Or you can listen on our website!

Though we now live in Belo Horizonte (Brazil), Portland, Chicago, as well as Urbana (Illinois), we have continued to consider future projects. Hopefully, we will have an exciting announcement in the future …

Monday morning, Jaimie and I arose to squeeze in a bit more historical tourism in Ouro Preto. We climbed the ladeira up to Praça Tiradentes. On the way, I took this picture of an oratório perched on a corner overlooking a steep valley.

Passo de Antônio Dias: an example of an oratório in Ouro Preto

(Note: an oratório is a structure constructed for personal worship and prayer. It ranges in size from one wall of a room, to a portable chest, to a medallion worn around the neck. Click here to visit the photo gallery of the Museu do Oratório in Ouro Preto to see examples).

The small plaque to the right of the double door explains that this oratório—Passo de Antônio Dias—is one of five remaining in Ouro Preto. It opens only during Semana Santa (Holy Week), specifically during the Processão do Encontro on Domingo dos Ramos (see my prior post), the Processão do Enterro (Procession of the Interment of Jesus Christ), e Sexta-Feira Santa (Good Friday).

Looking back at my photos after the trip, I realized I had snapped a picture of that same oratório the day before—on Domingo dos Ramos (Palm Sunday). What luck! I remember having watched ouropretanos (residents of Ouro Preto) pass by, pay their respects, and resume the quotidian, such as running errands, shopping, visiting relatives.

Passo de Antônio Dias: open for only a few days of the year, I snapped this on Palm Sunday

This aspect of individual spirituality fascinates me. Historically, it seems to have arisen out of colonial necessity. Portuguese settlers simply couldn’t build churches fast enough, especially not in the remote, mountainous state of Minas Gerais. But, portable oratórios helped keep people invested in the Catholic Church.

Here are two more oratórios that opened during the evening processionals of Semana Santa (Holy Week).

Oratório in Ouro Preto open during the Processão do Encontro on Domingo dos Ramos (Palm Sunday)

Oratório in São João del Rei open during Quarta-Feira das Cinzas (Ash Wednesday)

Monday evening, Jaimie and I parted ways. She returned to Belo Horizonte to continue her biological research on tadpoles (so neat!), and I took a bus to São João del Rei.

A few weeks ago, I stumbled across an announcement for an ethnomusicology conference that would take place in Rio de Janeiro. It was set to begin in just two weeks—a little tight for flight shopping—but as I read the program I decided it was not to be missed.

The conference was to focus on the Palavra Cantada (or, Sung Word) and among the presenters listed in the program were numerous well-respected and widely published researchers of Brazilian music, including Liv Sovik, Carlos Sandroni, José Miguel Wisnik, Luiz Tatit, Marcos Napolitano, Elizabeth Travassos and David Treece, and my own mentor at UFMG (Universidade Federal de Minas Gerais) Glaura Lucas.

The guest speaker, much to my delight, was to be Anthony Seeger, an American ethnomusicologist whose best known work Why Suyá Sing: A Musical Anthropology of an Amazonian People is never missing from required reading lists in academia. He has also written extensively about ethics, recording practices, and copyright, and served as executive producer at the Smithsonian Folkways record label for more than a decade. [A surprising sidenote: Why Suyá Sing has never been translated into Portuguese!?!?!]

Upon taking a closer look at the program, I realized that all of the events started at 2 pm each day—nothing at all was planned in the mornings! I have NEVER seen a conference schedule like that in the US or UK. Rather than spending my time on the beach, as many of my friends recommended, I planned to spend the mornings doing archival research in the Biblioteca Nacional (National Library).

Photo Credit: Agência Estado. Interior of Biblioteca Nacional de Rio de Janeiro (Nacional Library).

Delighted by all I would learn and discover, I enrolled in the conference, found a cheap flight, and booked a moderately-priced hotel in Glória, a neighborhood just south of Centro and a few metrô stops away from the conference site in Urca.

At this point, my perfectly planned—and nerdtastic, as my husband would say—research trip started to unravel.

Rather than bore you with all the hairy details, I decided to write a little story about my failed trip. In fact, as I write it, the trip still hasn’t ended—I still have two more hours until my flight leaves Aeroporto Santos Dumont.

