Laura G Manifold

I was inspired today by a friend to write about one of my favourite songs, ‘Na boca do sol’.  Unfortunately, he does not speak Portuguese; as the lyrics are one of best parts of the song, I took it upon myself to translate the lyrics for him.

Some may recognize this tune as sampled by the likes of DOOM and Madlib.  I remember this tune from another singer, Célia.  My first Portuguese professor, whom I had asked for some music to help me with my pronunciation, first introduced me to her.  He turned me on to this and another artist, Bebel Gilberto.  Obrigada, right?

Unfortunately, I don’t know that much about Célia.  I only have one of her records, the self-titled Célia (1972), which was released on Continental.  It’s a great record, with bongo ballads, jazzy bits layered with reed, and funked-out brassy jams.  

The seventh track on her album is the ‘Na boca do sol’ (translation ‘In the mouth of the sun’).  The original song was written and arranged by Arthur Verocai, with Vitor Martins, and appears on his self-titled album, which was also released on Continental in the same year.  This was Verocai’s only solo studio release, although he has worked as a composer and producer in Brazil.  Only recently has his work been given the credit it truly deserves thanks to the likes of Mochila and Vtech.

The music geek inside me understands why ‘Na boca do sol’ is such a gem; in fact the whole album is wondrous.  Although the tracks are all relatively short, each is packed with sonic bliss.  Stylistically, it’s a variation of bossa, a genre of Brazilian music originating in Rio in the late 1950s (think Gilberto Gil in his early years).  On this album, Verocai artfully combines various bossa sounds with elements of American blues and soul.

Verocai wrote ‘Na boca do sol’ as a tribute to his birthplace in the northeast of Brazil.  Although one needn’t have knowledge of Portuguese to comprehend the compositional genius on this track, for me, it’s the lyrics that make it even more stunning.  Although he was a relatively young man when he wrote this, it’s a song of nostalgia. The orchestration of the brass with the bass and electric piano, the forcefully gentle pulsating drum and crashing cymbals are complimented with the intermittent piccolo, demonstrating such mature talent.  Even now, almost 40 years later, it’s still a masterpiece. 

What I find so intriguing and incredibly beautiful about this particular song is it’s evocative power.  As I mentioned before, the lyrics add such an engaging dimension to the song.  I understand Verocai’s words to be sentimental, yet when accompanied by such an elegantly powerful sound, set an almost paradoxical tone.  There’s a the feeling that one is caught between reminiscence and creativity which seems to want to burst out Verocai’s composition with a life of it’s own.  I find the lyrical pockets between the surges of brass to be a grounding force in this creative tendency to occasionally abandon the past. 

Na minha cidade do interior,

tudo que chegou, chegou de trem.

Minha mãe olhando p’ra a estação

e vendo viagens dentro de mim,

desenhou no vento e mais um irmão.

 

Na minha cidade do interior,

p’ra quem morar lá, o céu é lá.

Perto da manhã, na boca do sol,

vou da avenida à estação

por medo dos pais ou por solidão.

 

Toda a minha vida eu vi passar,

no brilho dos trilhos de um trem

que me vêem a parte toda manhã

engolindo túneis que a gente tem

e que a preguiça ou não, deixou fechar.

 

Na minha cidade do interior,

perto da manhã na boca do sol.

P’ra quem mora lá, o céu é lá.

 

In my small city in the interior,

All that came, came by train.

My mother looked to the station

And seeing voyages inside me,

Drew another brother inside her womb.

In my small city in the interior,

For those who live there, heaven is there.

Close to the morning, in the mouth of the sun,

I go down the street to the station

For fear of my parents or of loneliness.

All my life I saw it pass,

In the glow of the railroad tracks

That come and go every morning

Swallowing tunnels that we have

That the laziness doesn’t close.

In my small town,

Close to the morning, in the mouth of the sun.

For those who live there, heaven is there.

‘Close to the morning, in the mouth of the sun’ is such a perfect line.  It paints such a vivid picture of an early morning peace.  Indeed, for those who live in this small city in the interior of northeast Brazil, heaven must exist. 

You can purchase a copy of the album here.