27.09.16 - Rabo de Galo

Oy oy,

Hope all well 'n good with you.   A low-key few days here, after the utilities-based trauma of last week - we had our lawyer friends Dany and Andre round on Friday night, partly to go through our damages suit against Eletropaulo together but mainly just to let off steam and eat pizza. 

On Saturday we went to Vila Mariana for one of Gaby's friends' birthday, and allegedly the best coxinhas (a creamy chicken snack and something of a national treasure, rightly so) in town; then on Sunday I went for a solo drive and wander round rainy Vila Madalena, past the lurid graffiti of Batman Alley and on to the Coffee Lab, which serves a lovely brew among all the superfluous test tubes and Bunsen burners. Probably my favourite part of town so far...

Elsewhere we tried getting the three cats together at the weekend, but Valente went medieval on their asses so they're being kept apart until further notice; I've made another, rather far-out mixtape; I can heartily recommend this documentary about an ancient Japanese sushi master (and Herzog's "Cave of Forgotten Dreams", for his soothing voiceover if nothing else); and finally, after football on Thursday I was presented with a rabo de galo, a cocktail made up of equal parts cachaça and Cinzano, which was rather nice (and which translates as "cock's tail"). 

Até logo, Botafogo,

Fred

20.09.16 - Dar a cara á tapa

Hallooo,

I write to you (from yesterday evening) from the dark husk of our living room, with no light or sound but the incessant yapping of dogs outside, since the electric company cut our power earlier for alleged non-payment of bills and I now have to wait for them to come back, show them proof that we did in fact pay the bill in question, and get them to turn the power back on. Apparently they might not even show up tonight at all but I have to hang around in case they do, and in the meantime I've had to resort to using a spare iPad just to write this e-mail like some kind of common pleb. How positively Dickensian...

• (Update @ 10pm 19.09.16: No word from the electric company. So dark...)

• (Update @ 2pm 20.09.16: Still no news. Fridge starting to emit strange smells.  A man upstairs sounds like he's building a shed.)

• (Update @ 2:30pm 20.09.16: When will the waiting end?)

But all is well otherwise! We picked up yet another cat last week - called Valente - as part of Gaby's ongoing quest to rescue every stray in São Paulo, although this one is strictly temporary until his owner finds new lodgings. He was neutered yesterday and spent the rest of the day wobbling around the flat in comical fashion as the anaesthetic wore off, poor thing. Don't get too used to him though.

On Tuesday we went to see local piano-meisters João Carlos Martins and Arthur Moreira Lima play a show together at the Teatro Bourbon, after Ridaut scored some box tickets from work. Having never heard of either of them beforehand I was pleasantly surprised, and even a little moved by their backstory, which they frequently expounded upon in jovial fashion between songs. They both grew up as child prodigies and best mates, and were fast-tracked by Eleanor Roosevelt and President Kubitschek respectively, before studying in the States and Russia during the Cold War. Then at the height of his fame, Martins was assaulted and paralysed, but regained enough movement in his hands to become a conductor, and eventually start playing the piano again. It was quite poignant when the show cut away from his rather hesitant recitals to old footage of him shredding merrily away to Rachmaninov, but overall it was all very life-affirming and interesting. Bit of cultcha, innit.

And on Friday, we went to another show, compered by the son of one of Gaby's supervisors, who had apparently given up on his studies to pursue a career in magic. And very cool it was too, sort of a variety show made up of different kinds of magic - a surrealist Magritte homage with pipes popping out of paintings and back again, a tongue-in-cheek deconstruction of a trick (sorry, "illusion") to show how it's usually best not to know the magician's inner workings, a minimalist sketch involving leaves and straws that apparently took 8 years to perfect, mindreading, escapism, slow motion air ping pong, and finally a showstopper featuring a man who looked uncannily like a robot mannequin doing a demented line dance with his Dr. Frankenstein-esque master. Then we went for a pizza, which was pretty good too.

