The research and writing of 1000 Recordings To Hear Before You Die took four years, and would have gone for four more if it were up to me. When I finally reached what the editors insisted was an “endpoint,” I took stock of the many thousands of records I’d encountered. I made lists of titles that I’d learned about too late to include – music is endless! – and planned to continue my semi-disciplined (OK, semi-random) approach to discovery.
I got as far as Brazil.
Of the many fertile places where music thrives on planet Earth, there is something distinct about Brazil. Its music – all of it, from simple folk songs about the sea to the sleek modernism of Antonio Carlos Jobim to the intricate classical constructions of Hector Villa-Lobos – achieves some sublime balance between the earthy and the sophisticated, the bitter and the sweet. Brazil is tethered to the music and rhythms of West Africa (its ports were integral to the slave trade and agricultural shipping) but is one of the few nations in the diaspora where multiple, highly differentiated regional styles and rhythmic languages developed. Without outside influence. For centuries.
Each of those styles has specific melodic signatures and tightly held musical traditions. Since the global travel boom of the postwar era, music has been blending and morphing at a blazing rate all over Brazil; the most famous of these concatenations might be bossa nova, which interpolates elements of samba with jazz. But there are others – reworkings of religious chants with funk rhythm, percussive EDM updates of the music used in capoeira martial-arts rituals, and on and on, an ongoing cross-pollination of sounds and ideas. Just indexing the many genre-twisting offshoots developed by Brazilian legend Hermeto Pascoal would take a day.
Last week, Universal Japan issued 30 titles in a series called “Brazil’s Treasured Masterpieces.” The list includes classics from expected big stars – Elis Regina, Jorge Ben – as well as lesser-known names who contributed in significant if not sustained ways to the evolution of Brazilian popular music.
I ordered a stack of them, focusing on titles I hadn’t heard from the ‘60s and ’70s. The first one I opened was Domingo Menino, a 1976 release by the accordion master Dominguinhos. This guy has great pedigree: As a child, he was championed by the revered accordionist and icon Luis Gonzaga – who was impressed with the way he navigated the brisk, exceedingly tricky traditional songs of choro and forro. Like so many artists from Brazil, Dominguinhos began with deep reverence for tradition, and gradually evolved a more modern sound: Domingo Menino features disciplined electric guitar textures (from Gilberto Gil, in a rare appearance as a sideman) threaded into propulsive and choppy ‘70s samba grooves.
The playing is exceptional throughout: In addition to Gil, Dominguinhos’ band here includes the gifted guitarist Toninho Horta, oft-recorded percussionist Jackson do Pandeiro, and keyboardist Wagner Tiso.
The melodies, though: They’re all singable, moving with the unpreturbed grace of a gentle breeze. Some have the scampering lightness of forro, and some, like the opener “Quero Um Xamego,” suggest a sultry, sundazed distillation of pop bliss. That track and others feature lead vocals from Dominguinhos working opposite several female voices who sing the “hooks” in unison; it’s a classic sound that harks back to early parade samba, wrapped inside a modern rock-band configuration.
Domingo Menino is not a world-changing record. It didn’t triggers years of experimentation, either: After this, Dominguinhos returned to more folklore-forward projects. Still, it’s one of the few mid-‘70s records from Brazil that’s informed by jazz fusion yet remains alive with the unstoppable exuberance of samba. It’s a mashup that miraculously eludes its time-stamp, a little gem that’s been hidden for too long in an impossibly rich pool.
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