Rio de Janeiro in Five days and Four Nights

Day 1: 98.6^o

I dreamed of five days and four nights in Rio de Janeiro,

until the workers of the National Library went on strike: Biblioteca fechou.*

I dreamed of five days and four nights in Rio de Janeiro,

until I forgot the often-elusive, but ever-essential charger for my waning cell phone.

I dreamed of five days and four nights in Rio de Janeiro,

until Prince canceled his scheduled appearance with Chaka Khan. Prince. PRINCE. NOOOO!!

I dreamed of five days and four nights in Rio de Janeiro,

until I awoke at 3 am with tonsils each the size of a small plum.

Day 2: 100.5^o

I dreamed of four days and three nights in Rio de Janeiro,

as I bought my first box of Cimegripe** from the farmácia.

I dreamed of four days and three nights in steamy Rio de Janeiro,

while I shivered, sweated, and slept, waking only to eat or pee.

I dreamed of four days and three nights in Rio de Janeiro,

including a nightmare of a Brazilian wandering spider attacking my spine as I slept.

Day 3: 102.1^o

I dreamed of three days and two nights in Rio de Janeiro,

as the garçonete*** looked pitifully at me upon arriving late for breakfast. (She let me eat anyway).

I dreamed of three days and two nights in Rio de Janeiro,

as I bought my second box of Cimegripe from the farmácia.

I dreamed (in vain) of three days and two nights in Rio de Janeiro,

until my dizzy head and flaming cheeks were no match for the conference in its second full day.

Day 4: 100.8^o

I hoped for just two days and 1 night in Rio de Janeiro,

until I turned on the hot water in the shower and absolutely nothing came out at all.

I pleaded for two days and 1 night in Rio de Janeiro,

while I napped through my third consecutive morning in the Cidade Maravilhosa.****

I longed for two days and 1 night in Rio de Janeiro,

and when I made it to the closing night of the conference, I listened, weak and bewildered, but left without meeting a soul.

Day 5: 99.2^o

I settled for one last day in Rio de Janeiro,

and just missed extending my hotel room to accommodate my 8:50 pm flight.

I left the hotel for one last day in Rio de Janeiro,

and bought my third box of Cimegripe, much to the pharmacist’s amusement.

I wandered through the last day in Rio de Janeiro,

and huddled in a dark café corner with an extreme-garlic-and-potato soup, a new book, and no one in sight.

I could not face the last day in Rio de Janeiro,

and settled in for five long hours at the Aeroporto Santos Dumont.

Home: 98.6^o

I spent five days and four nights in Rio de Janeiro,

and all I got was a cold and this lousy poem.

*Biblioteca fechou—library closed

**Cimegripe—Tylenol- and chlorphenamine-based cold medicine and sister to the infamous Benegripe, but without the wallop of 250 mg of caffeine. (Note: an average cup of coffee/tea contains 75-100 mg of caffeine).

***Garçonete—waitress

****Cidade Maravilhosa—marvelous city, Rio de Janeiro’s nickname

[Note: Apologies to the city of Rio de Janeiro—I am sure you are perfectly marvelous under normal circumstances.]

Two of the reasons Ouro Preto attracts so many visitors: historic churches and the mountainous landscape

The next morning, Domingo dos Ramos (Palm Sunday), Jaimie and I awoke early in order to participate in another processão. This one was to depart the beautiful Igreja de São Francisco de Assis—the church that uses the second largest amount of gold in its interior design in Brazil (the first is in Salvador da Bahia). We heard ringing church bells as we showered and prepared to leave, but when we arrived at the church, it was empty. Despite local advertisements, the processão had already departed before 8 am!

We asked some locals and discovered that we could walk a few short blocks and find a mass in session. We did so, and took part in the blessing of the ramos, or palms. A choir sang accompanied by an ad hoc group of instrumentalists—flute, trumpet, organ, a few clarinets.

After the mass had concluded, I spoke briefly with a few of the singers. When they found we were Americans, they seemed very excited that we would be interested in the church music, and shared their personal experiences.