Otherwise work continues apace, I've reentered the footballing fray with all the match fitness and grace of a post-summer-holiday Wayne Rooney, and have tentatively road-tested Gaby's electroacoustic at our nearby practice rooms (the conclusion being that yes, I need a new guitar...). I have whipped up a frothy new compilation for your listening pleasure (but can't access Spotify right now, for power-related reasons, so I'll upload the link to my blog in due course), and my phrase of the week ("to put the face to the slap") means to get stuck in, basically. I also draw your attention to this book, which I first found in Foz do Iguaçu, and which sets out to translate (poorly) into English a load of Brazilian proverbs, resulting in a funhouse-mirror take on the translation game. Most amusing...

'Til next we do Skype,
Born Fred, as Fred as the wind blows.


Postscript @ 4pm 20.09.16: The power came back on almost exactly 24 hours after it was cut off (and minutes before the company's self-imposed deadline, which disappointingly meant I didn't even get to unleash my pre-planned rant over the phone).  I have been bathed, clothed and am recuperating over tea.   

And here's compilation I mentioned: https://play.spotify.com/user/freddypowys/playlist/6WtPQHYUmbzcoROnoPxK7d

13.09.16 - Cê topa?

Wotcha,

So it turns out Foz do Iguaçu is pretty dull once you’ve done all the (admittedly awesome) tourist stuff – the first time I ventured out alone in search of lunch, I ended up in the completely deserted downtown area, with not a single shop open as far as the eye could see.  I was later reminded that it was a national holiday for the anniversary of Brazilian independence, but still, didn’t exactly inspire confidence…

Spent an interminable four days trying to get the hotel internet to work and generally flopping about while Gaby went to her convention and rubbed elbows with fellow behaviourists, then rallied our spirits on Friday night for a fancy-dress party – wearing a dodgy wig and waistcoat in honour of my musical hero, Wesley Safadão – and got the hell out of Dodge at 4am the next morning.

Gaby’s backlog of studies and general post-holiday lethargy meant we didn’t do much over the weekend either, so in lieu of any real news I’ve decided to turn this week’s blog entry over to an extensive study of MPB heartthrob Luan Santana, another of the sertanejo Holy Trinity that we saw in concert about a year ago and have plagued my life ever since (Jorge & Mateus, I’ll deal with you later…)

I regret to report that even after all this time I still can’t get into sertanejo, although I’ve at least moved beyond the initial state known jokingly round these parts as sertanojo (“serta-nausea”), brought on by lengthy exposure to accordions. But Luan Santana intrigues me, as his success goes against virtually everything I thought I knew about pop music and X-factor.  It is no exaggeration to say that his continued, enormous popularity has shaken my system of beliefs to its very core.

Sure, at first glance he may seem like the Brazilian Justin Beiber, from the trendy clothes and hair to the highly punchable face, and undeniably catchy hits.  But in his lyrics he comes across as such a massive square – the Cliff Richard to Wesley Safadão’s randy Mick Jagger, if you will - that I’m always amazed anyone within his audience’s main demographics (teenagers, adults with arrested development, etc) can listen to him with a straight face.

Take one of his signature hits, “Cê Topa” (“What do you say?”), whose chorus goes “me, you, two kids and a dog, a blanket and a good film in the August cold - what do you say?”   I mean, it’s a catchy tune, but I would have thought the cloying domesticity, not to say the utter lameness, of such sentiments would be total anathema to any normal moody teenager.  At my advanced age, I actually happen to find the idea of curling up with a blanket and a good film appealing, but I would never dare write a song about it, and I certainly wouldn’t expect the youth to lap it up in their droves if I did.  Where’s the crippling angst?  The dizzying euphoria? The terrifying lows, the dizzying highs, the creamy middles that characterise all the most memorable pop songs?

