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![]() You Owe It To Yourself To Pay A Visit To Samba Heaven. By Dave McElfresh THE BIGGEST PARTY in the world is taking place the weekend of February 21. If you want to go, drive south through Nogales, go all the way through Central America, and take a left when you reach Brazil. Rio de Janeiro's carnival makes the Mardi Gras look like your folks' idea of fun. And it all centers around samba, Brazil's percussion-driven dance music that, by God, forbids you to remain in your seat.
Even when the carnival is months away, every night becomes a pep rally. Park next to the auditorium where your favorite favela is practicing. A homeless kid will protect your car for a few cruzeiros, or will cause the damage himself if you don't cough up. Inside, a bateria of dozens of percussionists (later increasing to literally hundreds of percussionists during carnival) beat a nonstop rhythm literally all night, as thousands of cariocas sing their chosen theme and shuffle in a huge circle--often until it's time to go to work the next morning. The booze is as blindingly potent as backwoods moonshine: One of the drinks looks like a hefty dose of Pepto-Bismol and will require as much of the real thing in the morning. These are the ultimate party people; and, considering the astonishingly young age of those present and still fervently dancing at 4 a.m., they learn how to samba before they learn how to walk.
Two decades later, samba--along with its slower, more sultry sister form, bossa nova--took America by storm when jazzman Stan Getz played the music of Rio's Antonio Carlos Jobim and Joao Gilberto. Thanks to the current interest in lounge music, we can hear versions, albeit intentionally lame ones, of post-"Girl From Ipanema" classics like "One Note Samba," "Samba Do Aviao" and "So Danco Samba."
Need more? Venture out into bossa nova and its follow-up movement, musica popular brasileira, by snagging releases by Milton Nascimento (the reigning king of Brazilian music), Elis Regina, Maria Bethania, Caetano Veloso, Dori Caymmi, Marisa Monte, Ivan Lins and Djavan.
Crank 'em up. Slip into that lewd day-glo swimsuit bottom not
yet worn. Duct tape a feather duster to the back of your head
and shake your stuff on top of the dining room table. It'll do
ya until you can figure out the party directions and be there
in person next year.
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