I wrote this piece for The Beat magazine following a trip to Brazil in 2007: The Maranhão Version By Michael Turner and Otávio Rodrigues To get a flavour of the atmosphere of the city (São Luís) there’s no substitute for staying in the historic centre, but you should be aware that there are sometimes extremely loud reggae nights which might keep you awake. -from The Rough Guide To Brazil Yes. We must go there, agreed my friend Nelson Meirelles. I was in Rio de Janeiro and we were walking around the Feira de São Cristóvão and chanced upon a small dancehall, actually just a shadowy space between the back of a restaurant and a concrete wall where a bunch of boozed up rustics from the North were dancing in aggressively Jamaican style to some of the strangest reggae music Id ever heard. The music was punchy and relentless. Behind the dancers was a black lit mural depicting the various sights of Jamaica like the Black Ark Studio with Lee Pery underwritten. The music was a fast paced sort of lovers rock, sung incomprehensiblly in English, and every vocalist sounded a bit like Eric Donaldson. It was a big puzzle. Nelson explained that the music was from the northern state of Maranhão, which was commonly referred to as Brasils Reggae Capital. I thought I knew enough about reggae, but Id never heard of the place. Later Nelson contacted our friend Otávio Rodrigues, who had lived in Maranhão, hosting one of its first reggae radio shows. Over the next few months Nelson and Otávio organized a detailed itinerary and since Maranhão is a great vacation spot , our trip expanded into a four family adventure comprising fourteen people. Driving in from the modern airport, the suburbs of São Luís look a lot like Jamaica: the same cinder block buildings, knots of people waiting for a minibus, tethered animals, and the same little boy flying a kite on a red dirt futebal field. But the remarkable architecture of the old city is far superior to that of Kingston. Located on an airy bluff, its massive tile-faced colonial buildings and cobblestone streets look down towards the site where two huge rivers (the Pindaré and Itapecuru) meet and empty into the Atlantic. Like every coastal city Ive visited in Brasil, São Luís has nice weather, friendly streets, and comfortable lodgings. For three weeks our families enjoyed the beaches, seafood restaurants, festas, big hikes on the dunes of Barreirinhas, galleries and street stalls, and of course shopping, which I especially on the busy high street where in the open fronts of the larger department stores there would usually be a man in business with a microphone, chatting and announcing sales items to the passing crowd. Choperia Internacional was the first dancehall we visited and we crossed the street I was stunned to hear Junior Byles Auntie Lulu vaulting over the 14 foot cinder block walls. It was a very auspicious moment for me, to hear a great Lee Perry production shaking a dance the way it must have rocked similar Jamaican venues thirty years ago. Inside was a big concrete yard, filled with couples dancing closely. Grouped around the perimeter were ten stacks of speakers, each stack consisting of twenty-four boxes. The sound was so loud that I felt a mildly unpleasant tickling deep in my skull which I took to be the vibrating ossicles of my middle ear. We quickly found a safe spot behind the speakers and danced. The sound system (radiola) was playing home-made Maranhão hits. Everything sounded vaguely like something Jamaican Id heard before, one tune owed something to Peter Toshs Haffi Get A Beating, another to Derrick Morgans Father Killam. Once again all the singers sounded like Eric Donaldson and every song ran extremely fast. We shouted and drank for a few hours and then moved downtown to join the crowd at big room called the Roots Bar, where selector Jorge Black was closing down the evening with Bunny Wailers Black Heart Man. And then a short walk to the even more crowded Crioulas Bar, where selector Ademar Danilo was playing a hyper mix of reggae, samba, zouk, and even calypso. The best moment was when he spun Ronnie Daviss 1975 version of the Burning Spear classic Tradition and everyone sang along. The early morning found us in a small outdoor bar eating bolinhos (fritters) and drinking one last chopp (draft beer). From a speaker high on the wall came Niney The Observers Blood & Fire. There Otávio explained to me that the key word in Maranhaos reggae lexicon is pedra: Pedra is the name that the Maranhense people give to special tunes. Literally a pedra is a rock or a stone, but in the sense of stone flying away to hit someone, referring to the impact of a big tune on a big sound system. A similar widely used term is pedrada: which means the hit, the very moment when the stone reaches everyone in the dance hall. Often radiola deejays tell the audience to wear a helmet in preparation for the pedras that will be flying. Some other similar radiola terms: tijolo (brick) or tijolada (boomp!), cacete (cudgel), or cacetada (kabong!). It all reminded me of the Wailers’ lyric about the stone that the builder refused, becomes the head cornerstone. The great music of Jamaica of the 70s, which everywhere else in the world has been superseded, co-opted, dismissed, or filed away, had become the cornerstone of the culture here. Somehow, in an outlying city 3000 kilometers north of Rio de Janeiro, I had come back full circle to the beginnings of my obsession with Jamaican music. My love for the music began in Los Angeles