A woman in her thirties said she had only been in the choir for a year and learned mostly by ear, but that she hoped to learn how to read music. The choir director, a man in his early fifties, had been with the church for thirty years, and was proud to be able to keep the music going as part of religious services. The elder member, a man in his late sixties, complained that cell phone use during services was becoming all too common. He also ridiculed local politicians for having closed a government-funded music school in the area, the only option for those of modest means to access music education.

As we happily chatted, the elderly man explained that his voice felt very hoarse that day and not to judge him too harshly. Then, he told us that we couldn’t miss the evening processão which would feature the Cerimônia do Encontro, a reenactment of the meeting of Mary and Jesus Christ as he entered Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. We promised to be there.

Bells ringing outside the Santuário Nossa Senhora da Conceição

After a full day of visiting historical sites of Ouro Preto, Jaimie and I struck out to find the evening procession. I had read conflicting information about where the processão would begin, but when we saw an elderly trombonist in a marching band uniform, we knew he would lead us in the right direction.

Trombonist heading to the processão. The windows in the distance are decorated with red banners in honor of Palm Sunday.

We arrived at Praça Tiradentes—the central town square—just before sunset. We found an empty curb in view of the temporary stage set up for the occasion and watched the crowds slowly gather. My favorite scene is of a young girl in an angel costume being photographed by her adoring grandfather. He snapped picture after picture in front of the setting sun as the I-know-I-am-adorable-but-I-will-pretend-I-don’t-notice-all-of-the-people-watching-me girl gave smile after smile.

Angel granddaughter in Praça Tiradentes

The sun set. The humming crowd of over one thousand quieted and an hour-long sermon commenced as the moon slowly rose over Praça Tiradentes. I marveled at the silent attention this huge mass of ouropretanos gave to the impassioned guest bishop. Only the sounds of fidgety children could be heard and the occasional hum and creak of a passing car.

Moon rising over Praça Tiradentes

The priest gave particular attention to Mary, or Nossa Senhora das Dores (Our Lady of Sorrows), explaining the significance of this encounter and the pain she would endure at the impending loss of her son. Mary’s significance for this priest was as a metaphor for the pain and suffering of motherhood and a reminder for ouropretanos to honor the matriarchs of their families.

As the priest spoke, two wooden images squeezed their way through opposite sides of the crowded square. Each dais was accompanied by costumed sentinels in Roman dress and a band of brass, winds and percussion. As the priest spoke, the images neared closer and closer until his passionate speech reached a peak and the images met face to face.

Cerimônia do Encontro: the images of Mary and Jesus Christ meet in Praça Tiradentes

The priest closed his speech, hundreds clapped, and the processão began. Jaimie and I were unprepared for what followed.

The processão wound through street after street, over a river, past warmly glowing restaurants, solemn-looking churches, and many open windows. The two bands following each wooden image traded off playing hymns throughout the 3-hour journey.

Processão under a nearly full moon

A musician struggles to find the next song while descending a steep street

Church elders leading the processão

After snapping pictures of the happy but tired musicians, Jaimie and I found our way back through the winding streets to eat a quick dinner and collapse into bed. The next morning we awoke feeling like old women—our legs ached, we limped around our little pousada room, and only long showers could prepare us to climb the ladeira for our last day in Ouro Preto.

Evening in Ouro Preto with Jaimie

One of my goals here in Minas Gerais has been to try to get a broad understanding of the types of cultural production that involve music-making. Though my research focuses on the Clube da Esquina—a musical collective often categorized as MPB (música popular brasileira)—I am devoted to investigating the many musical manifestations in Brazil and Minas Gerais that influenced their output.

One of those influences comes from Catholic religious celebrations. During Semana Santa (Holy Week), I traveled to two colonial cities in Minas Gerais in order to learn more about the importance of Catholicism in civic life. First, I took my dear friend Jaimie to Ouro Preto.

Ouro Preto celebrated its 300^th anniversary this year (1711 – 2011). Its original name was Vila Rica (Rich Village) due to its status as the center of Brazil’s gold rush and was the capital of Minas Gerais for much of the 19^th century, well before Belo Horizonte (the current capital) was constructed. Today, Ouro Preto teams with domestic and international tourists, stumbling through the many ladeiras (steep streets; or literally, ladders) to museums, churches, and shops.

