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24 May 2017

Caetano Veloso "Caetano Veloso"1968 Brazil Tropicalia Psych Latin,Folk,Pop

Caetano Veloso  "Caetano Veloso" 1968 Brazil Tropicalia Psych Latin,Folk,Pop
Second album by singer Caetano Veloso, being his first solo album, recorded in 1967 and released in 1968 by record company Philips Records. It had arrangements of Júlio Medaglia, Damiano Cozzella and Sandino Hohagen. Tropicália, the first track of this album, would name the next album released by Caetano. The LP was elected on a list of the Brazilian version of Rolling Stone magazine as the 37th best Brazilian record of all time.................

Caetano Veloso's first album as a solo artist marked the birth of the culturally revolutionary tropicalia movement, of which Veloso and Gilberto Gil were the leading figures. The concept of the movement was to modernize Brazilian popular culture and, through creative music and poetry, reflect the Brazilian society as it appeared at the time. Veloso and other tropicalistas mixed traditional Brazilian popular music primarily with international pop culture and psychedelic rock, but they would incorporate practically anything that crossed their minds. This kind of wild cultural and musical cannibalism was found to be very controversial by many elements of the Brazilian society, both to the left and to the right of the political spectrum, and would ultimately lead to the arrest and forced exile of Caetano Veloso and Gilberto Gil in 1969. After the hugely successful release of the psychedelic pop poem "Alegria, Alegria" as a single in 1967, Veloso aimed at releasing an album that would surpass the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's in terms of creativity, while at the same time reflecting the new, more international, Brazil. The result was this unique 12-track gem with classics such as the previously mentioned "Alegria, Alegria," the lovely and ironic "Superbacana," and the Latin-flavored "Soy Loco por Ti America." The title of the opening track "Tropicália" -- a song that in a wonderful way summarizes what the movement was all about -- was actually borrowed from an installation by visual artist Hélio Oiticica which Veloso found very inspiring. Soon after the release of this album, the term "tropicália," to the mild irritation of Veloso himself, became the name used by the media to describe the entire Brazilian movement. In addition to the great and uniquely inventive music on the album, what strikes the listener is the excellent standard of the lyrics, written by such prominent poets as Capinam, Ferreira Gullar, and of course Veloso himself. More often than not, the lyrics could easily stand alone as poems. For all its artistic quality, and its position as the first tropicalia album, as well as Caetano Veloso's first solo album, this is a classic and one of the most important albums of Brazilian popular music Philip Jandovský...........

In 1968, the Brazilian pop singer began a Tropicália revolution against a newly installed military government. It's a vibrant, cheeky, agitprop album that purred and glided past the martial censors.

In the history books, it was on March 31st, 1964 that a military coup ousted Brazilian President João Goulart. The U.S.-backed junta overtook all branches of government, ending nearly a century of newfound democracy for the one-time adjunct of the Portuguese empire and subjecting the country to two decades of increasingly repressive military rule. In Caetano Veloso’s 2003 memoir Tropical Truth: A Story of Music & Revolution in Brazil, he is adamant that the date is a lie: The coup actually took place on April Fool’s Day. Four years into the new regime, then-twentysomething Brazilian pop singer Veloso recorded his first solo album.

But the first voice you hear on his 1968 self-titled release isn’t that of Veloso, but of Portuguese knight Pêro Vaz de Caminha, credited with discovering Brazil in the year 1500. He wrote a letter to Manuel I, King of Portugal raving about the fertile Brazilian land and how “all that is planted grows and flourishes,” convincing the king that the presumed island was worthy of colonization. Carta de Pero Vaz Caminha is considered the first literary text to emanate from Brazil but it gets parodied in a high nasally voice by Veloso’s drummer Dirceu. Little did the percussionist know that the tapes were running. And when the arranger of the session mimics the “exotic” sounds of the Brazilian rainforest, it points back to that time when Brazil was virgin land, before the empire arrived at her shores.

