreckage, and they joined the community living on the island of Desterro (now Florianópolis), never returning to their respective homes. 11 Listening to his neighbour Raimundo, nicknamed ‘Cabo Verde’, Gentil was captivated by the remarkable sound of the fiddle and started to learn it by ear. With the help of his neighbour, he was soon initiated into the art of cimboa playing.
This chance encounter ensured the survival of the cimboa as Gentil kept the cultural legacy he received in Florianópolis alive . However, he also enhanced this legacy with his own musical interests, with the result that his music was a product of two different musical geographies, a record of its journey from one diasporic space to another: ‘Revivals are productions whereby things, actions, or ideas [are] actively brought from one context to another to make them accessible to new actors, in new places and times’ (Ronström 2014 , 44). In this case, Gentil, who became a practitioner of a singular tradition, embodied not the continuity of a historical tradition but its transformation across space and time.
Gentil himself adopted the name ‘Orocongo’, a term generally associated with bows hailing from Central and West Africa that were commonly referred to in Brazil as urucongo , oricongo , gobo or rucungo . These names, which may share a similar provenance to that of the berimbau used in the combat game of capoeira , were incorrectly used to describe the cimboa developed by Gentil do Orocongo. However, there is no documentary evidence on the employment of the word orocongo or the bow to which it refers, nor are there any organological references that might corroborate the interchange of nomenclatures.
Gentil lived in a community mostly consisting of Afro-Brazilians, known as Mont Serrat, in Maciço do Morro da Cruz. Not only was he a master of the instrument, but he also continued to invent new ways of performing with the fiddle and embellishing the traditions associated with its fabrication. He rapidly became a recognized figure in the town, performing in the streets and the mercado público (the central marketplace), as well as at municipal events, and he was frequently invited to give talks about his experiences as a musician. Gentil recorded only one album, Cantando e Contando Histórias (Singing and Storytelling), which contains popular songs and some of his own compositions. However, he also took part in a recording with the Grupo Engenho, a popular band in Florianópolis, and in 2006 he performed in north-eastern Brazil at a series of concerts organized by the SESC (Social Service for Business) in different towns and cities of Pernambuco state. 12 In the same year, while attending the Espaço Cultural Embratel, he was invited to join the Instituto Itaú Cultural’s project Documentos Sonoros (Sound Documents).
Artistically speaking, Gentil introduced the Cape Verdean instrument into regional Brazilian music and, with it, an object of the collective social practice of the batuku tradition. The case of the Cape Verdean cimboa in Brazil is an example of the transformation of the instrument, its performance, repertoire, language, melodic style and harmonic framework. Gentil also made changes to the instrument: he extended the length of the fiddle’s neck, occasionally inserting fret marks and a mechanical tuning peg, and he replaced the coconut or gourd sound box with wood and added vivid, decorative colours.
At some point in time, the music performed on the cimboa , now called the orocongo , began to incorporate the characteristic melodies of regional Brazilian traditions such as the boi (bull festival), reisados and folias (revelries celebrating the journey of the Wise Men), candomblé (Afro-Brazilian religion derived from West and Central Africa) songs and ratoeira . 13 Azorean songs also influenced the coastal musical culture of the state of Santa Catarina. When new genres were incorporated, the new practices rarely preserved traces of the music’s Cape Verdean heritage and its foundation in batuku , instead of adopting a new repertoire.
Gentil do Orocongo’s experience is remarkable as it demonstrates an instance of the cultural crossroads in the Atlantic that reconnected Africa and Brazil via Cape Verde, a principal point of intersection during the slave trade. In the context of this movement of people, musical instruments took on an independent role as cultural objects. According to Blacking, ‘the concept of culture is an abstraction designed to describe all patterns of thought and interaction […] Musical instruments are not the culture of their makers: they are the manifestations of culture, the products of social and cultural processes’ (Blacking 1995 , 226–27). What is at stake in Blacking’s argument is the social interaction mediated by musical instruments, their social materiality and relative ‘autonomy’ from their own makers, and this concept can shed light on the case of Gentil and the orocongo . The cimboa fiddle is a visible material survival of the uprooting of one culture and its transference to another social milieu within the space of the black Diaspora. The cimboa of Cape Verde became the orocongo of Brazil, mediating social interactions and fostering the construction of shared meanings among individuals. Drawing on Bruno Latour’s Actor–Network Theory (ANT), Bates describes the role of the instrument ‘as neither a subject nor object, but as a source of action’ (Bates 2012 , 372).
The greatest challenge represented by the idea that musical instruments possess agency is how to locate them in the context of the displacement and fragmentation of diasporic subjectivities in the colonial and postcolonial worlds. It is not just a question of how people and things interact within active networks in a cultural temporality; there are also the issues of cultural change and extinction, when the musical instrument ceases to act as an agent. When an instrument vanishes, along with its culture, it is often due to the lack of a single, ‘homogenous cultural block’ (Thornton 1998 , 184); that is, without a minimum number of people sharing the same cultural codes, specific cultural practices disappear and consequently so does the instrument. However, whether or not the reverse is true – that the disappearance of an instrument as an inherent cultural agent can lead to the extinction of a culture – is another matter.