Looking down the "ladder", or ladeira, past the Casa da Ópera (in yellow), the oldest working concert hall in the Americas

Although Jaimie and I ventured into museums and a few shops, my willing assistant accompanied me on at least three of the many processões (processions) scheduled throughout Semana Santa. We arrived on Saturday afternoon, the day before Domingo dos Ramos (Palm Sunday). After checking into a modest, but very well-kept pousada (bed and breakfast), we climbed our way back up to Praça Tiradentes (the central town square) in search of the first of many processions.

We wandered down a few winding streets and found the Matriz Nossa Senhora do Pilar (head church, or also womb, of Our Lady of Pilar). At 7 pm, the church was already overflowing with a softly buzzing swarm of worshippers. The priest gave a brief sermon introducing Holy Week, and then unveiled a wooden image of Jesus Christ inside of a purple-cloaked dais.

Priest blessing the image of Jesus Christ with smoke

Image of Jesus Christ leaving the Matriz de Nossa Senhora do Pilar

The churches in Ouro Preto share the responsibility and honor of hosting the images of Jesus Christ and Mary. This night, the image of Jesus Christ was carried through the steep and winding streets of Ouro Preto to arrive at Santuário da Imaculada Conceição (Sanctuary of the Immaculate Conception).

Church volunteers carried the dais while followers filled the narrow, cobbled streets from door to door. A city band in navy uniforms accompanied the procession playing religious hymns. Marching over the uneven ground at night and reading the sheet music attached to the musician’s backs certainly made for challenging music-making (and photography—my apologies), but ouropretanos are used to scaling these streets.

Processão with the image of Jesus Christ at left in purple

City band marching under onlookers leaning out open windows

Two things particularly struck me about this event. First, the processão seemed to be an event for generations to gather together. I saw granddaughters assisting very elderly grandmothers over the cobblestones, nephews walking with uncles, and parents greeting children arriving from other cities in Minas Gerais who had come home for the holiday week.

Second, despite these encounters, the followers were solemn. Mineiros (residents of Minas Gerais), and brasileiros in general, greet family and friends with enthusiasm! But, this night was muted and reserved for an internalized religiosity.

My subsequent travel to São João del Rei would be a very different experience.

Arrival at Santuário da Imaculada Conceição

Today, I waxed a bit nostalgic and decided to practice a tune I sang for my master’s recital in 2008 at the University of Illinois. Later on, I decided to see what I actually sounded like three years ago, which for many musicians I know can be a cringe-worthy task. I decided that several recordings were passable in general, but for various flaws (at least, in my ears), were not passable for public consumption.

However, one recording actually made me smile. Thank goodness!

Click here to view the embedded video.

**Note: The video version of the audio allows me to store the information on YouTube, though I have no actual video footage of this performance. Therefore, enjoy some photos of my many trips through Minas Gerais, Brazil.**

This performance of John Coltrane’s “Central Park West” is from a performance at the ArtsGarden in Indianapolis, Indiana. It was recorded about three weeks after my master’s recital, and I think it shows. I sound more relaxed and less measured in my approach; I take more risks, and fortunately they pay off more often than not.

The ArtsGarden is a spherical glass structure that hovers above the intersection of Meridian and Washington streets in downtown Indy. Now, one would think that an entirely glass structure would be a nightmare of a performance space. While I wouldn’t recommend that a percussion ensemble perform there, the acoustic baffling is enough to provide a “live,” yet comfortable, environment. Apologies, however, for the not-so-in-tune piano.

The ArtsGarden at night in Indianapolis (Image Source: www.indyarts.org)

This recording features the following dear friends and lovely musicians (miss you guys!):

Chris Reyman — piano

Jonathan Wegge — bass

Joshua Hunt — drums

The lyrics come from a mental image I developed from the title. I spent an afternoon in Central Park, New York City with my longtime friend Kathy Jacobson in 2005. As I wrote lyrics, I thought back to that time and imagined what it would be like to live nearby and spend afternoons there relaxing on a blanket, a homemade lunch in tow. The story tells of that mental space between waking and dreaming, and seemingly disparate images that form in one’s mind. The singer seeks to accept the unrelated thoughts, and simply enjoy the moment for what it is, allowing the present to begin to feel timeless. A sort of Central Park meditation.