in the early 80s, listening to the Reggae Beat radio show, hosted by Roger Steffens and Hank Holmes. especially Hanks long sets of 7 singles which truly showed me the freshness of the music as it had actually been played in Jamaica. It was on his show that I first heard Cornell Campbell, the Cables, Larry Marshall, the Ethiopians, Jr. Byles, and scores of other great artists who remain largely unknown outside of Jamaica. And now, here they were again. At a little beach kiosk I heard Give Me Power by the Stingers. On the bus Country Living by the Eagles. On a narrow side street the slow approach of a car from behind me was heralded by Max Romeos Chase The Devil. Walking through the town I heard Larry Marshalls Cant You Understand, Hugh Mundells My Mind, Ken Parkers Sad Mood, Cultures The Rasta Man, along with countless locally produced imitations. It was as if a musical spore had caught a nice wind and travelled a thousand miles where it took root and became what I call the Maranhao Version . Jamaican music is everywhere in Maranhão but it was not adapted uncritically. In fact, it’s almost the opposite. A popular song, a pedra, is actually something quite specific, chosen from a relatively narrow band on the reggae dial. Its a carefree, country type of sound, the sort of thing that would have been produced at Randys or Dynamics Studio in the mid-70s. During my stay in Maranhão for example I didnt hear anything from Studio One. No ska. No rocksteady. No dancehall. No dub. Very little deejay music. Very few dread tunes or minor-key melodies. I found this out for myself the night Nelson and I were invited by Junior Black to play our records at an oldies session at his club, Kingston 777, It‘s up a flight of steps to a large outdoor terrace full of people dancing, and then through a tight corridor into a long dark room crowded with spinning couples, mostly working class people there to ram the dance hard. Junior played a smooth mix of minidiscs compiled from his large record collection and then turned over the single turntable to us. While the dancers never slackened, it was difficult at first to find our way and some of our early selections were wide of the mark as we learned firsthand what a pedra is (and is not). Things improved when Junior helpfully pushed the pitch control up to +8, and better still when he began mixing in his discs with our records, guiding us toward the right sound with funny tracks like Levi Williams’ Big Fat Wife and Wong Ping’s Chiney Brush. And then we played our first real pedra of the night: Murmuring by the Willows, a sweet GG’s production from 1973. People had been dancing all along, but now the place got hot. And hotter still when we flipped the record over to Tommy McCook’s blazing horn instrumental, and then Barrington Spences Getty Getty with the U Roy version, Eric Donaldsons Lonely Nights and on and on. Someone in the crowd declared that finally the gringo’s coin dropped (a ficha caiu), a Brasilian pay-phone analogy that refers to the moment when a musical connection is made. My visit to Kingston 777 was one of the best musical experiences of my life. Over the next two weeks in Sao Luis, I accumulated a lot of questions so midway through the trip I sat down with Otávio to record his perspective: Octavio: I was so impressed the first time I was here, in 1988. Because even in Brasil no one knows what’s going on here. I was the editor at a music magazine called Somtrês and I also had a column where I wrote about reggae and related music. So Ademar Danilo, a radio presenter in São Luís, called me saying Man you must come to São Luís, here is the right place. So later I came to do a report and I saw with my own eyes. I was so impressed, they were very tuned in to the Jamaican stuff: Gregory Isaacs, Max Romeo, Jacob Miller, Owen Gray, etc. You can imagine what kind of feeling I had, considering at that time in Brazil people had no idea what Jamaican music was all about. So, throughout a week, without leaving my own country, I was absorbed by something idyllic, mystic, living a perennial summer in a sweet, sweet island – (for God’s sake, São Luís is an island too! ), listening to several artists that I loved and also many others that I never heard of before. It was the same as to discover the Jurassic Park. Radiolas (sound systems) are not new. They are everywhere in the Northeast Brazil since the first half of 20th century, playing anything that can move a dancehall -- salsa, merengue, bolero and also brega There are a lot of stories about how reggae got started here, but really, Riba Macedo (José Ribamar da Conceição Macedo) was the first to play it. He was a radiola operator who brought back the first reggae records from Belém. It reminded him of the old boleros. It has a good riddim, you can dance together, It’s enough. (Earlier, Otávio had taken us to meet Riba, who keeps his original sound system in his front room , and his 12 singles in a refrigerator. He let us look through his records and told us that the first reggae record he bought for his radiola was Monkey Man by the Maytals.) And still today, the reggae phenomenun in Maranhão is very focused on cheap and nice fun; music for dance, to be together, to drink your beer, meet someone, maybe your future wife or husband. It clearly has a social role among the poorest. (As Nelson wrote me later: Sometimes I have the feeling they use reggae there as a forró or any other popular rhythm, not caring exactly about what is being sung or said. Is not