Caetano Veloso’s debut album remains one of the most revolutionary albums released into the worldwide tumult of the 1960s. The opening salvo of Tropicália, it announced the arrival of the greatest Brazilian talent since João Gilberto and launched a fifty-year career that’s not only changed Brazilian music but American music as well, from Talking Heads to Beck to No Wave legend Arto Lindsay and Animal Collective.

To non-Portuguese speakers, Caetano Veloso might not sound anywhere near as transformative as the other albums of that year: Electric Ladyland, The White Album, White Light/White Heat, Anthem of the Sun, A Saucerful of Secrets, to name just a few. Couched in lush orchestral strings suggestive of the generation prior instead of the psychedelic production effects of the moment, it’s a sound thoughtfully strummed on an acoustic guitar. It has few of the tricks and technology of the aforementioned, but at its heart, it’s a revolt, a message delivered at a purr rather than a howl, elegantly gliding past military censors.

At the time, the album struck a balance between the polemics of communism on the Left and the crushing military might on the Right, sloughing off the nationalism and patriotism on either side while embracing a love of country in the shadow of the American Empire. And at the center of it all was Veloso and his supple, silken voice, a Bing Crosby croon delivered with a glint in his eye and Che Guevara’s The Motorcycle Diaries surreptitiously tucked into his back pocket.

The seeds of Tropicália’s revolution were planted the year prior when Veloso submitted “Alegria, Alegria” (“Joy, Joy”) to the TV Record Festival. Featuring a burst of fuzz guitar and electric organ it became Veloso’s first anthem, his self-described “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.” It’s also his Breathless, his “Chicken Noodle Soup,” at once a critique and embrace of 20th-century pop culture. Veloso drinks Coca-Cola, quotes Sartre, name-drops Brigitte Bardot and Claudia Cardinale, all while slyly quoting fellow Brazilian pop star Chico Buarque’s “A Banda” and shrugging his shoulders at the end with the line: “Why not?” It set the themes for the movement to come in Tropicália: courting mass media, distancing themselves from the Left and silently protesting the powers that be. As Veloso later told the New York Times: “It was against the dictatorship without saying anything about it.”

The success of “Alegria, Alegria” emboldened Veloso as he worked on a new album. During lunch at a friend’s house one day, he sang some of the new songs, including one that still didn’t have a title. Brazilian film producer and screenwriter Luiz Carlos Barreto suggested the name of a recent piece from visual artist Hélio Oiticica, an installation that required the viewer to follow a path through sand, lined with tropical plants, until they ended at a television set. “Until I could find a better title the song would be called ‘Tropicália,’” Veloso wrote. “I never did find a better one.”

“Tropicália” opens with Dirceu’s recitation about Brazil as a “tropical paradise,” shouted amid a clatter of jungle drums, tympani, shakers, agogô bells, and the piercingly high frequency of flutes imitating bird song, before the orchestra strikes up and Veloso ambles in like a giant surveying all of Brazil:

Over my head the airplanes
Under my feet the trucks and trains
And pointing out the highland plains is my nose
I organize the movement, too
I lead the carnival.

As expansive, outsized, and hallucinatory as Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” as insouciant and word-drunk as Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” “Tropicália” is allegory and absorption of all the contradictions of Brazil: its baião rhythms against suave orchestral surges, its colonial opening against the overstuffed modernist lines of Veloso. In the chorus, Veloso praises the sophisticated and urbane song form of bossa nova yet rhymes it with “mud huts.” Throughout the dense lines, Veloso swings from jungle to city, from swimming pools to sea, referring to fellow Música Popular Brasileira (MPB) singers like Elis Regina, Roberto Carlos, and—at the last refrain—to Buarque’s “A Banda” again. Though this time, Veloso adds a twist, rhyming it with the lady in the Tutti Frutti hat, Carmen Miranda.

By that point in the ’60s, Miranda was perceived as kitsch, the Brazil of old, even though early in her singing career, the “Brazilian Bombshell” was her country’s first full-fledged pop star and one of the highest paid entertainers in Hollywood. But Veloso was sincere in his embrace of Miranda, and in teasing out the last syllable of her name, he also nods to Dadaism, melding colorful camp and the avant-garde in just a handful of syllables.