Lay me down in your arms,
I feel you breathe silently, timelessly,
As moments fade into space, not quite awake.
What will be is yet to pass,
So why not make this time a time to last?
This is all, there’s no more to it all,
Our existence here, like waking life dreaming,
Just take my hand…
…Come with me to a place we can flee time’s embrace.

© Holly Holmes 2008

Well, I haven’t always loved my ears. In fact, it has been pointed out to me many, many times that they are actually quite small. Embarrassingly small.

When I was about 8 years old, I took swimming lessons at the local YMCA. One day as I climbed out of the pool, wet hair glued to my cranium, a little boy asked me, “Heeeeeeeyyy–didn’t your ears ever grow?” I had never thought about it…(panic)…maybe they hadn’t…

When I was in my teens, my mom offered to take me to get my ears pierced. But, by that point, the “tiny ears” comments had already soured me on the idea. No piercings for me. They might dwarf my ears even further!

In high school and college, I stopped hiding my ears and became quite satisfied to be the odd one without pierced ears. And, until recently, that was the last time I thought about my ears.

Which is strange.

After all, I am a musician. I go to the optometrist every year to check my eyesight, but the last time I had a hearing test was when it was offered as a free public service in elementary school. I used to love those tests! BEEP! [Raise right hand]. Beep! [Raise right hand]. beep! [Raise left hand and wonder whether the sound was actually there, or whether my brain is now manufacturing sounds out of a sense of anticipation].

The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. How could I have gotten through 6 years of music school (I was completing my master’s degree in jazz performance at the time), and never learned about proper ear protection for musicians, especially those that work in amplified environments?

The next semester, I enrolled in a voice pedagogy class. During the second class, we had a visit from an employee at the campus Speech and Hearing Center that was very informative. I vowed to get my hearing tested as soon as possible. But as the semester unfolded, I became ensnared in various assignments and performance commitments, and the urgency evaporated.

My interest never disappeared however, and I would silently curse myself for forgetting my vow every time I found myself in a loud bar or concert. Besides noticing my discomfort, I also began to notice how people talk and think about sight versus hearing.

The prevailing attitude in regards to sight is to be to fix it if you can. In school, I was never one to sit in the back of the room. Though my reluctance to speak in classes kept me out of the front row, I always sat safely (and silently) in the second row. Unfortunately, had I chosen earlier than sophomore year biology class to sit in the back row—I’m looking at you, Jeff Scherwinski! You bad influence, you—I could have avoided a series of ill-fated attempts at hand-eye-coordinated sports.

My point is that the moment I sensed that something didn’t look right—namely, the plethora of biological terms I squinted at from a faraway lab table, or an incoming tennis ball—everyone around me suggested that I get my eyes checked. (You redeem yourself there, Jeff Scherwinski).

Now, how many times have you heard someone recommend that you get your hearing tested? Or even better, have you ever heard the phrase, “Yeah, I just got back from my annual hearing assessment.” The latter simply doesn’t exist!

Clearly, people do get their hearing tested. But, I suspect that only the very young and the very old get any serious medical opinions about their hearing. The fact is that after elementary school, we (speaking as a North American from the midwestern United States) simply hope our hearing will not change. And when it does, like so many ailments and even illnesses, we delay assessment and ignore symptoms for as long as possible. Why?

First, put simply, it’s a cultural thing. People seem to have very little tolerance for hearing loss. If asked to repeat oneself, not once but several times, normally-calm people reach a state of intolerable annoyance. I’ve witnessed it many times–a friend, husband or sister says, “What?” And everyone repeats, “WHAT?!?” in a snide or obnoxious tone. Rather than being a part of the conversation, they never get to find out what juicy tidbit was missed, and try to avoid being in that position ever again. The process of hiding hearing loss has already started.

