The time was nigh! We were ready to go out into the throng and position ourselves in front of Trio Expresso 2222 for our march with two of my Brazilian music heroes: Gilberto Gil and Jorge Ben (who now goes by Jorge Benjor–Carol tells me it’s because people kept confusing him with George Benson–I just know it’s cool because it’s kind of like “Benje”). This was not a bloco, since it was free to everyone who felt like parading. Where’s your elitism NOW, Moses! I’m sorry. I can’t help but think of Edward G. Robinson in The Ten Commandments anytime I ask that question.
Gilberto Gil is an elder statesman of Carnaval in Salvador. A Bahian himself, he was one of Brazil’s most innovative and influential artists beginning in the late 60s. He was an important element of the Tropicália movement, Brazil’s counterpart to America’s cultural explosion brought on by the hippies. Though Tropicália included dance, theatre, visual arts and poetry, it is associated almost exclusively with the music: a melange of bossa nova, rock and roll, Bahian folk music, African music and Portuguese fado.
The crazy part of it is, the American youth were looking for a life of peace, music and freedom, and expressing it one way through their music. The Brazilians already had the life of peace, music and freedom, they just took it one step further with Tropicália. There’s a hint of social consciousness in some of the lyrics, but they’re still mainly about living the gorgeous life that they live every day in Brazil.
Here was the plan for joining the pipoca: we would exit the Flats through the secret underground chamber, walk one block, turn right, walk one block, turn right, and enter the parade at the cross street. It takes so little time to type it, but it takes forever to walk it. Especially through the throng, that was a cohesive mass of movement on its own. We held onto each other like children on a field trip, and gently barreled our way to our destination. Cameras were strictly verboten, and this is one time I would still comply, even today. Jean had a disposable camera, and did her best with that.
Once we entered the throng, with not too much difficulty, I could see just exactly how huge one of those trios is. Looking behind us, I felt a little like Jonah fixing to be swallowed by Gilberto Gil and his cohorts. We milled around a few minutes, waiting for the thing to begin. Meanwhile, Jean snapped a picture of us: Riviane, me, Carol, Nelson, Pettus, Robo and Janet.
Suddenly, a Bahian gentleman came up and advised us in incredible English: “You shouldn’t have that camera here! It could get stolen.” Jean explained to him that it didn’t matter. Suddenly, we were all friends. She showed him the camera, he took it, and snapped his own picture. Then I took his picture with Jean.
Our new friend was great. He danced along with us once we started, which was, like, instantly. We heard one of our group holler “We’re moving!”, and they weren’t shitttin’! We were moving, allright. Fast. This was when we discovered why we always saw explosions of beer from the parades. All of us sacrificed beverage to the gods of Carnaval once that bastard started moving. We were crushed together, and several of the girls were lifted off the ground. All of us manly men immediately corraled them, and we were able to begin the 6-block-long dance with Trio Expresso 2222. One of the first songs they played was “Umbabarauma” by Jorge Ben, which has been a favorite of mine for years. It was like a total out-of-body experience. Literally. Everything was being squeezed out of EVERYBODY’S bodies!
I heard five songs that I knew while we were dancing our asses off down the streets of Salvador with the sea rushing to meet us as if it were in time to the music. It was something you can never describe. And I can’t stress how fantastic the sound was. Not a blaring speaker, not a blown speaker, nothing overdriven, nothing but the stereo of your life barreling down on you at 1 mile an hour! Okay, laugh, but with people barreling in front of it, it’s not so namby-pamby. It’s like a music-lover’s running with the bulls in Pamplona.
Was I suado? You bet your booties I was. Carol thoughtfully bought me a sweat rag from a vendor that sold nothing but sweat rags! It was like a little hand towel, dark blue, and though it was like wiping up the Atlantic Ocean with one sheet of Bounty, it was just what I needed as the perfect souvenir to take home from Salvador. It’s really crazy the way the vendors coursed through the crowd, many with coolers on their heads, never spilling a drop of ice.
There was one time during our journey when our new friend alerted us to a group of youth that were roaming quickly through the crowd, pushing against people. He said they were pickpockets, and to be careful. I had nothing on me except sweat and a half can of Skol beer that I had bought from a nice vendor, all the while grooving to the Carnaval sounds of Gilberto Gil, Jorge Benjor and Lulu Santos. I still can’t believe I did it, but I know I’ll be back to do it again. And it’ll be like being able to relive your childhood and know stuff then that you know now. WHOA!
Believe it or not, we were all ready to cut out at the next intersection, which makes 6 or so blocks that we traveled with the pipoca. Not bad, really. It was extra fortunate that we exited on one of Carnaval’s true classics: “Pais Tropical,” by Jorge Ben. The crowd went totally apeshit, and the feeling leached into all of us. We were exhilarated as we forged our way back to Bahia Flats. Gol-durn! It was a long way! It didn’t seem so long when you were dancing your way down. I guess it’s kind of like sledding down a big hill and then having to trudge back up.
I’m sure the youngsters would scoff at us, but they would have no idea of Ben Burford’s rate of water shed. By the time we got back to the condo, I was a wrung out piece of flesh. This was when I got to fulfill another one of my promises to everyone here in Birmingham: “I can’t wait to go to Brazil and take my shirt off.” Okay, I didn’t take it off in the street, but I sure as hell did in the condo, just to keep from passing out. I was beginning to get the jackfruit feeling again.
Janet and Riviane were there somewhere, too. I had no shame, I just wanted to get cool. The fan started making a squealing noise so they shut it off, which sent me into the bedroom portion to lay on the bed for a few minutes under its fan. I then decided to go take a cold shower in the new granite bathroom. It was just the ticket. By the time we left, I was feeling pretty okay.
Carol piloted us out of there with her trademark skill and aplomb, and before we all knew it, we were meeting a rising gate and a vertical thumb outside the house. I don’t know if we sat up or not. I just know that the next day was also full of festivities, and I needed my rack.