“One characteristic of Tropicália... was precisely the broadening and diversification of the market, achieved through a dismantling of the order of things, with a disregard for distinctions of class or level of education.” So Veloso wrote in Tropical Truth, adding that one goal of their movement was “to sort out the tension between Brazil the Parallel Universe and Brazil the country peripheral to the American Empire.” It was a fine line to straddle, embracing both their own heritage and American pop culture. It meant admiring the colorful cartoonishness of the Kool-Aid Man but neither buying nor drinking the Kool-Aid, all while not falling for the consumerism being offered up religiously since the junta took power.


The American poet Elizabeth Bishop traveled to Brazil in the early ’50s. A two-week voyage turned into an 18-year stay in the country, where her aristocratic spouse, Lota de Macedo Soares, fed her access to the upper echelons of Rio society. Bishop found herself with a bird’s-eye view of the coup d’etat that would soon grip the country. She marveled at its efficiency and the support it appeared to engender, writing that these displays of anti-communism were becoming “victory marches [with] more than one million people marching in the rain.” From her perspective, it was simple: “...all in about 48 hours, it was all over...The suspension of rights, dismissing lots of Congress, etc... had to be done—sinister as it may sound.” But for the Brazilians who weren’t in positions of power and prominence, those in the favelas or those in the working classes who would not stand to profit handsomely, something far more sinister loomed.

In the United States, a group of economists began to impose a debilitating economic plan around the world through means of torture and suppression. Naomi Klein’s book The Shock Doctrine traces this nefarious economic shock therapy from Iraq in the 2000s back to Indonesia in 1965. But its earliest iterations took place in South America. In 1962, Brazil had elected João Goulart, who Klein writes was “committed to land redistribution, higher salaries and a daring plan to force foreign multinationals to reinvest a percentage of their profits back into the Brazilian economy rather than spiriting them out of the country and distributing them to shareholders in New York and London.” It was a dynamic attempt to close the gap between the rich and poor in the country.

But less than two years later, the U.S.-backed junta ousted the president and—with an economic policy scripted in the White House—instilled a plan “not merely to reverse João Goulart’s pro-poor programs but to crack Brazil wide open to foreign investment.” In just a few short years, most of Brazil’s wealth was in the hands of a few multinational corporations and the income gap widened, never to be narrowed again. That inequality remains today, exemplified by the Olympic Games in Rio. The political corruption and abject poverty lie just beyond the colorful walls erected to keep the favelas out of sight on our television screens.

And as the people took to the streets to protest the economic hardships befalling them, it was these same corporations behind the violent repression that soon followed. In Brasil: Nunca Mais, a book that detailed the dictatorship’s torture record from 1964 until democracy was restored in the 1980s, the extralegal forces that brutalized unions, student groups, and other dissidents were funded “by contributions from various multinational corporations, including Ford and General Motors.”

These nefarious forces at work were neither observed by the ’60s counterculture in the United States (then protesting for civil rights and against the Vietnam War) nor for most of the Brazilians themselves. As Veloso noted of the time, “Almost all of us were unaware of those nuances back then, and even if we had been, it would have changed nothing; we saw the coup simply as a decision to halt the redress of the horrible social inequalities in Brazil.”

But even if the young Veloso wasn’t consciously aware of the corporations sucking his country dry, his lyrics suggest an awareness of something terribly amiss. It’s a line that runs through the work of all who gathered under the banner of Tropicália: fellow Bahian Gilberto Gil; the psychedelic wunderkind trio Os Mutantes; bossa nova singers Gal Costa and Nara Leão; the wry, live wire Tom Zé; Rogério Duprat, the producer who studied with Karlheinz Stockhausen. While Tropicália earned the ire of the Left by not writing overtly political songs, in tapping into the collective disquiet of the time, their songs became all the more resonant.

