mood
A Tale of Fate and Saudade
Friday, September 19th, 2008 | arts, mythical, people | No Comments
Ladies and gentlemen, may I humbly bow and talk to you about one of the world’s most melancholic and passionate musical genres. It is called Fado (a Portuguese word normally translated as Fate) and it miraculously emerged, under its nowadays shape, from Mouraria, one of the oldest Moorish neighbourhoods of Lisboa. Its mysterious birth dates from the very begining of the 19th century, although earlier, deeper roots are generally admitted. It seems to have been the astonishing, heartbreaking result of a powerful multicultural combination: the black rhythms of African slaves, the traditional music of old Portugal, the Moorish vocal inflexions and the Brazilian modihna.
Fado talks of loss and longing, talks of people’s lives and talks of people’s soul. It has in it the sea and its tenderness. It is mostly made of desires and their stories, desires that are not meant for fulfillment, but for singing and sublime renouncement. It is the ultimate strength of the human soul: to escape and overcome reality. It is poetry and poetry only. And so is the love it describes. Defined mostly by the untranslatable word “saudade” – which counts for infinite longing for someone or something, a form of nostalgia that is bigger than life and more profound than the Atlantic ocean – love in fado’s short stories is built out of poetry and tragic passion, it forever breaks the tide of ordinary to melt itself into its own flame.
This beautiful world of sounds and feeling is my gift for today. Hope you’ll enjoy it. The gorgeous lady in the above movie is Amalia Rodrigues, Portugal’s greatest modern days fadistas and one of Europe’s “grand dames”.
Diary Excerpt (Anne)
Tuesday, September 16th, 2008 | arts | No Comments
It was a cold, rainy morning and I was having a coffee at some cheap cafe when I met him. It seemed that the universe indulged itself into a moment of no importance, as my capacity of foretelling – so goddamn vain. There are some minor excuses I can think of, though. I was never fond of perfect things, they raised me no interest as I had an ultimate passion for the exotic, the unusual, the specific. He was obviously anything but my type: pure, classical face lines, classical black coat, classical everything. Depressingly classical. I successfully ignored his appearance, while pretending to be over-absorbed with my newspaper. Storms. Fire. Genocides. War. Middle East. Mexico Gulf. Arctic Ice. He ordered tea. Minutes later, got something with a slight cinnamon flavour, while waiting patiently at a small, round table, pretty close to mine. Suddenly, the cafe’s huge window opened wide in my back side, spreading its light as some white, weird mist. Windy weather. I couldn’t help feeling annoyed. I took a look around. The cafe was almost empty. Two people, two not-so-bare tables. No music.