But lap it up they do, more so with every new, highly formulaic single.  “Tudo Que Você Quiser” has him offering to give his last name to an unidentified bride-to-be, “Chuva de Arroz” has him imagining getting married at the local church as soon as possible, while “Escreve Aí” – his biggest hit so far and probably his best, in a syrupy Disney soundtrack kind of way – introduces some post-break-up tension, only for Santana to fold faster than Superman on laundry day, saying he’ll come crawling back at the click of a finger.  One of his songs is even based on the decades-long unrequited longing of “Love in the Time of Cholera”, for God’s sake.

All standard wish-fulfilment bollocks, of course – our man Luan is not even remotely married, and like any self-respecting pop star probably sleeps on a pile of money surrounded by many beautiful, interchangeable women – but it’s the nature of the wish that perplexes and freaks me out a bit.  I can only deduce that Brazilian teenagers really do want to get married and settle down, like some kind of mad Evangelical cult…

I realise my finger isn’t exactly on the pulse, but I can’t think of any other pop stars whose songs so consistently yearn for a happy marriage, safe family, wholesome pets and a balanced credit card.  “When I’m Sixty-Four” and “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” are the only songs that spring to mind, but they aren’t really aimed at teens, are nearly fifty years old and are probably secretly about drugs anyway.  There are plenty of contented dad-rockers out there, sure, but presumably they’re just singing to other contented dads. 

I assumed this was because teenagers tend to turn their nose up at things like marriage and domestic bliss, while the rest of us either feel the same or lead such sheltered, predictable lives that we demand our music be slightly edgy just for the sake of contrast.  Even people like Ed Sheeran, Bruno Mars and the Backstreet Boys have always been marketed with some semblance of bad-boy grit, so as not to lose the rebellious adolescent vote; yet against all odds Santana has completely embraced the goody-two-shoes act and cornered the youth market in Brazil, because apparently that’s what they want.

I spoke to a number of experts about this (OK, just Gaby), and it is a definite regional phenomenon… Kids here almost invariably live with, and are supplied for by their parents until they’re married off.   This is usually because of issues related to security and economics, but mainly just down to tradition and/or religion.   So there’s a lot more kinship and less tension between generations than in Europe and the US, and conversely a much stronger desire among the young’uns to get married sooner rather than later, and gain some kind of independence. 

This means they can relate to a blanket and a good film on a cold day – old-person stuff, basically - perhaps more than raving in a warehouse or freezing in a Brixton squat.  It might also explain why everyone I’ve met here is obsessed with going to Disneyland.   All of which I can understand, even if it makes for some pretty toothless music (and some pretty unrealistic expectations of marriage, for that matter)…

I should add in closing that I don’t want to be too hard on Luan, who seems like a lovely lad with some good tunes, and who probably shouldn’t be held responsible for the whims of an entire society… I also haven’t even got round to mentioning Roberto Carlos (NB: not the footballer) who actually is the Brazilian Cliff Richard, right down to the age-defying toupee – I’ll be sure to include a full report on him in the weeks to come, because he cracks me up.

Next week on Gringolândia, SP: a hot new take on the Myspace craze that’s taking the nation by storm, and an uncompromising investigation into the socioeconomic roots of the Harlem Shake.

Yours, down with the kids,

Fredredom

PS: Almost forgot – new compilation o’clock!  And I can recommend the new Nick Cave album as the perfect antidote to anything Luan Santana-related, or indeed anything positive or comforting ever.

PPS: Got your postcard from Berlin and letter from Cambridge! I have a postcard for you from Foz, which I will send on the first mule out of town.

06.09.16 - Do Paraguai

Greetings from Foz do Iguaçu on the Brazilian-Argentinian-Paraguayan border; land of epic waterfalls, parrots and cut-price electronics.   Gaby's conference doesn't get started until tomorrow so we've had plenty of time to check out the local sights... and what sights they were.  Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

On Friday night we arrived at the airport - greeted by a full-size model of Will Smith from the local waxworks - and checked in to our hotel in time to eat at nearby La Mafia, an amazing local trattoria full of Godfather memorabilia (and a 2014 edition of Shortlist magazine, bizarrely), where all the waiters dressed up like mobsters.  No doubt we'll be heading back there before the week is through. 