Mocking his corporate overlords and their thirst for profit, Veloso made a tangy MPB album perfect for public consumption his first time out, his artful pop becoming Pop Art becoming agitprop. “Paisagem Útil” (“Useful Landscape”) scans as a string-laced bossa nova that toys with the title of Tom Jobim’s “Inútil Paisagem" (“Useless Landscape”). It’s an ode to Brazil where Veloso offers up a love of Rio's city lights and speeding cars, his lovers kissing under the glow of an Esso sign, a romantic scene set in a simulacrum of nature under the auspices of that multinational oil company. The speedy “Superbacana” is a frevo as penned by Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein. The titular hero “Supercool” battles Uncle Scrooge and his battalion of cowboy minions and uses advertising lingo for shiny new products like “super-peanut” and “biotonic spinach” and—amid the dizzying blur of slogans—“economic advances.”

Translate the title of the jaunty “Soy Loco Por Ti, America” and it reads as “I Am Crazy for You, America.” And at the time, the Tropicálistas were eagerly absorbing as much music as possible from their neighbors to the north. “We were ‘eating’ the Beatles and Jimi Hendrix,” Veloso said of their influences at the time. “We wanted to participate in the worldwide language both to strengthen ourselves as a people and to affirm our originality.” They fervently spun albums from the likes of Aretha Franklin, Janis Joplin, Frank Zappa, and more, but rather than simply mimic the trends to the north, they made these influences bear out the music of their half of the hemisphere. So on “Soy Loco,” Caetano isn’t being cheeky about loving America, it’s just that he means South America. The song playfully dances between a Colombian cumbia and a Cuban mambo, sung in Portuguese and Spanish, with Veloso hoping for a united South America rather than the North American Empire. The lyrics toy with the notion of naming, be it the name of America or the girl he plans to bring to the beach (Marti), but then Veloso pivots and he sings of a nameless country.

Fun enough beach fare, until Veloso signifies a dead man whose name can’t be said. He continues to land on this figure: “The name of the dead man/Before the permanent night spreads through Latin America/The name of the man/Is the people.” Less than a year prior, on the other side of the Brazilian border in Bolivia, Che Guevara was captured and killed by CIA-assisted forces. It would be decades before Veloso would admit that Che Guevara was the dead man at the center of the song, but with his death, the prospects of a united Latin and South America were imperiled. And in the years ahead, Brazil remained under the heel of the American Empire.

As Tropicália grew in popularity around the country, Veloso began to see more attention from the authorities. A performance with Os Mutantes for Festival Internacional de Canção in September of 1968 became a riotous confrontation with the audience. Soon after, another show featuring Veloso, Gil, and Os Mutantes was staged under another piece of art from Hélio Oiticica. Only this one featured a man recently shot dead by the police with the slogan “seja marginal, seja heroi” (be a criminal, be a hero) written on it.

By the end of the year, both Veloso and Gilberto Gil were arrested by the military police and detained two months in solitary confinement without being charged with a crime. After being allowed to play a farewell concert, they were then exiled from Brazil for the next four years. Living in London and then in Bahia upon his return in 1972, Veloso continued to record albums that were by turns exquisite, experimental, and introspective.

Veloso recalled an interrogation from an army sergeant during his imprisonment: “The sergeant was revealing that we tropicalistas were the most serious enemies of the regime. But in that little room of the army police, I did not have the strength to feel proud: I was merely afraid.” None of that fear can be heard here. Instead, bravado and bold assurance run through every number. At the center of it all is Veloso, with his swagger and full belief in the power of his songs to dance around the tanks and petroleum companies, to triumph over both the CIA and Uncle Scrooge. Amid the album’s blinding color and tropical fronds that would make Carmen Miranda proud, Veloso made a stand against the dictatorship without saying anything about Andy Beta...............

