the stage contains
a piano bench,
a bottle of water
(untouched all evening)
two microphones,
one for voice,
one for guitar,
and two stage monitors
zen simple sound system
the power here is hidden
producer expresses
sweet and heartfelt
gratitude for artist
and audience
coming together
she is mid-sentence
when joão gilberto,
transforming the
inevitable banality
of introduction
into shaman's magic,
walks out of darkness
guitar in hand
into the spotlight where she stands
instantly the flame ignites, the wave hits,
surge of instant heart energy
lifting audience to its feet --
claps, cheers, whistles,
shouts of praise
minute after minute of
powerful applause
dressed in plain gray suit, black shoes, plain red
necktie, old and owlish horn rimmed
glasses set just below the ridge of his
nose and slightly asymmetrical,
sparse hair fringing a face that looks its 67 years,
you would guess this gentleman is a high school principal
he sits and begins to play a 1 - 1/2 hour set --
no introductions, no patter, no jokes,
nothing spoken to the audience,
simply playing and singing, song after song
the beginnings punctuated by
joyful clapping and expressions of
happy recognition from the audience

chega de saudade, desafinado, samba de uma nota só,
o pato, aos pés da cruz, rosa morena. corcovado, meditação,
vou te contar, pra que discutir com madame, garota de ipanema,
la vem a baiana...
these are not just songs
performed to their highest possibilities,
these are gems of lapidary perfection, a sampling
so permeated with spirit that this handful is
a hologram of his entire art -- each small part
containing the whole, touched by the laser beam of mastery,
recreating an entire world of sound and silence
singer and guitar work in counterpoint
and counter-rhythm, voice-leading-voice,
unexpected shifts from inside to outside chords,
natural progressions given new grace
by subtle shifts, harmonic equivalents and odd voicings
that both amaze the ear and fit perfectly,
human voice singing its samba, guitar dancing its samba
the two becoming one thing perfectly woven
not once does he need to re-tune
so lightly does he touch the strings
this is the not-doing-of-doing
the voice is not smooth now,
the playing has a hesitant, casual quality
often ending songs informally with
one or two measures of chords strummed
on-the-beat, but in the songs
the jeitinho is still fully there
improvising horn parts
in real and syncopated time

his body scarcely moves, except the left foot
tapping rhythm while the left knee
swings side-to-side
as though both are necessary
to contain the subtle complexity
playing and singing sotto voce, looking down,
at the end of each song withdrawing
into himself, head down and to his left,
hint of a hidden and hesitant smile,
running his right hand slowly and anxiously
back and forth along the top of his right thigh,
only comfortable when playing,
the applause between songs
an unpreventable intrusion on the inner dance

um abraco no bonfá , the one instrumental,
simplified, fewer grace notes and less detail speed,
but compensated by a new complex inner/outer rhythm
absent from the original recording --
reminding us that the music is not in the notes and that
mastery has infinite dimensions and possibilities
early on, pops and clicks jump from
the sound system, and
those of us who know his history are paralyzed
with each harsh pop, fearful that he will get up and leave,
wordlessly terminating the performance,
for he has been known to do so with less provocation
instead, he expresses his dismay at this intrusion,
this affront to beauty, with a deeply pained look,
a fleeting almost imperceptible shaking of the head
a transitory palms up gesture of "what can i do?"
at one point between songs, there is a loud stab of feedback,
his eyes widen with shock, pained and hurt, and
for an instant his upper body pulls back,
startled, and he wordlessly raises his hands
toward to control booth at the back of the theatre,
as though to defend himself against the assault,
the blasphemy of defective electronic gear, which
has been jabbing its blade into his musical reverie,
violating his meditation, has now stabbed him
somehow helpless in the face of this offense,
he forbears and continues to perform, until
a young man walks onto the stage between songs,
whispers to him, then returns with a new microphone
amid scattered applause, a brasileira shouts "gracinha! "
voicing our relief and appreciation
joão gilberto smiles, and gesturing toward the young man
softly speaks the only words he will say all evening,
"he's my son . . .", for an instant gently touching
the young man's arm
after an hour, the lights dim at the end of songs,
and the maestro leaves the stage,
but is soon brought back by waves of insistent
and passionate applause
he continues to play for another twenty-five minutes,
ending several songs with a slight sideways,
supplicating gesture of his open right hand
as if to say, "this song has its own mystery . . .
i cannot tell you more . . . "

as he gets up to leave,
lifting the audience to its feet again,
applauding and cheering
louder than before,
a slender blonde woman in the front row
in a black dress and high heels
jumps onto the stage and runs fast to catch him
before he disappears
she touches his shoulder, he is startled,
she hands him a long white bouquet of
flowers that look like freesias
in the darkness at the edge of the curtains
our last image is the arm and delicate left hand of the maestro
embracing the back and shoulders of
this blonde girl of summer
and then he vanishes as instantly
as he had first appeared
the girl, beaming, overflowing, runs back to her
boyfriend in the front row, embracing and kissing him

the audience, on its feet,
applauds and cheers loudly
for fifteen minutes,
not from fevered excitement,
but from hearts aroused by
the quiet passion of this music

isto é bossa nova
isto é muito natural.

john scott (c) 1998