Second, hearing tests have never become a part of routine health care. Or if they have, hearing exams are certainly not the subject of intense advertising campaigns or public service messages. Unlike eyesight, hearing is simply taken for granted.

At least one otolaryngologist recommends adult screenings once per decade until ago 50 and every three years thereafter. The same report, however, states that 14% of those between 18 and 44 have hearing loss. In the age of the iPod, perhaps once per decade is not enough.

I finally got my hearing tested. It is just as fun as I remember—lots of handraising and the wonder of silence in between beeps. I came away with earplugs designed especially for musicians. Though they have come in quite handy on flights, so far I have yet to use them in a practical situation. They are just not a part of my routine. But they live inside my purse now, waiting for the right moment to protect me from the beautiful (but loud) sounds of the world.

beep. Beep! BEEP!!!

Me and my little ears

I have never driven myself anywhere in Brazil. After a serious head-on collision stateside in 2004, driving in unfamiliar places makes me nervous. Other peoples’ driving makes me nervous too, but at least I don’t feel responsible for any unexpected outcome. My discomfort with driving, however, does not stop me from having opinions about how it should be done, sometimes to the irritation of others.

Our trip began in Anchieta, a neighborhood to the southeast of Belo Horizonte, where I rent a room from a group of nice girls. Our destination was a neighborhood to the southwest of Belo Horizonte, where I was to interview one of the founding members of the Clube da Esquina. I had written out instructions from GoogleMaps to guarantee that we arrived on time, but Robson–as he himself would tell you–doesn’t trust my sense of direction and headed due north into centro.

Though Belo Horizonte originated as a farm settlement called Curral do Rei, the centro (downtown) of Belo Horizonte was planned in the 1890s in homenagem to Washington DC. Both cities feature wide boulevards, a grid layout, and several roundabouts. Parks with statues serve as centerpieces of the urban landscape and are often named after historical figures and events.

Washington DC is well-known for its street names: east-west streets are letter names (e.g. J Street) while north-south streets are numbered (e.g. 14th Street). City planner Aarão Reis envisioned a less utilitarian, more nationalistic, naming system for Belo Horizonte: east-west streets are named after indigenous Brazilian groups (e.g. Rua dos Tupinambás) while north-south streets are named after states (e.g. Rua Espírito Santo).

Arriving at the Praça da Liberdade, Robson began to have doubts about the path he had chosen (much to my inner delight). We decided to head back south, but unfortunately the traffic had become quite slow, even at 8:30 in the evening. The Praça da Liberdade has long been the civic and cultural heart of the city, and it was originally conceived to host the houses of state government, including the residence of the governor.

The Palácio da Liberdade can be seen here by daylight between two majestic columns of palm trees:

Praça da Liberdade

It has been decades since the governor resided in the Palácio, but it remains a symbol of state governance even as many other government buildings are being relocated outside of town (see prior post for more on this). The departure of government buildings has made room for additional cultural buildings, such as the Centro da Cultura and soon the Museu Clube da Esquina.

Even in the evening darkness, the square is bustling. Some walk circuits for exercise; others rush off to the nearby independent cinema; and still others relax at various restaurants, like the famous (or infamous?) Xodó offering fast-food and ice cream, or the popular Pizzeria Sur on the corner with Rua da Bahia. I watch the laughing and chatting figures as we round the three corners of the Praça da Liberdade to cruise south again.

Upon crossing the Avenida do Contorno, we leave centro behind us and near the correct neighborhood. Robson gives in and begins to ask what I had learned from GoogleMaps, though with an air of suspicion. And for good reason, as it turns out.

We follow my directions, but quickly lose the way. The road we followed simply changed names, and we didn’t run across the next street on my list. We turned right in order to head in the correct general direction, but after a few blocks, the street became one-way in the opposite direction. This is known as a contramão.

What to do now? We could not continue straight, so left seemed like the best option, but this too became a contramão as well as a “no right-turn” sign preventing us from staying on our path. Lovely. [Note: heavy sarcasm]. Que bonito.

We had no choice but to turn towards where we had come. Taking a little loop, we started over with the very first street we had started on in the neighborhood, but we fell into the same traps. All streets seemed to point back the way we had come.