I'm not sure what Caetano thinks about this record today, nor do I know what he thought when he released it in January 1968. I've heard or read somewhere unimportant, which was, for him, as close as he could Producing from what was suggested by Glauber Rocha's "Land in Transe" released in 1967. It was probably also the closest he could condense from what was shown by "Sgt Peppers" by The Beatles, "Are you experienced?", Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd's "Piper at Gates of Dawn," or the Beach Boys' "Pet Sounds." These discs, their experiments, unusual instruments and electric guitars at full throttle, naturally influenced the new aesthetics adopted by Caetano and the tropicalists (especially Os Mutantes), as did the fanatic band of Caruaru, Jackson do Pandeiro, Luiz Gonzaga , Vicente Celestino and all popular Brazilian culture. The heads were really crazy, no doubt; There was a desire to mix everything, to mix it with that, to devour the most diverse influences. The ideas of Oswald de Andrade were more active than ever. Anthropophagy was the word of the turn, the attitude of the turn. But the names had been replaced. Instead of Oswald, Mário de Andrade, Pagu or Tarsila do Amaral; We had Gilberto Gil, Torquato Neto, Gal Costa, Rogério Duprat and Tom Zé. We had Caetano and all the caretice of "Domingo", his first record recorded together with Gal Costa, could be forgotten. Here we have another Caetano. No little guitar playing Joao Gilberto's hand and simple, well-mannered and retrograde singing, where all the songs sound like one. None of this. Here we have the tropicália, we have the joke. Nothing Bossa Nova, no Young Guard. Or rather, a little of every thing; All mixed in a single chord. Here we have a new proposal, a new aesthetic. And like everything new, it clashes with itself. You do not need decorations or caraminguás for this. The Tropicália does it for herself, she does not need a fool to say it.

Still, I come here to say and return to what I do not know, I also do not know what the musical critics of the time wrote and talked about this album, after all there are few historical details that can pass through the years, without being forgotten at any given time . Probably the most conservative must have criticized taking into account the negative sense of the word. They must have been shocked easily, accustomed to what was produced in Brazil until then. Many of the young people who were engaged also did not see the tropicalia with good eyes. They associated Rock and Roll with imperialism and did not accept its introduction in Brazilian popular music. Almost armorialies of so puddled. No one is shocked anymore today and the critics end up being overly proud and ... just that, which is more dangerous. Do not take them seriously and I talk about myself too. We are a bunch of pretentious people with no concept whatsoever. But we continue anyway. In fact, most people in 1968 should not have understood anything. Nothing that Caetano did, neither Duprat nor Os Mutantes, nor Tom Zé. Just as they understood nothing of what Glauber Rock meant. To this day, many do not understand. Maintaining an intellectual level within a society like the Brazilian one ends up becoming elitist invariably. Few have been able to break through this barrier and become "head" and popular at the same time. Chico Buarque to say so. But it does not matter. It's not the artist's fault. This disc, titled only as "Caetano Veloso" shows for what came from the cover produced by the graphic artist Rogério Duarte. It would be an extremely colorful picture of a half-naked woman and a dragon, if not for the face of abuse Caetano that appears almost like a collage in the midst of it. Now on second thoughts, I think it's a mirror for someone who looks at the vinyl. It is the first tropicalist record. Released months before the disco-manisfesto "Tropicália or Panis et Circenses". Months before Gilberto Gil or Tom Zé or Duprat released their Tropicalist albums too. Caetano was a step forward, his head was sunk in the new aesthetic although many say that he simply took advantage of the historical moment and that the tropicalia would happen the same way with or without his presence. We will never know, we will never reach a common denominator from this unfounded discussion. This may not be the most tropicalist record, but it is the first and this should have some historical value. It is from him that the suggestions, the follies that would come to take place later in the hands and voices of the most diverse artists depart from him. It is as if it were the Brazilian source that gives the first supplies for the emergence of a forest. After the source can even be forgotten, after all the forest already has its own life and produces new sources much more interesting. Undoubtedly, this is not the best, nor the most tropicalista record. But it is the first and this should have some historical value......................