On Saturday we took a cab to the Ponte de Amizade and crossed the border to Paraguay on foot, taking in the bustling main street of Ciudad del Este and getting massively scammed in several hugely inflated currencies (€1 = 6,200 Paraguayan Guarani, fact fans). It was like the Rua 25 de Março - São Paulo's chaotic epicentre of tat - blown up to the scale of an entire city, and was exactly the kind of dodgy, Tijuana-esque border town I was expecting.   

At one point we climbed 12 stories of the relatively upmarket Sax building for a calzone or two overlooking the city, and concluded our visit at the Shopping China, an almost entirely empty mall-in-construction reminiscent of Dawn of the Dead, that we chose to leave early out of sheer creepiness.  Glad we checked it out, and ticked another country off the list, but not sure I'd ever go back... The day was rounded off at Emporio com Arte, a cool art gallery-slash-restaurant that does a mean caipirinha.

We were up bright and early on Sunday, to be whisked off to the Parque das Aves, a national sanctuary stuffed with rare birds from all over the world, and a few reptiles thrown in for good measure. Made our way through the park with some of Gaby's psychology chums in tow, past an array of emus, flamingos, cassowaries, owls, cranes, boa constrictors, crocodiles, hummingbirds, toucans, unclassifiable turkey-like creatures and a badass-looking harpy eagle. My favourite part was the parrot aviary, packed to the rafters with the buggers, divebombing and posing for selfies - absolute Jurassic-Park-wish-fulfilment stuff. Definitely the coolest zoo I've ever been to, and apparently all the birds were rescued from a far worse fate at the hands of poachers, so it was relatively guilt-free to boot.

Then it was a short trip across the road to the Iguassu Falls National Park, and a bus ride to the start of the trail - a damp yet awe-inspiring hike past countless waterfalls and rivers, culminating in a walkway out into the centre of the lake, at the foot of the awesomely-named Garganta Del Diablo.  Very impressive stuff, followed by a "panoramic elevator" up to the top of the falls, and lunch surrounded by scavenging quatis (fluffy racoon-anteater hybrids whose name apparently means "hole-pig!" in the local Indian language...).  Then after drying off and having a much-needed nap, we feasted on burgers at the nearby shopping centre before turning in for the night.

Yesterday I did battle with the unreliable hotel wifi and got all my work out of the way by 6pm, at which point we boarded a chartered van full of more psychologists, bound for Argentina. Disembarked at a massive duty-free hangar, presumably located between borders, for some dispassionate shopping (it just reminded me of an airport, if airports consisted entirely of the duty-free section, although there were some cool themed rooms and lots of chocolate...), before heading for the local ice bar.  

Donned coats and gloves, cooled down in a weird anteroom and stepped into a freezer vault full of ice sculptures, for some decidedly chilly socialising and as many cocktails as we could get our hands on from the open bar in our allotted 30 minutes, all to an eclectic soundtrack of CCR and Wesley Safadão, and surrounded by Brazilian youths singing less-than-complementary songs about Diego Maradona and Cristina Kirchner. Then it was on to a cool night market to stock up on MEAT and alfajor, and pet some local dogs, before heading back to Brazil and collapse. Most fun...

I think that about covers it - there's not much else to do here beyond the afore-mentioned tourist spots, so I'll be holed up in the hotel while Gaby does her behavioural analysis thing - although the power station and dam are meant to be pretty impressive, especially when lit up at night.  Oh, and in the midst of all our travels, Brazil changed President three times in one day last week, but I'm afraid there's no time to talk about that now...  Here's a mix I made earlier, and my phrase of the day - "do Paraguai" - refers to contraband, knock-off products usually found in places like Ciudad del Este. 

Hope all well wit'choo, and speak soon (wi-fi permitting)!

Fred Moon Rising