everyone that knows about the reggae official culture. ) In the beginning, the radiola operators would buy their records in Belém. Why Belém? Because it has a port connected to the Guianas, and to the Caribbean. (Note: In the late 60s West Indies Recording Company (WIRL) and others pressed and distributed Jamaican music in Guiana.) Soon after the sound system operators went to São Paulo, and to Rio, shops that used to import reggae. Then they began importing direct from London distributors, like Jet Star, and also would get records from Brasilians traveling to Europe to work, especially Maranhaosoccer players. They were very eager to find pedras. Because not all reggae music is a pedra, good for dance halls. It must be something specific, with a kind of rhythm, a kind of groove, a kind of melody. So then they start to go to Jamaica, to England, sometimes the USA too. And some guys attracted attention doing it, standing out as specialists. I call them the traficantes de reggae. In general, they learned maybe one hundred English words – good morning, good night, where I can buy some reggae records or something like that, just enough to survive and get the music they want. Like a guy called Dread Sandro, who used go to Jamaica every month, sometimes every week, four or five times a month! Who pay him? The owners of the radiolas or dance hall clubs, who have far enough money to pay the air tickets, the hotel, and maybe something more to compensate him. There is a man named Serralheiro (it means the Locksmith), . He is almost illiterate, a simple man, but above all things he is a reggae expert. I had problems with him before in telling this story, but I will do it again, because it demonstrate how acute and practical he is, and how much he loves reggae. Some years ago he flew to London carrying a cassette tape with pre-recorded phrases, since he cant speak English. So, he could enter a taxi and just turn on the tape recorder: Good morning. I want to buy reggae records. Incredible. I admire Serralheiro pretty much. So, there are two men who help make reggae as important as it is here: Ademar Davilo & Fauzi Beydoun. They are friends. They had an important radio show together, and they used to tell what reggae is: Reggae music is a music that comes from the ghetto. Bob Marley came from there, and the rasta thing is blah blah blah. They used to translate the music simultaneously. This helped to keep the music cultural. (And coninue to do so today. In addition to his club and radio work,Ademar hosts a nightly, prime time, half hour television show devoted strictly to reggae!) Fauzi is also a singer and composer, and he has a band called Tribo De Jah. That band is all blind guys. An interesting story. Because Fauzi bought a sound system and the man who sell the sound system told Fauzi: If you buy the sound system you must bring with you these blind guys. So that was the begining of Tribo Do Jah, they were one of the first groups here which focus on reggae. Not in a Brasilian way. Usually here they put some Brasilian rhythms here and there, but Tribo de Jah played Jamaican music. And still now one of the most famous reggae bands in Brasil. So Fauzi and Ademar were the two that helped to make the thing more strong. And it is still very strong. You can count thousands of radiolas, professional sound systems. And some of the guys who own the sound systems are very rich and powerful. The radiola we heard last night (Radiola Itamaraty, at a club called Choperia Internacional): the owner is a big political guy and a state deputy now, voted for sure by the reggae people -- they call them massa regueira (something like the reggae mass). And If you are against the massa regueira, you can be nothing, and you cannot get elected. Here, the taste changes continually. In the late 80’s the hit parade was strongly committed to classic 70’s reggae, from roots to lovers rock, with a bent towards some obscure and almost folkloric rhythms recorded by country harmony trios. Then in the 90’s the mood changed a lot, with influences of the dance hall and soca. And there has also been the direct influence of Jamaican producers and artists, like Joe Gibbs (who even maintained an office in São Luís for a period ), Honey Boy (not to be confused with Honey Boy Martin), Norris Cole (who once sang with The Pioneers) and Eric Donaldson. Now today’s hit parade is entirely produced in Sao Luis. Because Maranhenses have always been very worried about the end of the pedras, the reggae that they loved. They used to ask me what do I thought, if the pedras would end up. So about six or some years ago, local studios began to make some versions. First, theyd take an excerpt (of a Jamaican song) and make a loop, and then put some different voices over. Now its gotten to the level that almost 100% of the music in the dancehalls is local. This new Maranhão version is produced in matchbox studios just like the ones in Jamaica. The sound is unremarkable, simple keyboard melodies and bass loops, automated one drops and busy fills; no live horns, no live percussion. Tons of the stuff is sold on the beach by walking peddlers and in every street market. It’s music that is only played fast as it is meant only for the young dancers that pack the gigantic outdoor dances. I brought back a few sampler Cds that sound nice to me, but which haven’t impressed my friends back home, who complain about the cheap sound. Everyone notices its cheerfulness, which I consider one of its virtues. Like its