In attempting to account for diasporic movements such as this in the musical context, concepts like transplantation fail to take into account the creative changes that occur in the encounter between different cultures. For Margaret Kartomi, in its botanical context ‘transplantation’ refers to the ways in which plants can survive and adapt to new environments without undergoing major transformations, and is therefore an inadequate model, as ‘music [is] normally subject to transformational change to one degree or another’ (Kartomi 1981 , 5). Transplantation is only an initial stage in the dynamic transformative process which takes place in the new environment, as in the creolization of the music of the Americas, for example. Kartomi emphasizes the creative process of intercultural musical synthesis that takes place in the new social context, addressing not only the transitory process of loss but also the creation of a new cultural phenomenon. She suggests adopting instead the concept of ‘transculturation’ as coined by Fernando Ortiz (Ortiz [ 1947] 1995 , 97–103) to address the transformational processes that are set in motion by intercultural contact, as occurred in the musical genres of the Americas, including Ortiz’s Cuba.
In the heterogeneous cultural history of Brazilian society, music and musical instruments were transformed or disappeared mainly during the transition from slavery to the post-abolition period. But while colonialism and its consequences were hostile to African sociocultural structures, creolization and the creative revival of traditions enacted a counter-discourse akin to the ‘epistemic disobedience’ and ‘epistemic de-linking’ that underpin the politics of Decoloniality (Mignolo 2007 , 450; Mignolo 2011 , 122–23). A case in point, the cimboa was historically instrumental, as both material culture and artistic practice, in mediating the cultural encounter in Brazil between a Cape Verdean and a Brazilian musician. In initiating the revival of one-stringed bowed lute practice in Brazil, Gentil subtly transformed the repertoire to evoke his own diasporic identity (which was not Cape Verdean), deterritorializing the instrument and its technique so as to rearticulate the routes of the Atlantic experience and produce a new musical formation.
Denti d’Oro, Ntóni. Batuque et Finaçon . 1998. Published by Ocora Radio France.
Iles du Cap-Vert. Les Racines. 1990. Published by Playa Sound.
Orocongo, Gentil do. Cantando e Contando Histórias. 2007. Published by Iriê Produtora.
Dix Petits Grains de Terre . Directed by F. Manso, D. Spencer and F. Le Bayon. Lieurac Productions. 1999.
Chapter 2
Martha Tupinambá de Ulhôa
Introduction: from ‘Noise’ to Music
When we talk about mechanical recording and sound reproduction we tend to think of the wax-cylinder-playing phonographs invented by Thomas Edison (1847–1931) in 1877 or the flat-disc-playing gramophones created 10 years later by Emile Berliner (1851–1929). Yet, at least forty years before the existence of these ‘talking machines’, an excerpt from a tune heard on a less valued and chronicled medium – the street organ – found its way into a famous Afro-Brazilian lundu song composition ‘Lá no largo da Sé’ (There on the Cathedral Square), which is an extraordinary part of the story I am about to tell.
The song was composed in 1837–38, with lyrics by Manuel de Araújo Porto-Alegre (1806–79), a man of letters and a key figure in the Brazilian Historical and Geographical Institute, and music by Cândido Inácio da Silva (1800–1838), a singer, violinist and composer active in the theatres of Rio de Janeiro. 1 The tune recorded on street organs and music boxes of the time and incorporated into ‘Lá no largo da Sé’ was known in Brazil as ‘Maria Cachucha’, a satirical Portuguese song. 2 The lundu and the cachucha were also dances enacted in theatrical performances in early nineteenth-century Rio de Janeiro. What is remarkable about the cachucha is that it seems to be confined to a single tune in all of the different contexts where it appears. But this is the outcome of a long investigation, described below, for it took me more than a decade to find and provide consistent documentation about that mechanical audile transmission.
From the perspective of musicology, listening is the main tool for knowledge production in music research. When the research object is the music of the past, we are dealing with a chain of successive receptions to which the musicologist seeks to listen, while exercising a kind of effort that Leo Treitler has called ‘historical imagination’, that is, exploring evidence of ‘presentification’ – music is always heard in the present – inscribed in the (usually written) registers to which one has access. For Treitler, ‘the meaningfulness of music through all its presents, from the moment of its creation to the historian’s present, is the content of historical thought about it. And the presence of music in the historian’s consciousness is the condition under which such thought can take place’ (Treitler 1989 , 1). That is, the music historian must ‘listen’ in the present, recreating the materiality of the sound, in order to understand and talk about the music of the past. Additionally, these receptions also mean a chain of listening practices or ‘audile technique’ (Sterne 2003 ), which has historically mediated what is music or noise. 3 In the case of Rio de Janeiro in the first half of the nineteenth century, for example, the sound of the street organ was received much more as noise or a curiosity than as music.
My hypothesis is that new listenings can be carried out on the basis of an ‘acoustically tuned’ investigation (Ochoa Gautier 2014 ), not only from canonized historical narratives, but also from visits to primary sources. This is a type of study that can require a detective’s approach (as suggested by Umberto Eco), bringing together scattered fragments of evidence, an effort that the Italian historian Carlo Ginzburg ( 1989 ) identified as an ‘evidential paradigm’.
This type of research received a huge boost with the inauguration of the Brazilian Digital Library in 2012. 4 In the nineteenth-century entertainment music discussed in the periodicals held in the Library, one can observe the modinha and lundu – musical genres recognized as ‘Brazilian’ – and other genres (e.g. waltz, quadrille, polka, cachucha); better still, one can establish or review the connections between them. What matters is the passages between Brazil and Europe, the processes of stylization or appropriation of musical genres, and the interconnections between them, and not whether this or that genre is Brazilian or foreign (including Portuguese). This chapter considers the crossings that occurred between the lundu and the cachucha, with special attention to the latter, given the impact it was discovered to have had on the composition of the former.
Over several years I conducted a number of studies of ‘Lá no largo da Sé’, most of which concern the examination of musical prosody, or the rhythmic synchronization between metric accentuation in the lyrics and the downbeats in the musical bar (Ulhôa 2011 ). This research approach conditioned my perception of that composition, a perception that became increasingly naturalized. Over time I began to hear the song with a kind of distracted listening, because for me its melody was inseparable from the lyrics:

Lá no laaar-go daa Sée Vee-lha
Está vii-vo um graan-de tutu
Num-a gai-ola de fer-ro
Cha-maa-do su-ru-cu-cu 5

(There on the Cathedral Square/ A big tutu [snake] is alive/ In an iron cage/ It’s called surucucu )
The same thing happened to me with the cachucha. On consulting historical journals in Rio de Janeiro, I had already found references to it and in 2008, while researching at the University of Texas in Austin, I found a guitar score published in Baltimore by the composer Samuel Carusi, between 1830 and 1849, from the performance of ‘La Cachucha’ as danced by Fanny Elssler. Until then, I had understood the cachucha only to be an instrumental piece and the dance was one of the many exotic dances performed in nineteenth-century theatres as an isolated number during intermissions. However, as we shall see, the cachucha travelled to many places, being adapted or appropriated in several versions in scores, cancioneiros (songbooks) 6 and mechanical recordings.
Another musicological puzzle is whether the cachucha is a melody or a musical genre. Sometimes it is referred to as a musical genre (for instance, as a Spanish folkdance, when cited in the ‘ballet’ entry in the Grove Music Encyclopedia ). In nineteenth-century Brazilian newspapers it is also mentioned as a musical genre (the caxuxa ). Remarkably, however, it remains a single, identical melody (whether in its instrumental version or as a song).
The cachucha’s reception allows us to reflect about written, oral and aural/audile transmission from the perspective of musicology. There is evidence of written transmission in the case of the melody, which remains the same in almost all examined examples. But there is also evidence of oral transmission, in relation to variants with the lyrics. Above all, there is evidence of aural/audile transmission, long before the invention of the ‘talking machine’ (the phonograph and gramophone) in the late nineteenth century.
Written Transmission of the Cachucha
When writing about music in the past we must deal with a series of receptions, listenings and mediations. In addition to the investigation of various layers of meaning given in the consulted documents and representations, we should add our own mediations and limitations that stand between the researcher and the object of study. The first mediation is related to the audile technique mentioned above, that is, the type of transmission from the remote or recent past. The second level of mediation is the musicologist’s own theoretical/perceptual apparatus. In other words, one needs a high degree of intimacy both with the musical repertoire under study and with the analytical tools available or to be adopted, the latter being the research methods and techniques that we acquire through experience and the reading of specialized literature. The more we examine our object over and over, the more we understand its meaning. There are successive listenings, where the growing understanding of the processes of musical transmission produced by the scientific community makes way for the reinterpretation of the musical practices of the past.
Written transmission depends on writing techniques and musical notation, while oral transmission works with biological memory and performance. Musical writing has limitations in recording some features of music such as timbre or nuances of tempo and articulation (Rice 2016 ). It is in fact a guide to performance, as certain genres of written music require a long period of oral/aural enculturation for the musicians to achieve a minimally satisfactory performance. With the help of the score the tendency, within the limits of individual interpretations, is for certain elements, such as harmonic, rhythmic and melodic structure, to remain fairly intact in musical performances of the same work.
In the case of oral transmission, a reliance on biological memory imposes some restrictions, especially upon the length of phrases and the use of structural repetitions, for example the chorus or mote 7 (theme) with the repetition of at least one expression (in our case ‘vámonos china del alma’), or a standard metric structure for verses (verses of seven syllables, also called redondilha maior , are common), or even the rhyme scheme ( xaya ), as present in several versions of the sung cachucha). In the oral tradition, the lyrics appear to be the identifying element of the song. For example, Casa Edison (the first Brazilian recording company) recorded two versions of the famous lundu ‘Isto é bom’ (This is good) in the early twentieth century, each with a very different melody, but both with the refrain ‘Isto é bom, isto é bom que dói’ (This is good, so good it hurts) (Ulhôa 2011 ). 8
In addition, while in written transmission some elements are transmitted in an oral form, in the latter case musicians have frequently set down their repertoires in some form of notation as a memory aid, as happens with the song lyrics of the cancioneiros . Sometimes there are also versions or parodies of well-known songs, as we can see in the case of the cachucha.
A third type of musical transmission occurs when some kind of equipment or media sits between the source and the ear. I used to call this ‘aural transmission’, but have now decided to make it a compound term, adding the adjective ‘audile’ (Sterne 2003 ).
Fanny Elssler’s Cachucha
In 1836, the German dancer Fanny Elssler (1810–1884) choreographed the cachucha dance for Le Diable Boiteux (The Lame Devil), the pantomime ballet created by Jean Coralli (1779–1854). This version of the dance met with international acclaim in various presentations by Elssler.
Casimir Gide (1804–1868), the composer of Le Diable Boiteux , apparently adapted or made an arrangement of an already existing source for the cachucha, since collections with Spanish songs and dances were being published in Paris from the late 1810s onward. One collection in particular included the following: Cachucha: chanson et danse américaines , familières aux gens de mer sur les Ports / arrangées pour la guitare et le piano par Mr. Paz . This version is very close to the score published in Baltimore by the composer Samuel Carusi, La Cachucha, as Danced by Madlle Elssler , Arranged for the Guitar . The coincidences between the melodic contour of the initial part and of the second part are striking. In written musical transmission, there can be some variation in new versions depending on the arrangement, but in general the piece’s structure is maintained.
An online biography of the dancer shows pictures of her costume as worn in 1836, 9 as well as versions of the choreography for the cachucha. 10 The dance was a milestone for the romantic ballet. In the 1830s, the presentations caused a frenzy among male audiences because of ‘Elssler’s sensuous grace, lascivious abandon and plastic beauty’ (Guest 1981 , 13).
Her charisma seems to have endured throughout her life, if we consider the strong impression she made on none other than the music critic Edouard Hanslick (1825–1904):

She asked me to go to the piano, and indicated to me the tempo of the Cachucha , which she took much more slowly than usual. It was lucky for me that this simple music was so easy to play, for in order not to lose one of Fanny’s movements, I was obliged to play with my head turned away from the piano. It was an unforgettable sight. Fanny Elssler had tucked up her dress a little. Two or three times she went up and down the vast room dancing, or rather drifting, with such graceful and expressive inclinations of her head and body and such rounded and undulating movements of her arms, that I understood for the first time the meaning of the ideal dance. All our ballerinas dance only with their legs (Hanslick 1893 , 214, cited by Guest 1981 , 15).
The dance style comprising raised arms, with or without castanets, and individual progression, either solo or in a couple, is common in descriptions of various dances such as the fandango, lundu and cachucha. While Hanslick mentions Fanny Elssler’s short steps and circular movements with her arms raised, other descriptions at her artistic peak, such as Gautier’s, give a different impression: ‘Twists! […] Bends! […] Her swooning arms flutter about her drooping head, her body curves back, her white shoulders almost brush the floor’ (Gautier 1845 , 20–21, cited by Guest 1981 , 15).
The Cachucha in Brazil
In Brazil, the cachucha (known as ‘caxuxa’) was reportedly danced as a ‘Spanish dance’ with a graceful character, and was performed by girls and young women or ladies. We find the first reference to the cachucha in the Diário do Rio de Janeiro of 31 October 1823, about a year after the independence of Brazil, when the newspaper announced a programme at the Real Teatro de São João performed by the Brazilian actress and dancer Estela Sezefreda (1810–74), then aged 13. At the end of the first act of the comedy Os Salteadores (The Brigands), Estela and the French dancer Louis Lacombe danced a cachucha. In the same show, Sezefreda also performed the ‘Solo Inglês’ (English Solo), dressed as a man in military uniform. The following year, on 2 March 1824, the Diário do Rio de Janeiro announced a performance by Estela Sezefreda and Luiz José Lacombe Junior dancing the ‘Lundu da Monroi.’ 11 This mention of the ‘Lundu da Monroi’ is relevant because, according to Manuel Querino, the choreography of the cachucha was the same as that of the ‘Lundu da Marruá’, where the couple begins in the waltz position, but then separates the hands and continues to dance with arms raised and touching castanets (Querino 1955 , 115). 12 From what we know of descriptions of the choreography, albeit anachronistically, it is possible to imagine that the lifting of the arms and the moving of them while playing the castanets (or not) were viable gestures even for novices. If one uses a certain amount of historical imagination, one can assume that the choreography of the cachucha may refer, in a stylized form, to the movement of a small sailing vessel in the ocean, perhaps even a reference to the first representations of the ‘cachuchita’. 13 In the Diário do Rio de Janeiro of 7 August 1838 there is even an announcement of a tightrope walker dancing the cachucha while balancing on a high wire.
Written and Oral Transmission: Sheet Music, Manuscripts and Songbooks
The oldest document found in the context of this research has a tentative date of 1810 and is a cachucha manuscript in the National Library of Spain, with an orchestral arrangement of a ‘Cachucha’ by Ramon Carnicer (1789–1855). The structure of the melody has two parts, the first with an introductory and instrumental character, and the second more lyrical, with fewer notes. Carnicer’s ‘Cachucha’ opens with the whole ensemble playing the first part or introduction of eight repeated bars. The song ‘Tengo una cachucha yo’ appears in the second part, doubled by clarinets. Following this, the melody of the first part is now heard with lyrics, always starting with the words ‘Con el tururum’. Interestingly, more than a century later, in 1944, in a scene from the film El Gran Makakikus , Joaquin Pardave presents a version of the cachucha whose first part now has lyrics starting with ‘Tiro liro’ and then becomes instrumental, with Pardave snapping his fingers to imitate the playing of castanets while he hops in a circle in front of the accompanying instrumental group. 14
Then there is the version from the Chanson et Danse américaines , Famillieres aux gens du mer sur les ports , mentioned above. The part with lyrics reads as follows:

Tengo yo una cachuchita
en que navego de noche
y en tocándole, los remos
parece que voy en coche
vamo nos china del alma
vamos nos a Portugal
que para pasar trabajos
lo mismo es aqui que allá

(I have a little boat/ In which I sail at night/ And, while rowing it/ It seems I am in a carriage/ Let’s go sweetheart/ Let’s go to Portugal/ For working hard/ It’s the same here and there// Let’s go)
The melody of the verses is typically vocal, with the seven-syllable verses fitting well into the structure of a 32-bar cycle consisting of two phrases of 16 internally repeated bars (AA + BB).
Spanish Variants of the Cachucha
In addition to these sheet music versions there are three documents that clearly demonstrate the popularity of the cachucha in Spain, the first two dating from 1813. In a book Tertulia de la Cachucha: Primera parte , edited by Xerez de la Frontera and published by Don Juan Mallén, there are images accompanied by seven stanzas commenting on a hairdresser, carpenter, cobbler and boatman’s women, and a second part with ‘Coplas patrióticas de Xerez’. Both include the refrain beginning ‘Vámonos, China del alma’ [Let’s go sweetheart], 15 as seen above, and which is present in all Spanish versions found with lyrics.
The other text, from 1814, clearly expresses a stance opposed to Napoleon, during the French occupation of the Iberian Peninsula. It is Cachucha Nueva que declara las últimas maquinaciones del tirano Napoleon, y anuncia à la Francia el único médio de salvarse y conservar su independencia . Like other variants it has lyrics in redondilha maior (seven-syllable lines). The lyrics are illustrative:

Segunda vez Bonaparte
quiso ser Emperador
la causa fué haber dexado
con vida a tanto traydor.
Bien decía mi Cachucha:
si los hubieran ahorcado,
y a Bonaparte el primero,
la guerra hubiera acabado.
Vámonos… etc.

(For the second time Bonaparte/ wanted to be Emperor/ because there were/ so many traitors left alive. // My Cachucha said well:/ if they had all been hanged/ starting with Bonaparte/ the war would have been over.// Let’s go… etc.)
Maria Cachucha in Portugal and Brazil
As mentioned above, a basic principle for oral transmission is the existence of formulas or structures that may be filled in ad hoc. In popular song, the use of the structure of seven-syllable lines and regular musical phrases, with points of caesura and tonal support, makes everything much easier.
In Portugal, there is an interesting phenomenon regarding the transmission of the cachucha. There, variations with lyrics use the first part of the melody and not the second as occurs in the Hispanic versions. The documents found date from a period later than the Spanish examples, which refer to both oral and written transmission, while in the Portuguese version the musical transmission is only oral. This is because it is the beginning of the tune that is repeated – in this case the incipit, the initial sequence of notes that identifies the ‘cachucha’, who is now no longer just a worker’s wife, but ‘the’ Maria Cachucha herself.
The oldest known version of the cachucha to date in Portugal was published in César das Neves and Gualdino Campos’s Cancioneiro de músicas populares (1893), collected in Lisbon and sung with ‘many licentious verses that decorum does not permit us to publish’ consisting of ‘purely Spanish’ music, and choreography similar to that of the fandangos and boleros (Neves and Campos 1893 , 137). Besides its 6/8 time signature, guitar accompaniment and A major key (more appropriate to the instrument), the melody is the same as that of the examples found in Guilherme de Mello (first published in 1908) and reproduced in Oneyda Alvarenga ( 1960 ). The melody in 3/8 is the same as the first section of Carusi’s version of ‘La Cachucha’ for guitar, mentioned above. The lyrics of the song (or ‘berceuse’, as Guilherme de Mello calls it) are clearly anticlerical in their reference to a Jesuit monk:

Maria Cachucha
Quem te cachuchou?
Foi um frade Loyolo
Que aqui passou

(Maria Cachucha/ Who cashooshooed you?/ It was Friar Loyolo/ Who passed by here)
Alvarenga alludes to a dance choreography similar to that of the ‘Lundu da Marruá’, as described by Manuel Querino above. 16
Oral and Aural/Audile transmission: ‘Maria Cachucha’ and ‘Lá no largo da Sé’
As already mentioned, significant portions of the excerpt from the ‘Maria Cachucha’ lyrics use the instrumental first part from the ‘Cachucha’ versions found in the National Library of Spain, such as the manuscript with the arrangement for voice and orchestra by Ramon Carnicer, who was also the composer of the Chilean National Anthem (a far-from-irrelevant detail, as we shall see).
Regarding the cachucha dance both in Elssler’s and the Brazilian version, differences in choreography appear to lie in the solo or partner dance, but, strikingly, the same melody is used in the sheet music, both in the instrumental and sung versions. Regarding the song, notes from the opening melody of ‘Maria Cachucha’ can be found in the lundu ‘Lá no largo da Sé’. The coincidence is a compelling one, as demonstrated by Luiz Costa-Lima Neto’s paradigmatic comparison in his thesis Música, teatro e sociedade nas comédias de Luiz Carlos Martins Penna (1833–1846). According to Costa-Lima Neto, ‘The first melodic phrase of the lundu “Lá no largo da Sé” (bars 1–5) refers to the beginning of the melody of the Portuguese popular song “Maria Cachucha” (bars 1–8), referred to by Martins Penna in the comedy O diletante ’ (Costa-Lima Neto 2014 , 191–92).
Because of their prosodic distinctiveness, then, the lundu ‘Lá no largo da Sé’ and the melody of ‘Maria Cachucha’ had appeared to me to be different works (as indeed they are). The connection between them only began to take shape in laboratory conditions, using musical writing software for a transcription and transposition of the two melodies to the same key to facilitate comparison. While I did not notice any resemblance between the lundu and the cachucha, Luiz Costa-Lima Neto, perhaps because he was not as familiar with the Afro-Brazilian melody, immediately realized the similarity of melodic contour when he heard me sing ‘Lá no largo da Sé’ ( Figure 2 .1). 17

