There was a retarded time. From cateretês, reizados, catiras, and loose prose in terreiros and coffee plantations. Hours of running on the wheels of an ox cart. A little fun. I work a lot. Blessings of the Father, Blessings of a Mother. From the days ruled by the sun, moonlight, and star world. The night was a mystery, with animals reigning; Sakis wandered around the huts, and the Orutau laughed at what he did not understand. Another world, another time.
Life turned, time turned. The machine came, and the bull cart came out. Artificial intelligence, human in space, people wandering with their eyes shining over small screens. Bless the father, bless the mother. The welcome came from the posts, from the networks that no longer sway, they just connect… the spaces between buildings, the corners that turn without a story to tell. Humans flew away, exchanging seeds for algorithms. Once again, you fly away, gathering those who are further away, in isolation like a 3×4 with every click. I flipped the screen, time is another thing.
In these two scenarios of seemingly opposing poles, what can unite is basically what you can’t exactly see, but only feel. The culture we carry, the ways, the habits we’ve inherited. Everything goes together wherever we go, even if our clothes change, even if our tools change – from a shovel to a smartphone, from a bull to an electric car, a spaceship. Sky star by virtual screens! It doesn’t matter, something always connects us. urban and rural. Smoke, the little river that fights at every turn and every fall. Fish, moon, shares, life. It’s all mixed up, even though we’re in 2022 and we still have a lot to live for and find out what’s new coming in at the moment.
What connects us is what we don’t see, it’s what we feel. And music is the point of contact, the bridge, the link. Here we are, from the countryside trying to reinvent itself, sometimes a little awkward with our backs to the stoop it was before, trying to follow the pace of urban centers. With its concrete and accelerating step, and its view of an integral future.
Something unites us, whether we are the Sertau, whether we are downtown, citizens or small towns. Something that speaks far, within us…modern, postmodern, connected, cool, nostalgic, technological “huge”, analog. Did not matter. Sound is what unites us. The one our parents and grandparents listened to. Even if we don’t know it, we don’t want it yet, he’s playing there, deep inside himself.
Belchiore warned that something new would inevitably come. The poet from Ciara still says that the past is like clothes that no longer fit us. New, in the case of the most characteristic music of our region, is the music under the generic designation of sertanejo, half (or with forceps) of the root sertanejão, which many still resist and call it moda caipira. Those songs that spoke of the world of the Capuchins in Sertau – farms, nature, platonic love; Everything related to the earth, heart and feelings.
New comes, so. And then we have a re-imagining of what great artists, pioneering duets, and their inseparable “violin” planted there. They wrote on the bridge of fine-tuned strings, for sounds that echoed, sometimes down, sometimes up, but always in tune with the sound that comes from the woods, and the branches, and the caves where the sky is still of birds and the waters are still of fish that lie among the rocks and submerged horns.
The new is finally coming. In songs separated from this semi-naïve universe, full of an atmosphere that does not fit this “famous” novelty. And it comes like this, in words that speak of such suffering, in buckets and buckets of beer, in secretions of betrayals and eternal love for just one night.
New comes, and it is said to be necessary. It’s a part, others agree. It may be so, and perhaps this reality has to take its own course. And present-day ambitions, in the grandeur of sophisticated shows full of light and sound effects, no longer fit the humble circus that was once the stage for most of those paving the way for new generations. The circus is gone, and drawings that easily reach half a million no longer fit that old romance, with a thatched floor, and performances under a sky of worn-out cloth.
But country people, good-hearted singers and good rhymed verses, do not want war. They only fight the good fight of those who defend their culture with what they have in their hands and their heart, toyas of memories and feelings. They do not want war with anyone. His cry is the sound that emanates from the cultivated, plowed, and irrigated land of hope for those who wait – and who know how to wait – for the fruit that sprouts and is reborn.
The only battle that the retarded fight is to defend the intangible heritage literally. What you don’t touch, you only feel. Louurival dos Santos and Tião Carreiro spoke of this “good war” when they composed the song A Viola eo Violeiro 60 years ago. From the release of Tião and then-duo partner Carreirinho on that occasion, here are the verses that explain what this struggle to preserve authentic root music is against outsiders, heresies and other “doctrines”:
Representing São Paulo, this page is the message
Foreign songs want to invade our market
Let’s go to war, every guitarist is a soldier
Viola, we have a carbine and we have an armored train
The viola and the violinist cannot be defeated.”.
This boils down to retarded resistance. So that they can move forward, restoring the culture of the country, but without erasing the legacy planted there. No one can deny that this date is, because as Pablo Milanes says in Canción por La Unidad Latinoamericana,
“History directs your car, and many of us will climb on it.”
It will pass over anyone who wants to deny it.”