Mariza | Lisbon | Concerto em Lisboa | artist | crowd
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The Fadista Of Lisbon
by Kevin RaubThat was five years and three albums ago,
and Mariza has quickly become not just the new face of fado
but also the impetus behind its miraculous reinvention as
cool, which was no small task. Portugal's Estado Novo, the
authoritarian military regime that ruled the country for an
astonishing 41 years, controlled the airwaves during its
reign, and fado was endorsed and encouraged. Needless to say,
music forced down the throats of a resentful population can't
possibly be considered hip.
"During the regime, we only had one television
station, and they treated fado very poorly," she explains. "So the
younger intellectuals and more sophisticated audiences would see it
and say, 'This is not my style.' It was too connected with the
regime, and people harbored those memories."
As a result, anyone born in the late '60s or after
considered fado the music of their parents - a deathblow in any
culture. But nowadays, when you step inside the Fnac record store
in Lisbon's trendy Chiado district, you'll see Mariza's latest
album, Concerto em Lisboa, in the top 10, alongside those by
Madonna and Kelly Clarkson. She has sold more than a million
records worldwide (an insane number for a world-music artist). In
the same way that Nirvana chewed up and spit out rock music in the
'90s, Mariza has jump-started fado.
Mariza counts performing with the Los Angeles
Philharmonic in 2004 at the then newly opened Walt Disney Concert
Hall in L.A. as one of the proudest moments in her life to date.
(Currently on tour in the United States, she'll have the
opportunity to perform there again at the end of this month, with
award-winning architect Frank Gehry turning the stage into a cozy
fado tavern just for her.) She's just as proud, though, of a fado
megaconcert she gave in Lisbon in 2005. The recording of that
concert is her latest release.
"If you invite someone from fado to do a concert
in an open-air space in Lisbon, you don't [normally] get more than
5,000 people," she explains. "I asked the municipality to let me do
a concert in the gardens of Belém. It was raining that day, and I
was crying over it. I didn't think we would get anyone. When I
entered the stage, there were 22,000 people [there]. It was the
biggest fado concert ever in Portugal." Concerto em Lisboa
chronicles that evening.
Like most Americans, I don't know fado from
Play-Doh, so Mariza agrees to play tour guide for a day and teach
me everything there is to know about her music, her city, and the
fado clubs that are such an intrinsically significant part of life
in Lisbon - and a major tourist attraction to boot. But which clubs
are tourist traps, and which are the real deal? The country's
biggest fadista should know, after all.
We fuel up for our journey at yet another
hole-in-the-wall seafood spot, Churrasqueira do Sacramento, in the
Alcântra neighborhood of Lisbon. It's packed with people clamoring
for one of but a few tables in the place. They are used to Mariza
here, so nobody bats an eyelash at her presence. And that's the way
she prefers it. "It's very normal," she says. "That's why I like
it." She fends off the manager's advances to take her coat for her
and throws it around the back of her chair, just like everybody
else in the restaurant has done.
When we finish our meal, we are within walking
distance of the Museu do Fado, the fado museum. It's normally
closed on Mondays, but they open up at the first sight of Mariza,
who views the museum as the logical starting point for those
interested in submersing themselves in Portugal's most beloved form
of expression. Mariza's albums and awards are housed here (her 2003
BBC Radio World Music Award, for instance), alongside those of
Amália and other big-name players like Carlos do Carmo, yet she
breezes right by them in favor of showing me a three-dimensional
painting called Viela (Alley), Rua Pimentel 1998, a reconstruction
of what a typical Lisbon neighborhood looked like hundreds of years
ago. That's when I hear my first few notes.
"Sardinhas vive!" she sings, describing how an old
woman, such as one of those depicted in the painting, would shout
out "Live sardines!" to let the neighborhood know what she was
selling. It is surely the most beautiful touting of a small salty
fish that I've ever heard.
Later that evening, our first stop is, naturally,
Senhor Vinho, the fado club where Mariza got her start. She is
welcomed with open arms - though the up-and-coming fadistas on
tonight's bill must surely have started shaking in their boots when
she came through the door. In America, the equivalent would be
Shania Twain walking into a small country bar in Nashville on an
open-mike night.
The first singer is Filipa Cardoso, a traditional
fadista who has more in common with Amália than with Mariza. Then,
the moment she begins to sing, a startling thing happens: Though
dinner is being served, all knives and forks drop, all
conversations cease, and all drink orders are put on hold - the
room becomes as silent as a prayer session at the Vatican. Of all
the things I've ever seen in Lisbon, it's this show of respect that
I will always find most endearing.
Despite chants of "Ma-ri-za! Ma-ri-za!" from a
table of drunk Spaniards, Mariza does not get up and sing. Instead,
we move on to A Tasca do Chico in the Bairro Alto, Lisbon's
nightlife hub and the home to many fado clubs, all of which pale in
comparison to this one. Unlike most fado venues, A Tasca do Chico
is a dive. The walls are covered in soccer banners, and the place
is spilling over with people from all walks of life. Locals love it
because anyone can sing fado here - it's a free-for-all - and
Mariza loves it for the same reason. It's not uncommon for taxi
drivers to roll in, sing a few fados, then get right back into
their cabs and speed off into the night. We pile into the
old-school wooden picnic tables and join a family as if this sort
of thing happens every day.
If Mariza's presence can make the professionals
nervous, imagine how the amateurs feel when she's around. One woman
in her mid-30s starts her fado but soon chokes up. She apologizes
and quickly loses herself back in the crowd, claiming nervousness.
Another forgets the lyrics; another sings completely out of
tune.
Partly due to the raucous nature of the club,
partly due to Mariza's visit, the place is so loud that you can
hardly hear yourself think. People are turned away, as the club is
at capacity (and probably then some). The MC lays down the law: "No
silence, no fado," he says. "You choose." (There are no mikes in
fado.) The crowd settles down for Artur Batalha, a formerly
successful fadista whose career was on the up-and-up in the '80s
but who later fell victim to the vices of fame. His voice still has
the goods, though.
Before he sings, he looks at Mariza; the two of
them hail from the same working-class Lisbon neighborhood. "It's a
pleasure to see an artist in person whom I love." He calls her a
daughter. Mariza sings along to his fados under her
breath.
The night is winding down, but the crowd wants
more. They want Mariza. The MC once again hushes the crowd. "So you
will go home in peace," he says, "Mariza!" She calmly slides out
from the table to the roar of the crowd, briefly consults with the
guitarists, and seconds later, without so much as a single moment
of warm-up, she launches into "Quando Me Sinto Só" ("When I Feel
Alone"), from her last studio album,
Transparente.
Her voice soars and captivates, radiating through
the roughened walls with piercing delicacy. The room is frozen.
Though nobody has much space to do so, they give her a standing
ovation. Batalha, sitting nearby, bows his head, covers his eyes,
and holds his hand over his heart. In peace he goes, as do we
all.
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