Figure 2.1. Paradigmatic comparison between ‘Maria Cachucha/Maria Caxuxa’, and ‘Lá no largo da Sé’. (Provided by the author)
The Cachucha in Street Organs and Music Boxes
Through research on the lundu and cachucha, we have evidence of both being played on street organs in Rio de Janeiro, probably by escravos de ganho (slaves for hire) 18 (Ulhôa and Costa-Lima Neto 2013 , 2015 ). However, it remains to be seen which songs were played. Of course, old street organs would not have survived the ravages of time, given the fragility of the material used in their construction. The street organs of the first half of the nineteenth century were adaptations of pipe organs (in Brazil as well as in the Hispanic world, where street organs are called organillos ). Inside them, a crank simultaneously activates a bellow and a cylinder having metal protrusions that open the tubes for the corresponding musical notes. Luckily, music boxes, where a Swiss watch mechanism moves a cylinder of metal protrusions, vibrating a plaque with metallic tuned teeth, were also widespread in Rio de Janeiro in the first half of the nineteenth century. However, there was no proof of the real identity of the soundtrack heard by Cândido Inácio da Silva on Rio de Janeiro’s streets. An advertisement in a periodical recorded the theft of a music box containing ‘Cachucha’ among other songs, in 1841, that is, after the Fanny Elssler version. Was the similarity of melodic contour between ‘Lá no largo da Sé’ and the ‘Cachucha’ a mere coincidence?
So, I continued to search. With the help of the Internet, without which this research could never have been done, I found two examples of music boxes including the ‘Cachucha’. Initially, I managed to get a Ducommun-Girod n. 33064, from 1865, with ‘Cachucha’ (along with the national anthem of Chile, two waltzes, one ‘Hats Polka’ and the aria ‘Spargi d’amaro pianto’, from Gaetano Donizetti’s opera Lucia di Lammermoor ). 19 As mentioned above, since the national anthem of Chile (1828) is a Carnicer composition, it is not surprising that this specific music box also contains ‘Cachucha’, a song for which he made the arrangement for voice and orchestra. But this is 1865, when the model could simply be the standard version by Fanny Elssler.
At the same time, through the Mechanical Music Digest list, I learned of the existence of a small musical snuffbox from 1824 (or 1829, depending on the clarity of the date of the instrument registration), purchased in Spain, with two songs, ‘Allemande’ 20 and ‘Cachucha’. Its owner, the collector Luuk Goldhoorn (of Utrecht, in the Netherlands) generously allowed the filming of a performance of this ‘Cachucha’ for research purposes. 21
Finally, one can safely say that a likely source of inspiration for the composition of the Brazilian lundu ‘Lá no largo da Sé’ was the Spanish ‘Cachucha’.
Conclusion: Implications for the History of Recorded Music in Brazil
‘Lá no largo da Sé’ and ‘Maria Cachucha’ have more in common than the use of the melody from ‘Cachucha’. Both are critical as well as contemporary. In addition, structurally they use the same compositional process: a short chorus with the interpolation of loose verses that don’t connect with one another.
Of course, the reader may argue that to imagine that the melody of ‘Maria Cachucha’ may have been absorbed by Candido Inácio da Silva from hearing so much of it in the noisy streets of old Rio de Janeiro, to the point of using it unconsciously in ‘Lá no largo da Sé’, is just a speculative hypothesis. That is correct. I can only offer indicative evidence of such a ‘possibility’. The path from cachucha in a music score to street organs and music boxes in the nineteenth century is one of written transmission. However, the path between the ‘Maria Cachucha’ of street organs to the lundu ‘Lá no largo da Sé’ passes through what is now called ubiquitous music or, as the subtitle of the collection edited by Marta García Quiñones, Anahid Kassabian and Elena Boschi ( 2013 ), explains, ‘the everyday sounds that we do not always notice.’
Today sounds pour from the radio, public establishments, film and television, among other sources, while in nineteenth-century Rio de Janeiro one could hear street-cries advertising goods, the songs of slave labourers and, of course, street organs. Even where there is no effort of attention, there is an involuntary listening in most cases to sonorities of the soundscape that surrounds us. These sounds can be repeated so much that they end up ‘sticking’ in our ears or head, almost mechanically. This repertoire will be recorded in the medium-term memory, as part of our internalized sound baggage, ready to emerge at the time of creation or performance.
Here there now operates a kind of aural and audile transmission – where there is a combination of written and oral transmission processes, the first in relative fidelity to the original composition and the last through the use of biological memory – and the music that was ‘frozen’ in the recording can, finally, be released to an active reception.
And in practical terms, the musicologist can say that the first milestone in the history of recorded music in Brazil is the mechanical transmission of street organs and music boxes, around the 1830s, long before the introduction of the phonograph and gramophone in the late nineteenth century.
Chapter 3
Ivan Vilela
This chapter discusses the role played by the music of a specific sector of Brazilian society – the caipira peasantry – in replanting the roots of their culture in the big cities. For a better understanding of the significance of this music, we need to retrace its origins and consider those who brought it into being: the caipiras, the peasant people of southeastern Brazil. Caipira is a term deriving from the Amerindian Tupi language, 1 which means trimmer or cutter , one who cuts brush, and so defines their position socio-economically within a rigidly stratified society.
The colonization of southeastern Brazil dates from 1549, when the São Vicente Captaincy, 2 formally established in 1532, began to be effectively settled by the Portuguese. Colonial dominance was exercised through a tripartite system of ecclesiastical, juridical and political structures expressed in the formula Fé, Lei e Rei (Faith, Law and King). Leading the Church’s missionary project was the Society of Jesus, whose function was to convert all gentios , or non-Catholics, to Christianity, and its most prominent representative, Father José de Anchieta, arrived on Brazilian soil in 1553 (Thomaz 1981 ).
Encountering Amerindian peoples who spoke dialects of the Tupi-Guarani linguistic family, 3 extending the length of the Atlantic coast from today’s state of Pará to Rio Grande do Sul, Anchieta decided to learn and study the language. Adapting it to Latin grammatical structures and adding Portuguese and Castilian terms for objects and concepts not found in the indigenous peoples’ cultural universe, he helped to systematize what was to become Nheengatu (‘easy’ or ‘good language’), known in Portuguese as Língua Geral (Common Tongue), which functioned as a colonial lingua franca universally spoken by colonists, indigenous people and African slaves up to the late 1700s: ‘Then a ruling from the Kingdom prohibited the língua geral from being spoken in Brazil […] despite this, until the end of the eighteenth century, the língua geral was the only language spoken from São Paulo to Rio Grande do Sul; and during the eighteenth century, Nheengatu was spoken twice as often as Portuguese’ (Paulo Duarte cited in Amaral 1976a , 13).
Intermarriage between Portuguese men and indigenous women was not frowned upon by the Portuguese Crown, especially because of the scant number of women coming to Brazil at that time, and Anchieta’s fellow Jesuit, Manoel da Nóbrega, even wrote to the Society in 1549, requesting that women be sent to the kingdom (Vasconcelos 1948 , 13). Consequently, by the end of the seventeenth century there was in the region of present-day São Paulo state a population of mixed-race people who were called caapir or caipira. It is worth remembering that a considerable number of the colonial pioneering and slaving expeditions or bandeiras hailing from São Paulo were also led by mixed-race people called mamelucos by the Portuguese.
Among important studies of the contemporary caipira people and their culture are Antonio Candido’s Os Parceiros do Rio Bonito (The Partners of the Rio Bonito, 1954), based on fieldwork from 1948 in the rural interior of São Paulo state, and Maria Izaura Pereira de Queiroz’s Bairros Rurais Paulistas (São Paulo Rural Districts, 1973). While agreeing about the caipiras’ mixed Portuguese and indigenous colonial ancestry, these and other scholars such as José de Souza Martins ( 1975 ), Oswaldo Elias Xidieh ( 1993 ) and Darcy Ribeiro (2004) differ in their prognosis of the future for caipira communities and their cultures within capitalist modernity in Brazil. Living in rural areas with scarce opportunities for sociability and surviving by means of a subsistence agricultural model lacking surplus production, the caipira have constituted a separate chapter in the history of Brazil as regards their relationship to the successive economic systems characterizing the dominant society (Candido 1975 ). As the colonization process unfolded, the caipira always lived at the margins of big landed estates, towns and communities, obliging them to create their own lifestyle, which Candido defines as