long-ago Jamaican influences, the Maranhao version entirely lacks the bile and negativity which dominates todays dancehall. Leonard Dillon said of Jamaica in the 60s that its music was sweet because the people were sweet, and this also seems true of the people and music of Maranhão. Another thing I enjoy about the Maranhao version is listening for melodies and riddims lifted from Jamaican vinyl , for example, on Hot Star Reggae Collection Volume I, some tracks directly echo obscure classics like the Blue Bells’ Call Me Teacher, The PioneersBlues Dance, the Upsetters’ Dirty Dozen. Its also interesting to me that almost everything is sung in borrowed English. The artists obviously love the inflections and cadence of English, but since few actually speak it, they sing a kind of English gloss that doesnt usually make literal sense. Half-listening can be pleasant however as right side of ones brain gleans unintended meanings. For example Rosemary’s Cool Running charmed me with: Good runnings is just good runnings, Runny every way and I want it every day And I was intrigued by Donny Jones’ No Cowboy : I saw that car, a biggest car, surprise I had no gun and no cowboy And I lost in a far land Mostly though the songs have simple lyrics taken straight from the Jamaican songbook, typical sufferer lyrics and reality tunes. Such complaints about life down here in Babylon are unfortunately quite apt in a place that bears the worst of Brazil’s social problems. Maranhão is the poorest state in Brasil, with a per capita income of 960 US dollars per year, and has the highest infant mortality rate: Whoy, Whoy, what a situation The people have the suffering Down here in Babylon. It‘s starvation and misery Children dying from poverty And no one can do something to change Every day is the same old song I don’t know what is right or wrong But Jah can change this place. (Peter Toty, Sufferation) Finally, I really like Maranhos young singers. As with all Brazilian cantores,they sing with economy and ease and perfect pitch, with that typical Brazilian knack for expressing sadness and happiness simultaneously. One artist I especially liked is Dub Brown, a guitar-toting guy who I met at Hot Star Studios who sounds a lot like a young Leo Graham. There are probably dozens of artists like him awaiting discovery. Of course I hear good things in this music because I experienced it amidst the pleasures of its birthplace, but I think critical outsiders will be able to hear it too. Maranhao is a small place, but with roughly the same size and demographics as Jamaica, with a strikingly similar culture and history, and perhaps an even greater enthusiasm for reggae music. Reggae is a living thing, the hardy flower that emerged after centuries of cultural cross-pollination. When it spread abroad it hybridized with various other genres: in the UK, with soul and punk; in the USA, with rock and hip hop; and with local musics in almost every poor country in the world. But in Maranhao the music didnt grow as a hybrid, but as a clone that flourishes today after thirty years in relative isolation. Otavio describes his earliest visits as a Jurassic Park experience, and you can still feel some of this excitement twenty years later. Im sure Ill go back someday, maybe to the annual reggae festival that happens there every July, or maybe back to the Kingston 777, with a pocketful of coins. --------------------------------------------------- # Musician and producer, has been involved with the Brazilian reggae scene for the last 20 years. In 1985 he started the first reggae radio program in Rio de Janeiro. He eventually produced the first records of Cidade Negra, and later formed and played bass with O Rappa, both are today among the biggest bands in Brasil. In 2002 he started working with Digitaldubs Sound System, a collective formed by musicians, producers and DJs who are trying to deal with reggae music in a wide-range approach: roots, ragga & dub. Their first CD (Digitaldubs presentes: Brasil Riddims Vol. 1) Has just been released. esquemageral.br/digitaldubs) # Feira de São Cristóvão (San Cristoban Fair): A bit of Brazilian Northeast in Rio.It About 700 permanent tents offer a sample of Brazilian Northeast culture, such as typical food, handcrafts, forró players, dance, singers and popular poets and also folk literature. Every month about 450 thousand tourists and local people visit it. (from rio.rj.gov.br/riotur/pt/atracao/?CodAtr=3904) # (a.k.a. Doc Reggae) Radio presenter, writer and sound system operator, he did the first reggae program in Brazilian radio, founded the Project Jamaica-Brasil (which pioneering promoted the two countries relationships), and has since had popular shows in São Luís and in São Paulo, besides his work as editor and music columnist for Brazilian magazines Somtrês, Trip, Bizz and Vida Simples. Now he manages a comunnication office, working in editorial projects, custom publishing and magazines start-ups, and also leads a music/poetry combo called Bumba Beat, in search for the perfect blend between Jamaican and Brazilian musical traditions. # A typical and very popular Brazilian genre that mixes bolero, Paraguian guarânia and whole cheek to cheek danceables, seasoned with steady guitar rhythm and ingenuous keyboard riffs that sometimes seems as something similar to Jamaica’s soul ballads from the late 50’s. # A type of dance popular in Northeastern Brazil.
Posted on: Tue, 27 Jan 2015 00:32:00 +0000
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