"When Pero Vaz de Caminha discovered that the Brazilian lands were fertile, he wrote a letter to the king: Everything in it is planted, everything grows and flourishes. And the Gaus of the time recorded ... "Tropicália (the song) begins with the improvisation of the drummer Dirceu making an allusion to the letter of Pero Vaz de Caminha and some very strange sounds accompany his journey. And just to state, 'Gaus' was the studio sound technician where the record was being recorded. This song could not begin otherwise, after all in the set of references to which it is proposed, the starting point could only be this. And this is a very referential album. Whether the heroes are based on irony in "Superbacana" or the pseudo-imitation of the vocal pronunciation of Nelson Gonçalves in "Onde Andarás". Obviously I only know this because I read somewhere unimportant, after all I would never know that Caetano was referring to the vocal pronunciation of Nelson Gonçalves in any song that was. Do me a favor. I only notice a strange vocal pronunciation of fact. By the way, a song by Ferreira Gullar and Caetano Veloso, in theory, could only draw attention. Only in theory, because "Where will you walk" passes almost unnoticed. When it is not on purpose. And honestly I do not know what's worse. The music has something dirty that disrupts the understanding of the lyrics and let's face it that the lyrics are not there. Even if it was a clean song, we would not have much to listen to. Let's talk about other songs then. "Superbacana", for example. This is a fun song pacas, a machine gun referential and imagery, that only has problem as being too short. It's the shortest of all records. It's okay that some bad tongues say it's easy to nauseate. I, in particular, find it difficult to get bored. And I could fall for that lousy pun and call it the super music, but I decided to restrain myself this time. The refined humor of these verses does not deserve this. Me neither. Not you. I mean, I do not know.

Returning to Tropicália, it is important to say that this song, like Alegria, Alegria, has a nostalgia inherent in it and greater than we can see at first. It is a nostalgia so great, and at the same time so melancholy that it reaches perfectly even to those who did not live the time when such songs were released. You can hear the verses and feel every detail of the late sixties; These two songs, in particular, seem to be able to recreate, reproduce all the year 1968. And all weather. In addition to provoking us a longing for what we do not live, of the generation which we were not part of, but which we still naturally approach. These two songs do not have all the political and dramatic content of Geraldo Vandré, although they have their own tone on political positions. There is a lightness thrown through images and ideas, one after another, without ceasing. And perhaps this bombardment is not only a consequence of the aesthetics of the songs, but of the fact that we are the children of the Generation Videoclipe that transforms all the senses into images products. Tropicália and Alegria, Alegria make an incredible difference in the concept (and quality) of the disc as a whole. Not only because they are the symbols of the newly born and almost dead aesthetic that Caetano sought. Not only for that. These two songs emerge as a deviation from the left attached to aesthetic conservatism, while at the same time opposing the authoritarian right. It traces a unique path, itself. And maybe Caetano had no idea of ​​this until he was booed while singing "It's Forbidden to Prohibit" with Os Mutantes as support band, at the III International Song Festival.

On the other hand, for those who hoped that Caetano's tropicalist album would be a sequence of songs aesthetically coherent with the ideas of the movement and consequently without any coherence, he might find "Clarice" a little distant from the proposal. Even Caetano thought to tell the truth. But make no mistake. "Clarice" is not unpretentious music as it seems. The melody carries an immense sadness, tells the story of modesty, of the modesty through the innocence of a sad girl who ends up undressing. All carries a melancholy and a mystery. Brazilian music itself was undressing at that historic moment. Tropicalism was this, it was the possibility of being naked. And that's what Clarice did. The other woman on the record is "Clara". It's a short song that does not excite me, but I obviously recognize its value. In fact, I like a few moments, mainly the vocal exchange between Gal and Caetano and some breaks of rhythm, but the repetition of a same name several times always irritated me. And with Claaaara, Claaaara, Claaaara, it could not be any different. We also have Mary, in "Annunciation" and in "Ave Maria". The first one has a good lyrics, really good but that ended up embedded in a tune of dubious quality. And again has the irritable repetition over and over again: Maaariaaa, Maaariaaa. The second is the type of music that does not..................