a distinctive type of sociability, with their own forms of land occupation and their own approaches to establishing inter-group and intra-group relations. The pattern of the process was determined by the types of adjustment of the group to the environment, with the merging of the Portuguese heritage with the early inhabitants of the land. (Candido 1975 , 36)
Darcy Ribeiro, meanwhile, sees the caipiras as the product of a series of socially regressive steps in a process of deculturation:

With regard to their Portuguese origins the Paulista 4 people lost their village-based community life, the patriarchal discipline of traditional agrarian societies, the plough and a diet based on wheat, olive oil and wine. As regards their indigenous origins, they lost the autonomy of egalitarian life, which was meant to provide their own subsistence, the equality of social relations in non-stratified societies, the solidarity of extended families, the virtuosity of artisans, whose objective was to live as their ancestors always did. (Ribeiro 2004, 366–67)
Two structuring factors must be stressed in explaining the distinctive character of caipira culture. First, like all non-literate peoples elsewhere in the world, they created the means to record their history orally, developing a narrative verse form rooted in the ballad traditions of medieval Europe:

This is not the place to discuss the origin of the romance, or of the rimance [ballad], the scholarly disputes about its literal, vast and historical translation. What is real is its venerable ancestry. All historical events are or have been recorded in verses. The Saladin wars against the crusaders, the feats of Charles Martel, the adventures of knights, the faithfulness of wives, the moral incorruptibility of damsels, all are materials for collective memory. Only this anonymous verse brought to our knowledge facts which would have otherwise gone unnoticed forever. The legend of Roland, Robin Hood, heroes from Georgia and Turkestan, Persia and China, they all live on because they have been praised by means of a rhymed sonic framework that is rooted in popular tradition. (Cascudo 1984 , 28) 5

The influence of the Iberian legacy on Brazil’s popular poetry can be dated back to the early colonial period, when Anchieta composed verse dramas and music as tools for the Jesuits’ conversion of the Amerindian population (Bosi 1992 ).
A second characteristic shared by all cultures without a writing system is the invention of mnemonic devices for recording and memorizing their histories, a task sometimes assigned to a specialized member of the community. If the caipira inherited from the Portuguese and from the Tupi peoples their propensity for storytelling, the Iberian traditions of verse narrative also transmitted to them the techniques of rhyming and rhythmically organized poetry that Arabic culture had brought to medieval southern Europe (Soler 1995 , 49). The rhymed, musically structured storytelling of the caipira therefore forms part of a comparable set of practices widely encountered across time and space, embracing the griots of sub-Saharan Africa, the classical Greek aoidos , the wandering rhapsodoi of the Hellenic world, the Anglo-Saxon gleemen, the Arabic mogani and metri , the storytellers of India and the Celtic bards.
The legacy of Nheengatu gave caipira speech phonological characteristics derived from Tupi that were carried over when the Crown obliged them to speak Portuguese; for example, difficulties in the pronunciation of the sounds f , l and r . Rather than the frontal trilled r of Portuguese, the caipira r was a softer sound closer to that of English (as in the pronunciation of porta ‘door’), while the palatal consonant sound / ʎ/ of the Portuguese mulher (woman) was replaced with a semi-vowel, giving muié . Although caipira speech is recognized today as a dialectal variant of Portuguese in its own right, historically those divergences from the dominant standard led to it being devalued as incorrect and as the basis for more broadly derogatory views of the caipiras and their culture.
Three factors, each associated with a key historical moment, have been decisive in shaping modern attitudes to popular culture in Brazil. First, during its most formative years, marked by the numerous ethnic and cultural interactions of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the country’s elite turned its back on Brazil’s popular classes, their history and culture, with which they recognized no common identity, and looked instead to European customs and culture as their preferred model of modern civilization. Second, unlike the Spanish American states, where the history of university education dates back to the sixteenth century, in Brazil no universities were established before the twentieth century, and a local print culture was also established late in the country’s history, well after independence, in 1830. Academic scholarship and publishing were therefore not available spaces in which the history and culture of rural communities might be given serious attention or validity, and oral folklore remained the chief vehicle for the development and transmission of their cultural knowledge. Third, with the creation in 1889 of a Republic, founded on modernizing positivist ideas that envisaged Brazil’s industrial rationalization under the leadership of an enlightened elite, scientific knowledge acquired a prestige that relegated popular culture and its oral traditions to the most contemptible status, as backward and worthless:

The last quarter of the last [nineteenth] century marked the beginning of a revolution, for the abolitionist campaigns and the gradual urbanization of living conditions would tear up patrimonial relations and their corresponding traditional worldview […] Then the disintegration of popular culture began. The ‘slave’ and the ‘ordinary man’ were almost completely unaware of the reasons and ideal standards which turned traditional attitudes, techniques and institutions into values little manifested and desirable among the members of the ruling echelons. (Fernandes 1979 , 31)
As the transition to the twentieth century ensued, this secularization and rationalization of behaviour and ideas deepened the gulf between traditional, popular knowledge and scientific scholarship. The international crisis triggered by the Wall Street Crash in 1929, and the boom in large-scale plantation agriculture that preceded it, forced small farmers off the land and led to a mass influx of migrants from the villages and rural communities of the interior into the suburban periphery of São Paulo in search of better prospects, just as the state capital was undergoing a physical and socio-economic transformation as a centre of industrialization. These poorer migrants, lacking literacy and the technical skills necessary for factory labour, found themselves under pressure to adapt their traditional values and attitudes, at the same time encountering official state institutions and educational establishments that denigrated traditional rural knowledge as ‘ignorance and lack of culture’ (Fernandes 1979). As Antonio Candido observes, this image of traditional culture appears in a significant body of late nineteenth-century stage plays where the caipira is represented as a figure of ridicule. From the second decade of the new century, however, this view began to be challenged through the crucial intervention of Cornélio Pires.
Cornélio Pires
In 1910, Cornélio Pires, a journalist from the rural interior of São Paulo, held a cultural meeting in the state capital’s Mackenzie School, which featured duos of singing peasants, contests of cururu (or improvised sung poetry), cateretê dances 6 and the staging of a sung caipira funeral. Pires was well received, and in 1914 he went on to become a teller of peasant tales which depicted the caipiras as smart people, contrary to the dominant image of them that circulated in the city.
What could have led a traditional Presbyterian school to open its doors to expressions of peasant culture, which was associated with popular Catholicism? The explanation was that, in a spirit of cultural anthropology, the school’s teachers – two of whom, Julio Ribeiro and Eduardo Carlos Pereira, later founded the University of São Paulo’s School of Linguistics 7 – saw the peasants and their manner of speech as endangered phenomena and therefore worthy of public interest. The Catholic Church, meanwhile, had adopted a hostile position towards many of its poorer rural congregations which, while taking on the maintenance of local churches, had also introduced non-canonical rites and elements of belief, fostering a kind of popular, grassroots lay Christianity of the kind associated with seditious social movements such as the Canudos War and the Contestado rebellion:

The nineteenth century inherited what was called ‘cultural religiosity’ or ‘Baroque Catholicism’ […] In general, within this religious practice, the work of secular clergy was limited to celebrating some sacraments (christenings, masses, communions, weddings and last rites) on specific dates. Their evangelization work was always ineffectual, due to the limited resources sent by the Crown, their poor religious training and their heavy dependence on lay people. In their turn, religious orders, which were better trained for spreading Catholicism within religious orthodoxy, were unable to reach all the faithful. Thus, lay people ended up being the most important agents of Baroque Catholicism, rife with surviving pagan elements, with their disguised polytheism, superstitions and magic spells which attracted myriad numbers of black people, making it easier for them to join and for their parallel transformation. (Abreu 1999 , 33) 8
Whereas the official church and state educational systems were committed to building a country with little room for the caipiras and their culture, the Presbyterians Ribeiro and Pereira represented the first of a line of Protestant researchers intent on understanding peasant rituals and the caipira dialect outside of religiosity or any religious framework. As an important resource for Protestant missionary activity from the late nineteenth century onwards, this understanding of the caipira dialect gave recognition to it as the repository of an authentic Brazilian language, and one essential for cultural and religious dialogue with the populations of the rural interior.
Sound Recording and Radio
In 1929, Cornélio Pires took the initiative to fund the recording of six discs of rural folk music and narratives, in a pressing that numbered 30,000 copies. Pires loaded the records into two cars and, with a gramophone, he set off into the interior to sell them, and the news of someone selling records of rural folk music and narratives soon spread like wildfire. When Pires reached the town of Jaú, over 200 km from the state capital, he had sold them all, which is a remarkable fact, as in those days pressings typically numbered 500 to 1,500 copies, and there were few gramophones in the state of São Paulo to apparently justify the playing of so many records. Indeed, Pires was the third most successful seller of records in the history of Brazil. With this achievement, he effectively introduced the caipiras’ worldview into everyday urban life, as we can see in O Bonde Camarão (The Shrimp-Coloured Streetcar), recorded by the duo Caçula and Mariano in 1929:

(falado) Vanceis que tivéro em São Paulo, decerto se arregalaram por lá. Homi, São Paulo é lindo, uma buniteza, mas tem um tar de bonde camarão que prá chacoalhá o corpo da gente, ô peste dos inferno, parece até carro de boi! Intão nóis fizemo essa moda arrelaxando ele.

Aqui em São Paulo o que mais me amola
É esses bondes que nem gaiola
Cheguei e abri uma portinhola
Levei um tranco e quebrei a viola
Inda pus dinheiro na caixa da esmola
Chegou um velho se faceirando
Levou um tranco e foi cambeteando
Beijou uma velha e saiu bufando
Sentou de um lado e gritou assuando
Prá mode o vizinho tá catingando
Entrou uma moça se arrequebrando
No meu colo ela foi sentando
Prá mode o bonde que estava andando
Sem a tarzinha estar esperando
Eu falo sério eu fiquei gostando
Entrou um padre bem barrigudo
Levou um tranco dos bem graúdo
Deu um abraço num bigodudo
Um protestante dos carrancudo
Que deu cavaco com o batinudo
Eu vou-me embora pra minha terra
Esta porquêra inda vira em guerra
Este povo inda sobe a serra
Prá mode a light que os dente ferra
Nos passageiro que grita e berra

((Spoken) Y’all who’ve been to São Paulo; your eyes must have been popping when you were there. Man, São Paulo is beautiful, but there’s a shrimp-colored streetcar that shakes our bodies around, a critter from Hell, it feels like we’re in an ox cart! So we wrote this song to make fun of it./ (Sung) Here in São Paulo what bugs me most/ Is those streetcars looking like a cage/ I got there, opened a door/ I got jostled around, broke my guitar/ And what’s more I put money in an alms box// An old fellow got on showin’ off/ He was jostled, and lost his balance/ He kissed an old lady, and huffed and puffed/ He sat and shouted, sneering/ Cor, this guy here really stinks// On came a young lady sashaying/ She fell into my lap/ Cos the streetcar moved on/ Without her expecting,/ I’ll tell you for sure, I liked it// On got a fat-bellied priest / He got jostled good and proper/ He hugged a big-mustached guy,/ A grumpy Protestant/ Who got in a huff in his cassock// I’m off to my homeland/ This lousy place will end up in war/ These people are still climbing the hill/ An’ the Light Company has got its teeth/ Into the passengers who shout and scream)
Brazil’s first radio broadcast in 1922 celebrated the centenary of independence, but radio stations were not fully operational until the following year. The first radio station in São Paulo was Educadora Paulista, which opened in 1923, and this was followed a year later by the Radio Clube of São Paulo and, in 1927, Cruzeiro do Sul Radio. There were many radio stations in São Paulo whose programmes broadcast rural folk music on a daily basis, either in the morning or early evening. According to Sant’Anna ( 2000 ), some of the leading avant-garde poets who participated in the celebrated 1922 Modern Art Week, such as Menotti del Picchia and Guilherme de Almeida, worked as writers for those stations, which dedicated a significant number of programmes to regional rural folk music.
Musicalities, Playing Styles, Hybridities
Music is an everyday element in the cultures of rural communities in Brazil, functioning as a mediator of social relationships. In religious festivities it acts as a guiding thread connecting the entire ritual process, and it is through music that men and women gather and organize rituals for celebrating life events and personal achievements. But just as the caipira, their language and culture were ideologically stigmatized from the early Republican period, their artistic manifestations also met with an ethnocentrically prejudiced view which took for granted the universality of a standardized set of educational, cultural and aesthetic values to be adhered to by all, regardless of any diversity of social and cultural identity.
The caipiras’ rustic playing style was thus interpreted as reflecting a lack of technical skill, whereas in reality an apparent lack of resources for one given musical activity might actually generate different resources that would not otherwise be developed. With hands calloused from the demands of rural labour, the caipira developed skills that someone with a hand skilled in strumming would not take the effort to cultivate, such as in the domain of rhythmic patterns and sections, and metric organization. The approach of a catireiro or a pagodeiro 9 to the accompaniment of a song is distinctive, and their execution with a specific corresponding swing and accent is very difficult to grasp, even for an expert instrumentalist, if they are not initiated in the caipira playing style. This ‘unclean’ style of execution ends up creating new sonic patterns, as is the case in flamenco music, where the action of the guitar is adjusted so that the strings are set close to the frets, to facilitate the playing of fast solos, resulting in a buzz from the string striking the fret when played forcefully. This effect, which is heavily frowned upon by scholarly players of the instrument, thus becomes an element of sonic diversity in flamenco as in caipira folk music.
Through music, the caipiras have narrated their stories and transmitted their values, conveying otherwise unheard-of knowledge, such as tales of cattle herds making their journeys, droughts, the impact on poor communities of dam construction or the petrol supply crisis during World War II, and the rural exodus caused by the coffee crisis. They have also used their music to promote vaccination campaigns and other initiatives to mobilize the population (Lima 1997 ). The shift in orientation of the rural market caused by the so-called March to the West in the 1950s, when President Getúlio Vargas followed the North American model of colonization and development of the Western hinterland in a drive to reconstitute the nation, was portrayed in songs recounting the rise of cattle raising over arable farming. Laço Justiceiro (Lasso Defender of Justice), by Sulino and Marrueiro, demonstrates how such values are conveyed in these musical narratives:

Tempo que eu fui boiadeiro
Foi um tempo divertido
Mas eu tenho uma passagem
Que não sai do meu sentido
Certo dia viajando
Pela estrada distraído
Quinhentos contos eu trazia
De um gado que foi vendido
Na hora que eu dei por fé
O dinheiro tinha perdido
Um menino inocente
Por ali vinha passando
O almoço pro seu pai
Com certeza ia levando
Acharam aquele dinheiro
Contente foram guardando
Quando me viram na estrada
Por todo lado campeando
De bom gosto o coitadinho
O dinheiro foi me entregando
Quando eu peguei o dinheiro
Nem sei como agradecia
Dei dez conto pro menino
Porque ele bem merecia
Quando eu dei o dinheiro
Teve um sujeito que via
Dali eu segui viagem
Mas aquilo não esquecia
O que ia acontecer
O meu coração pressentia
Quanto mais eu viajava
Mais ficava contrariado
Resolvi voltar prá trás
Pelo destino mandado
Palavra que até chorei
Ao ver o que tinha se dado
O tal matou o menino
Dinheiro tinha roubado
Outro inocente chorava
No irmãozinho abraçado
Onde o caminho encobria
Eu inda pude avistá
O malvado assassino
Correndo prá se livrá
Risquei meu burro na espora
E dei em cima prá pegá
Numa cerca de arame
Quando ele quis travessá
Eu lacei esse bandido
Como laça um marruá
Dali prá delegacia
Levei o tal amarrado
E o menininho morto
Nos meus braços carregado
Levei o seu irmãozinho
prá provar o que foi se dado
O meu laço justiceiro
Entreguei pro delegado
Prá servir de testemunha
Daquele triste passado.

(There was a time when I was a cowboy/ That was a fun time/ But something happened with me/ That I just can’t get out of my mind/ I was one day travelling/ Absent-mindedly along a road,/ I had 500 bucks with me/ From some cattle that had been sold/ Then suddenly I realized/ That I had lost the dough// An innocent boy/ Was walking along the way/ He was no doubt taking/ Lunch to his father/ They had found the money/ Happily holding on to it/ When they saw me on the road/ Looking for something high and low/ The poor guy, out of goodwill/ Gave it back to me// When I took the money/ I didn’t know how to thank him/ I gave 10 bucks to the boy/ Because he deserved it/ When I gave him the money/ There was a guy watching us/ Then I went on my way/ And I couldn’t forget that/ My heart it sensed/ What was going to happen// As I travelled on/ I felt more and more uneasy/ I decided to turn back/ As fate was telling me/ I swear I even wept/ When I saw what had happened/ The guy had killed the boy/ And stolen his money,/ Another innocent one wept/ As he hugged his little brother// Half hidden down the road/ I could just make out/ The evil murderer/ Running so as to get away / I spurred on my mule/ I headed off to catch him/ When he tried to jump over/ A wire fence/ I lassoed the outlaw/ The way you lasso an angry bull// I tied the fellow up/ And took him to the police station/ And the dead little boy/ I carried in my arms/ I took his little brother/ To prove what had happened/ My lasso of justice/ I handed over to the policeman/ To serve as a witness/ Of that sad episode.)
This account holds intrinsic values: the boy’s honesty, his reward for being honest, the presentiment of the cowboy that we can call intuition or a voice from the heart, the presence of evil (which exists and needs to be closely watched), and finally the frontier (when the murderer was about to jump over the fence and get away unpunished) and justice in the form of a lasso, bringing the criminal back to the world that judges and punishes those who commit evil actions. So many lessons are contained in such a short ballad, through which oral tradition structures ludically a world of systems and values which allow those who inhabit it to live in a regime of peace, solidarity and mutual respect. However, at the height of its success this composition, which is so rich in imagery, sonic elements, phonology and rhythm, was treated as inferior by an uncomprehending ethnocentricity that failed to give it its due recognition and respect.
During and following World War II, Caribbean rhythms such as the rumba, bolero, cha-cha-cha, calypso and mambo flooded into Brazil via the United States, where they had already been stylized, rendered devoid of their original ethnic values and given an orchestral treatment. Some of these rhythms were incorporated into mainstream Brazilian popular music, which had samba and its slower lyrical ballad variant, samba-canção , as centrepieces. At the same time, the March to the West brought to Brazil musical elements from Paraguay such as the guarania and the Paraguayan polka, whose song forms and rhythms were incorporated into caipira music. Afro-American melodies from the Caribbean were drawn towards samba, which is also Afro-American, while Iberian-indigenous rhythms from Paraguay were added to música caipira, which is likewise Iberian and indigenous, suggesting a parallel process of mutual attraction through ethnic and cultural affinity. Across its history, approximately sixteen new rhythms have been created within música caipira – cururu , cateretê , moda-de-viola (rural folk song), querumana , pagode , recortado , guarania , polka, batuque (Afro-Brazilian drumming), cipó-preto , lundu (a song and dance of Angolan origin), congado , folia , jaca , toada and rural samba – making of it the most expansive rhythmic ‘umbrella’ of Brazilian popular music. However, because of ethnocentrism, the marker of sophistication was attached to harmonic complexity, and as a consequence the rhythmic diversity displayed by música caipira has not been deemed worthy of respect.
Rooting, Singing Histories, New Times
The cultural shock caused by the rural exodus was to the detriment of the migrants, who found no place for their knowledge in the new order or within the new modes of production demanded of them. With capitalism orienting human relations, distinctions between the familial social roles of men and women gradually disappeared, and values based on that gendered division of labour ceased to exist. For those who remained in the countryside, the intensification of single-crop farming and mechanized agriculture contributed to the shattering of popular culture and its relational structures. Points of reference were lost and values progressively became attenuated both in the countryside and in the towns and cities,

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