Ringing the doorbell at Hermeto's home
How I got to know the world's greatest musician.
It was a sunny Sunday in November 1977. We were standing outside a house on Vitor Guisard Street, Jabour, in the West zone of the city of Rio de Janeiro. Staring at the closed gate in front of us, I asked my good friend Jacinto Augusto:
“Should I really ring the bell?” Jacinto assured me that yes, Hermeto Pascoal lived right there, in the house behind the tall wall where we stood. He had moved here from São Paulo about a year ago.
I was there for pure curiosity to meet this master musician, having arrived recently from Montreal, where I had spent the previous 3 years getting my degree in Environmental Biology at McGill University. I also had met many musicians in Canada and enjoyed playing live jazz and rock music in a variety of settings. I was a biologist who loved to play music.
Now, back in the neighborhood I grew up in, I was getting ready to pursue my postgraduate studies at the Research Institute of the Amazon. There would be an entrance exam in the next two weeks.
My curiosity about Hermeto was big: ten years earlier, in 1967, when I was 13, I had stared at the TV in awe as Edu Lobo performed his composition Ponteio, the winner of the third Brazilian Popular Music Festival in São Paulo[1]. That competition, broadcast all over Brazil, featured musicians who went on to become some of the country’s best-known artists. Still, what I remembered from that night was the eerie sound of a flute, floating above the arrangement like an insistent bird repeating the same two notes. I loved the song but did not know that the musician who played those bird notes would become my lifelong mentor.
Years later, in the early seventies, I read an interview with this strange composer and musician, a guy with long white hair and a beard, who lived a very common life with his wife and six children – not at all like the rock stars I would read about in the magazines. He talked about sound – how he cherished the notes he could extract from rocks, pieces of metal, paper, as well as the piano, guitar and flute. Around that time, I heard on the radio his arrangement of Pixinguinha’s Carinhoso, one of the most iconic popular tunes in Brazil. That sound impressed me, with its blend of flutes, saxophones and surprising breaks. When I heard that Hermeto Pascoal was playing in Rio with his Group in 1973, I had to go. What I recall from that experience was how I felt afterwards. A mixture of satisfaction and frustration - somehow, I could not place that music I heard into any of the categories that I used to classify styles. It was pop, rock, jazz, and none of the above.
Two years later, in 1975, on a break from college, I saw Hermeto with a very different ensemble at the Museum of Modern Art in Rio. This show really blew my mind. It was a happening that took four hours. The songs did not end; they morphed into other songs, and it was impossible to tell what was composed from what was improvised. I thoroughly enjoyed the show, but left again unable to place the music into any niche I knew.
So two more years later, here I was, wondering whether to ring that doorbell or not. Gathering my courage, I pressed the button.
A lady answered the door. It was Dona Ilza, Hermeto’s wife and mother of his six children. I politely asked: “Is Hermeto home? I am a musician and I would like to meet him.”
She led me through the gate and into the house, towards a darkened living room, where I could see Hermeto Pascoal, sitting at an electric piano shirtless with his eyes closed, wearing headphones. He never noticed me, and all I could hear was the plonking of the keyboard. I sat down and tried not to disturb him. Twenty minutes went by, and I was starting to think about how I could run away without being noticed, when he opened his eyes, smiled and asked me how I was doing.
I introduced myself, spoke of my admiration for his work and of my love for the piano, which I played as an amateur in a band in Montreal. I told him I was just passing through Rio, on my way to my postgraduate studies in the Amazon. I asked if he knew of a place in Rio where I could go to a jam session. I played for him a cassette of Mélange, the band I used to play with in Canada, and he played for me the title track from his most recent album, Slaves Mass. I heard the sounds of the pigs grunting and squealing in the recording, and some chords I had never heard before. It was strange, otherworldly and deeply intriguing. He then asked me:
“Can you read sheet music, chord symbols?”
I lied: “Sure, no problem.”
“Look, I have a Group, and I want to focus on playing more flute and saxophone, so I need a pianist for this Friday. We have a show up in the Morro da Urca. Do you want to play with us?”
Now, that is not what I was expecting at all. I never thought that Hermeto would actually invite me to play with him. I told him that I could not commit to playing in a band; I had my studies ahead, and an exam to take in the next two weeks. He said:
“Listen, if you want to play, it can be without a commitment. Just tell me when you need to leave for school, and it will be all good.” He then produced a sheet of manuscript paper with some written chord symbols. I clearly remember the theme, it was Campinas, a beautiful ballad he had recently composed. He asked me to sit at the electric piano and play the chords. Right there and then it became clear to both of us that I could barely read a musical chart. My musical studies consisted of some private piano lessons I had had with Dona Jupyra, back when I was twelve years old, but since then, everything I played was by ear, tunes I learned from the radio or from records, and my own original music, which was memorized and never notated. Hermeto gave me a sly smile and said:
“Well, it looks like you need to rehearse a bit. Can you come back here tomorrow afternoon? The other musicians in the Grupo will be here, and you will learn with them.”
I went home that Sunday, not knowing exactly what I had agreed to. Surely, I could not join a new band – I had other plans for myself – a life dedicated to scientific biological research, where music only existed as a hobby, a distraction. I had a taste of a musician’s life in Canada, and somehow I did not think that I wanted to spend my time closed inside smoky rooms, playing for people who did not care about the music we played. Now I was really torn, because inside of me something was deeply attracted to the idea of playing, learning and sharing that Sound.