A true heavyweight, Caetano Veloso is a pop musician/poet/filmmaker/political activist whose stature in the pantheon of international pop musicians is on par with that of Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, and Lennon/McCartney. And even the most cursory listen to his recorded output since the 1960s proves that this is no exaggeration. Born in 1942 in Santo Amaro da Purificacao in Brazil's Bahia region, Veloso absorbed the rich Bahian musical heritage that was influenced by Caribbean, African, and North American pop music, but it was the cool, seductive bossa nova sound of João Gilberto (a Brazilian superstar in the '50s) that formed the foundation of Veloso's intensely eclectic pop. Following his sister Maria Bethânia (a very successful singer in her own right) to Rio in the early '60s, the 23-year-old Veloso won a lyric-writing contest with his song "Um Dia" and was quickly signed to the Philips label. It wasn't long before Veloso (along with other Brazilian stars such as Gal Costa and Gilberto Gil) represented the new wave of MPB (musica popular brasileira), the all-purpose term used by Brazilians to describe their pop music. Bright, ambitious, creative, and given to an unapologetically leftist political outlook, Veloso would soon become a controversial figure in Brazilian pop. By 1967, he had become aligned with Brazil's burgeoning hippie movement and, along with Gilberto Gil, created a new form of pop music dubbed Tropicalia. Arty and eclectic, Tropicalia retained a bossa nova influence, adding bits and pieces of folk-rock and art rock to a stew of loud electric guitars, poetic spoken word sections, and jazz-like dissonance. Although not initially well received by traditional pop-loving Brazilians (both Veloso and Gil faced the wrath of former fans similar to the ire provoked by Dylan upon going electric), Tropicalia was a breathtaking stylistic synthesis that signaled a new generation of daring, provocative, and politically outspoken musicians who would remake the face of MPB. This was a cultural shift not without considerable dangers. Since 1964, Brazil had been ruled by a military dictatorship (a government that would rule for 20 years) that did not look kindly upon such radical music made by such radical musicians. Almost immediately there were government-sanctioned attempts to circumscribe the recordings and live performances of many Tropicalistas. Censorship of song lyrics as well as radio and television playlists (Veloso was a regular TV performer on Brazilian variety shows) was common. Just as common was the persecution of performers openly critical of the government, and Veloso and Gil were at the top of the hit list. Both men spent two months in prison for "anti-government activity" and another four months under house arrest. After a defiant 1968 performance together, Veloso and Gil were forced into exile in London. Veloso continued to record abroad and write songs for other Tropicalia stars, but he would not be allowed to return to Brazil permanently until 1972. Although his commitment to politicized art never wavered, Veloso went from being a very popular Brazilian singer/songwriter to becoming the center of Brazilian pop over the next 20 years. For decades he kept up a grueling pace of recording, producing, and performing and, in the mid-'70s, added writing to his résumé, publishing a book of articles, poems, and song lyrics covering a period from 1965 to 1976. In the '80s, Veloso became increasingly better known outside of Brazil, touring in Africa, Paris, and Israel, interviewing Mick Jagger for Brazilian TV, and in 1983, playing America for the first time. (He sold out three nights at the Public Theater in New York with shows that were rapturously reviewed by then-New York Times pop critic Robert Palmer.) This steady increase in popularity occurred despite the fact that Veloso's records were extremely hard to find in American record stores, and when one could locate them, they were expensive Brazilian imports. Still, the buzz on Veloso grew, thanks in part to Palmer, Robert Christgau, and other critics writing about pop music outside of the contiguous 48 states. But Veloso never seemed bothered by his low profile outside of Brazil, and his work over the years, even after he became a more well-known international pop figure, remained challenging and intriguing without being modified for American (or anyone else's) tastes -- that is, Veloso sang in English (most of his recorded work is sung in Portuguese) when he felt like it, not because he had to sell more records in America. He hung out with fairly trendy New York musicians (Brazilian native Arto Lindsay and David Byrne), but never made a big deal about it. Veloso was one of the rare musicians who was popular, sold a lot of records (at least in Brazil), and was a certifiable superstar, but never self-aggrandizing, narcissistic, or overly concerned with how hip he was. Even when he approached the age of normal retirement, Veloso showed no signs of slowing down. After his 1989 recording Estrangeiro (produced by Ambitious Lovers' Arto Lindsay and Peter Scherer) became his first non-import release in America, Veloso's stateside profile increased significantly, reaching its highest point with the release of 1993's Tropicália 2, recorded with Gilberto Gil. A brilliant record that made a slew of American Top Ten lists, Tropicália 2 proved once again that Veloso's talent (as well as Gil's) had not diminished a bit. His early-'90s recordings, Circuladô, Fina Estampa, and Circuladô ao Vivo (the latter of which includes versions of Michael Jackson's "Black and White" and Dylan's "Jokerman"), were uniformly wonderful, and in the summer of 1997 Veloso embarked on his largest American tour to date. Two years later, Veloso was the subject of an extensive, flattering portrait in Spin on the eve of the American release of his acclaimed 1998 album, Livro. In 1999, he released Omaggio a Federico e Giulietta, a tribute to auteur Federico Fellini and his wife, actress Giulietta Masina. He also won a Grammy for the Best MPB Album for 1998's Livro at the first annual Latin Grammy Awards. At the beginning of the new millennium, Veloso delivered a live bossa nova album in collaboration with poet Jorge Mautner, the spirited Noites do Norte, and the songbook album A Foreign Sound. In 2006, Veloso returned with Cê, a typically diverse and interesting album co-produced by his son Moreno. Veloso took some time out to tour and begin another book; he released Zii e Zie in 2009 on Nonesuch through World Circuit. Live at Carnegie Hall, a record documenting a very special collaborative concert he and longtime friend David Byrne gave in 2004 as part of Veloso's residency at the renowned venue, was issued in 2012, a year that also saw the release of Abraçaço, the third part of the trilogy of studio albums -- Cê and Zii e Zie being the first two -- that placed the artist in the company of much younger players. The album was issued in North America by Nonesuch in March of 2014. The following year Veloso and Gilberto Gil embarked on a major world tour together called "Dois Amigos, Um Século de Música" which translates to "Two Friends, a Century of Music." With each artist celebrating a remarkable 50-year career, the tour was commemorated by a live album recorded in their native Brazil called Dois Amigos, Um Século de Música: Multishow Live. The extensive double album was released in April 2016 by Nonesuch. ~ John Dougan.............

