Thursday, November 29, 2007
Friday, November 9, 2007
Thought-Purge: Caetano Veloso, 11/7
So I saw Caetano Veloso in Chapel Hill last night. His performance was part of the Carolina Performing Arts series, the UNC version of UMS (for y'all Michiganders) except with (presumably) no sleeping outdoors. I've enjoyed the stuff they've brought to Memorial Auditorium so far, despite the deplorable lack of legroom in their seats.
I have to admit that while I cover any sequence of world-music-ish events for CVNC, by no means do I possess encyclopedic knowledge of the sounds of foreign lands. I have a cursory knowledge of West African and Indian music thanks to some exposure in school, and I can only hope my enthusiasm and curiosity will carry me through to some kind of non-hack insight into whatever I'm listening to. This results a lot of illegible-in-the-harsh-light-of-day scribbling about each piece, embarrassing phonetic interpretations of lyrics, hastily transcribed basslines that all end up looking like large-type braille.
And although I knew more about him than the likes of the griots, cimbalists, oud players I wrote up this year, I was totally unprepared for the sexy, weird, magnetic sexagenarian who's been called the Brazilian Bob Dylan. I guess that, from the fact that I had seen him headlining at the likes of Hill Auditorium (I think I bought tickets for his show one year at UM and couldn't go for some reason), looking all serious-like in the posters -- eyes downcast, face shown in profile, forehead against guitar neck -- he'd be, I dunno, boring.*
I could not have been more egregiously wrong.
To my credit, I didn't have a whole ton of notice before I signed up to review the gig (unlike my unsuccessful lobby to review a NC Symphony pops concert featuring Elvis Costello), and I even bought his most recent disc, Cê, which was released earlier this year. I only listened to it once before the show, and my impression was that it was a little toothless -- catchy enough for me to be able to pick out four or five songs from the disc he (and his band of hot young Brazilian rockers) played during the UNC set, but waaaay too easy on the ears. It deserves further analysis, but before the show, Cê sounded like an overprocessed reworking of the Cars' clean, catchy pop formula.
I was transfixed by the following during the show:
-Caetano looking unbearably hot, even from the back row, in contrasting denim and a beat-up polo that came off as more slacker/dorm room floor than lame old dude. The voice, which delivers a rippling stream of delectable Portuguese most of the time, doesn't hurt. Add to this bright-orange shoelaces and he was seriously adorable.
-His, um, quirkiness? Which manifested itself in a variety of ways, like his goofy-as-hell, coltish jogging/dancing across the stage during particularly rockin' instrumental interludes; baring his midriff during one of these treks to the edge of the stage (to which the small but vocal home crowd reacted quite positively); the RIDICULOUS overuse of strobe effects/blinding lights of the caliber usually confined to gigantic sports stadiums.
-The guitar he used during full-band numbers, which was some kind of curious wireless git-outline with no strings and a truncated neck (since it needed no pegs). It was brought out and taken back (so his arms were free to gesticulate spastically, of course) after every other tune.
I might sound put off, but I really think I just lack context; this thought-purge is an attempt to get my colloquial thoughts and first impressions out of my system before I write my review tomorrow. I'll follow up with thoughts on his larger body of work, but for now, I leave you with the translated lyrics to "Homem" ("Man") from Cê.
I'm not jealous of maternity
or of lactation
I'm not jealous of adiposity
or of menstruation
I only envy longevity
and multiple orgasms
and multiple orgasms
Damn, I wish I knew Portuguese.
*This atrocious sentence originally had no ending. I was kinda drunk.
I have to admit that while I cover any sequence of world-music-ish events for CVNC, by no means do I possess encyclopedic knowledge of the sounds of foreign lands. I have a cursory knowledge of West African and Indian music thanks to some exposure in school, and I can only hope my enthusiasm and curiosity will carry me through to some kind of non-hack insight into whatever I'm listening to. This results a lot of illegible-in-the-harsh-light-of-day scribbling about each piece, embarrassing phonetic interpretations of lyrics, hastily transcribed basslines that all end up looking like large-type braille.
And although I knew more about him than the likes of the griots, cimbalists, oud players I wrote up this year, I was totally unprepared for the sexy, weird, magnetic sexagenarian who's been called the Brazilian Bob Dylan. I guess that, from the fact that I had seen him headlining at the likes of Hill Auditorium (I think I bought tickets for his show one year at UM and couldn't go for some reason), looking all serious-like in the posters -- eyes downcast, face shown in profile, forehead against guitar neck -- he'd be, I dunno, boring.*
I could not have been more egregiously wrong.
To my credit, I didn't have a whole ton of notice before I signed up to review the gig (unlike my unsuccessful lobby to review a NC Symphony pops concert featuring Elvis Costello), and I even bought his most recent disc, Cê, which was released earlier this year. I only listened to it once before the show, and my impression was that it was a little toothless -- catchy enough for me to be able to pick out four or five songs from the disc he (and his band of hot young Brazilian rockers) played during the UNC set, but waaaay too easy on the ears. It deserves further analysis, but before the show, Cê sounded like an overprocessed reworking of the Cars' clean, catchy pop formula.
I was transfixed by the following during the show:
-Caetano looking unbearably hot, even from the back row, in contrasting denim and a beat-up polo that came off as more slacker/dorm room floor than lame old dude. The voice, which delivers a rippling stream of delectable Portuguese most of the time, doesn't hurt. Add to this bright-orange shoelaces and he was seriously adorable.
-His, um, quirkiness? Which manifested itself in a variety of ways, like his goofy-as-hell, coltish jogging/dancing across the stage during particularly rockin' instrumental interludes; baring his midriff during one of these treks to the edge of the stage (to which the small but vocal home crowd reacted quite positively); the RIDICULOUS overuse of strobe effects/blinding lights of the caliber usually confined to gigantic sports stadiums.
-The guitar he used during full-band numbers, which was some kind of curious wireless git-outline with no strings and a truncated neck (since it needed no pegs). It was brought out and taken back (so his arms were free to gesticulate spastically, of course) after every other tune.
I might sound put off, but I really think I just lack context; this thought-purge is an attempt to get my colloquial thoughts and first impressions out of my system before I write my review tomorrow. I'll follow up with thoughts on his larger body of work, but for now, I leave you with the translated lyrics to "Homem" ("Man") from Cê.
I'm not jealous of maternity
or of lactation
I'm not jealous of adiposity
or of menstruation
I only envy longevity
and multiple orgasms
and multiple orgasms
Damn, I wish I knew Portuguese.
*This atrocious sentence originally had no ending. I was kinda drunk.
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