And why the heck not? A more modern interpretation of Marcos Valle's "Os Grilos (Crickets Sing for Anamaria)," this one by once-and-former Spice Girl Emma Bunton.
Scoff if you must, but I really enjoy this version, which is musically very faithful to the song and yet makes it modern and accessible. It's pop, yes, but very sophisticated pop, something Miss Bunton has made a strong, if somewhat sporadic, effort at over the years. Check out this, which, in my estimation, is nothing short of a pop brilliance.
Great rendition, goofy fun video. My favorite comment on YouTube is the snark about the male companion in the video looking and acting like "every bartender in Benidorm." Ah, well. I'd export myself to the Costa Brava for some hombros and hombres like that if I could afford to do so.
Nevertheless, no comments about the most unsettling image from this video. See 2:15. The "brother" is caught stroking his cock!
This is I believe the original version of "Os Grilos," or better known as "Crickets Sing for Anamaria," an instrumental samba from the mid-60s by Brazilian music maestro, Marcos Valle.
Long sentence--but there's a lot to be said. Especially the fact that I adore this song. So summery, so seductive, so deceptively simple. What a brilliant little composition, equal parts classical and rhythmic, European and African. And thus all Brazil.
I'd give just about anything to be able to create an artwork like this.
There are apparently multiple versions of this song by Sr. Valle and others. Truth be told, I actually think the Walter Wanderley Trio's version from 1967 was the first. You can find that here.
So far, I've tracked down Marcos Valle's first instrumental version, first English-language version, first Portuguese-language version, and at least a couple of modern interpretations by him and others. There will be more to come I'm sure. I even feel a mix coming on. After all, it is "Semana do Brasil" in the cold wasteland that is Western Pennsylvania.
It's "Brazil Week" (or if you prefer, "Semana do Brasil") in Favela Montag. I'll do anything to get over the cold and the snow this winter.
We're 10 inches above normal (and not in any way that would be fun) in snowfall so far, although I've seen worse winters here, even ones that weren't dubbed "Snowmageddon," which occurred a couple years back. Still, it's snow. It's ice. It's cold. And my sitting two hours under an air vent in a class on snow-shoeing will not make me warm to the idea of winter. Nope. Pretty much over it. Very much ready to move on. San Francisco, you've got me. Hell, St. Pete, you've got me. Not choosy at this point.
But until my slow boat to China Beach comes in view, I'm going to think samba and bossa nova and anything else that puts me in a better frame and allows me to continue to practice cognitive "disco-nance."
So here's the first part of many: Brazilian composer and performer Marcos Valle singing an updated version of one of his classics, "Samba do Verão" or "Summer Samba," also known in English by the title "So Nice," because yeah, a summer samba would be so nice right about now--and truth be told, I don't like summer much better than I do winter. Desperate times, desperate measures, however.
Funnily enough, this week there was an article on the NPR website about Marcos Valle and his musical legacy. I admit to not knowing who he was right off but, instead, knowing several of his songs, including "Samba do Verão" and "Os Grilos (Crickets Sing for Anamaria)." But no matter, we're connected now.
Now to cheapen the moment: I seem to have a thing for Latin men with blond hair. That cool Teutonic Bauhaus and Mercedes precision of decades gone by mixed with the earthy jungle-toned riot of the New World Order.
See? I told you it would be cheap. And did I mention stupid and offensive? Oh well. Consider them bonuses.
Generally, I loathe it when people (OK, specifically, gay men) go off about how hot some guy is or how Muscle Mary of the Formidable Form is just his type. Sweetie darling, *everybody's* your type. But I do have a point in mentioning this, albeit a cryptic one. It's not about lust. It's about loss.
I can remember one of my earliest crushes, as a 17-year-old in college before I came out to myself let alone the world: This blond Ecuadorian exchange student, who was about the loveliest, most clueless (or not) man I'd seen up to that point. He is probably now back in Quito or Guayaquil with a family of five (three with his wife, two with his mistress) and is none-the-wiser about my unrequited love. And me, I'm in Pittsburgh, getting over the flu and the death of a sweet little dream I had for a brief while.
History has a way of repeating like a fish oil capsule. Let's just say I have realized this little Blond Icon-venus Truth far too late in life after making a fool of myself too many times at home and abroad. But especially in the here and now at home. Which impels me to go abroad, even if just in my mind.
Because, suddenly, this continent doesn't feel big enough for the both of us.