We passed a boteco (small neighborhood pub) for the second time, and this time Robson got out to ask directions. I could tell just by the gestures of the people gathered there, that this was not the first time someone had asked for directions. The dono do boteco came out to the street and gestured what appeared to be very specific instructions. Several people inserted their own suggestions as Robson alternatively nodded or repeated back what they had said. Finally, the man repeated the entire set of directions a second (or third?) time, and Robson thanked everyone.

And we were off. Amazingly, the directions were accurate and involved a number of abrupt turns through the labyrinthine neighborhood. We even got back on track with my GoogleMaps directions. But we soon lost our way again, prompting me to lament, “Tanta contra-mão! [So many one-ways!]”. We asked directions two more times (at a gas station and a public square) before we finally pulled up to our destination.

I nervously checked my recording equipment and worried about how late we were. I had agreed to arrive at 9 pm for the interview (I shudder to admit that I had originally thought we were meeting at 9 AM, but that’s another story…), and Robson asked, “What time is it?”

“9:15,” I said nervously.

“Ah, bom atraso.” Though I had never heard this phrase, having traveled and lived in Brazil already several times, I immediately understood its import. Though some might compare it to the English phrase “fashionably late,” that brings with it connotations of class (an elegant invitation-only party) that isn’t present in the Portuguese phrase. Bom atraso is more direct, more frank. It simply means “acceptable, good or even polite lateness.”

I smiled at my unintentional appropriateness. Had we not gotten lost, we would have arrived at least 10 minutes early. Though I can’t say it doesn’t exist, I have never heard the phrase bom precoçe (good earliness).

We spoke with the 24-hour doorman, and he let us into the building after calling up to confirm our appointment. We ascended in the elevator, walked the short hallway, and knocked on the apartment door … as butterflies fluttered in the pit of my stomach.

We were greeted warmly! After some brief introductions, our host asked if we found our way okay, and we laughingly admitted our evening hijinks.

Our host smiled knowingly at the story, then asked, “Did you use GoogleMaps?”

While Gui taught private lessons and classical guitar history classes during the day, I took the opportunity to research, watch World Cup futebol and explore the city by foot. We arrived Monday morning, June 21st and after Gui departed for work, I tried to capture the central location of his apartment within the city. Visually, Gui’s apartment is surrounded by 7 different Catholic churches.

North

West(ish)

East

South(ish)

But physical geography is not the only interest here–the sonic geography is truly captivating. Each of these churches, as well as several others not pictured, has a bell tower, and over the years (centuries, in fact), they have worked out a system in which each church takes turns ringing out its messages to the city. Saturday evening became a favorite time for me to sit in Gui’s apartment and simply absorb the soundworld of secular weekend street life mixed with the sacred bells.

Gui explained that the bell ringing repertoire has been studied by several musicologists, and after a few nights, it became apparent that the diverse sounds emanating from these churches deserved the attention. Gui told me that some churches had developed a system of ringing by which church-goers could discern important news. For example, researchers claimed that church-goers could hear in the ringing that not only had a fellow worshipper died, but could hear in the sound the age, gender and disposition of the person to such accuracy that many could conclude the identity of the deceased!

Another style of ringing required collaboration between a pair of churches. One evening, after a series of what I would describe as typical bell-ringing from 2 or 3 churches, I began to hear 2 bells of different pitches ring out in short, crisp and syncopated rhythms–a very different sound from the typical long and droning tones of the previous churches. After about 30 seconds, I realized that two ringers were imitating the agogô bells–two tubes of metal ringing with one high and one low pitch–often heard in many styles of samba music! Incredible.

Bossa Nuevo ©2010

Our CD release party was a treat! We performed for a very appreciative audience at V. Picasso in Urbana, and now I am really looking forward to your comments on the CD itself. We are distributing the record through CdBaby. If you choose to buy a copy there, we would love it if you left a comment on our CdBaby page. Since our debut primarily features Brazilian bossa nova and MPB (música popular brasileira) songs, we plan to put any profits right back into another recording project that will highlight tango music.

But for now, enjoy the debut!

Bossa Nuevo at the 6th Annual Meadowbrook Jazz Walk