Tropicália 3:40
Clarice 5:31
No Dia Em Que Eu Vim-me Embora 2:26
Alegria, Alegria 2:43
Onde Andarás 1:55
Anunciação 3:00
Superbacana 1:28
Paisagem Útil 2:35
Clara 2:43
Soy Loco Por Tí, América 3:40
Ave Maria 2:06
Eles 4:40 

Domingo (1967) – com Gal Costa
Caetano Veloso (1968)
Caetano Veloso (1969)
Barra 69 – Caetano e Gil ao Vivo (1969)
Caetano Veloso (1971)
Transa (1972)
Caetano e Chico Juntos ao Vivo (1972)
Araçá Azul (1972)
Temporada de Verão ao Vivo na Bahia (1974)
Jóia (1975)
Qualquer Coisa (1975)
Doces Bárbaros (1976)
Bicho 1977 (1977)
Muitos Carnavais (1977)
Muito – Dentro da Estrela Azulada (1978)
Maria Bethânia e Caetano Veloso ao Vivo (1978)
Cinema Transcendental (1979)
Outras Palavras (1981)
Brasil (1981)
Cores, Nomes (1982)
Uns (1983)
Velô (1984)
Totalmente Demais (1986)
Caetano Veloso (1986)
Caetano Veloso (1987)
Caetanear (1989)
Estrangeiro (1989)
Sem Lenço, Sem Documento (1990)
Circuladô (1991)
Circuladô ao Vivo (1992)
Tropicália 2 (1993)
Fina Estampa (1994)
Fina Estampa ao Vivo (1994)
Tieta do Agreste (1996)
Livro (1997)
Prenda Minha (1999)
Omaggio a Federico e Giulieta ao Vivo (1999)
Noites do Norte (2000)
Noites do Norte ao Vivo (2001)
Eu Não Peço Desculpa (2002)
Todo Caetano (caixa com 40 CDs) (2002)
A Foreign Sound (2004)
Ongotô (2005)
Cê (2006)
Cê ao Vivo (2007)
Zii e Zie (2009)

Maria Bethânia, Caetano Veloso, Gal Costa e Gilberto Gil)

johnkatsmc5, welcome music..







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music forever

music forever