On Monday at 2 PM I was back at Hermeto’s home in Jabour. I met bassist Itiberê Zwarg and drummer Peninha. Hermeto introduced me to them and we started to rehearse a variety of themes: one baião, one frevo and that ballad I could not play. Halfway in the afternoon a percussionist who called himself Pelé showed up. He had met Hermeto during the recording sessions for singer Fagner, whose record Orós Hermeto had recently produced and arranged. Hermeto told him:
“Campeão (Champ), this business of being ‘Pelé’ will not work out, you should call yourself Pernambuco.” Pelé/Pernambuco had brought with him a berimbau and some congas, but Hermeto, who called everyone Campeão, said:
“Look, sell these things. You will be a different percussionist. There are already lots of people playing berimbau and congas. Tomorrow you will go to the Madureira Market and get some goat and cow bells, some seashells and some cooking pots. We will create new instruments.”
The week went by fast, with the Grupo rehearsing the same theme 20, 30 times. I was always eager to move on to something else, thinking that the music was already fine, but Hermeto insisted, saying that there was still a lot to improve. On the second day of rehearsal Cacau de Queiroz showed up. He had been playing with the Grupo for some time. I had never been in a musical setting like this, in which the parts were clearly set and rehearsed multiple times, while the Campeão (we called him by the same name he called us) changed one note here, one beat there. We had to rewrite our parts several times on the spot. Often the rhythm section, known as the cozinha (kitchen) rehearsed the accompaniment for a whole piece without the melody. I was used to playing with other musicians who covered up my mistakes, and suddenly I felt very vulnerable. In this new musical setting, the drummer never marked the time, playing in a much freer way, coloring the phrases. This left me very insecure, not knowing what to do with all the different parts coexisting together. Hermeto would often sit at the piano and play, improvising for 15 or 20 minutes with the band with an amazing fluidity, while I would simply listen and want to imitate that. One day I asked him:
“Can you teach me some technique, exercises to play like that, fast and clean?”
He smiled: “No, technique cannot exist separately from the music. These themes you are rehearsing demand technique. We have to play them many times, so that your mind and your hands can learn naturally. If you just want to study technique, you will become a robot, playing a bunch of scales and phrases in an automatic way. Study the music instead.”
The Friday of the concert came. November 25, 1977. The venue was the “Concha Verde” (Green Shell), an open-air amphitheater on top of Urca Hill. To get there, it was necessary to take the cable car up towards the Sugar Loaf mountain, one of Rio’s most iconic postcards. I got there early and was happy to see the place full. Hundreds of people packed the space, with some adventurous folks up on the trees to get a better view of the stage. As a musician, I had never played an event like that, and I was anxious to show all that we rehearsed during the week. I asked Hermeto what our opening number would be, and he answered:
“I don’t know, let’s go onstage and create something.” I was startled:
“What do you mean? What about the themes we rehearsed all these days?”
“Tonight is not a good night for those themes. Let’s play other tunes.” Suddenly, we were up on that stage, creating grooves, improvisations and solos that had never happened before. Other musicians showed up: Mauro Senise (soprano sax), José Carlos Bigorna (tenor sax), Márcio Montarroyos (trumpet) and they formed a whole horn section, playing things I had not yet heard. At one point Hermeto told me to go up onstage and play a clavinet solo. I asked him:
“What kind of solo do you want me to play? Kind of soul, funk, rock?”
“None of that – ‘Quebre tudo!’ (break it all) – play what you feel in the moment!”
I went on, not knowing exactly what it meant to “break it all”. I started to play, and a few minutes after that, Hermeto stopped the band and everyone left the stage, leaving me alone with hundreds of people watching. It was right there, at that moment, that I felt that a transformation was happening, something very mysterious which I could not understand, but that felt so good. Of course, having people applaud me felt good, but the greatest satisfaction was to find at that instant an intuitive response inside of me to a challenge that involved the mind, the body and the heart, all together. I played without thinking of any licks or prefabricated phrases, in a way that the spaces between the notes became as important (or more important) than the notes I was playing.
Hours later, at the end of the concert, we were all exhausted and happy, and Hermeto asked me:
“So, did you enjoy that?”
“Of course, I loved it!”
“Man, if you want to, we have another concert next Saturday in São Paulo. Do you want to play it?”
I was already imagining what could happen, and answered:
“I would love to, Campeão, but on that same day I have to take my examination for the postgraduate fellowship here in Rio, and it takes the whole day.”
“What time is the test?”
“From 7 AM to 4 PM”
“That’s it! Our show is not before 9 PM in São Paulo. You do your test, take the air shuttle and you will get to the Portuguesa Stadium in time. We’ll wait for you – there’s a ticket waiting for you at the airport.”
And as it had to be, I did my test in Rio, took the flight to São Paulo and a cab to the venue. Some kind of festival with many artists was going on. Thousands of people. Clementina de Jesus and Xangô da Mangueira were singing on the stage, and I found Hermeto and the band backstage. I was happy to see everyone and Hermeto greeted me:
“Are you ready?”
“I am, Campeão!”
“Let’s go!”
That concert was totally different that the one in Rio. The public in São Paulo listened in a very different way. It was the first time in my life that I felt that each note I played resonated in the audience, and it would return to me as a vibration. Everything that the band played was amplified, not by the speakers, but by the people who were there imbibing that sound. I also saw how Hermeto fed on that vibration. In those days he used a pickup on his flute and ran it through an effects box that he could manipulate, extracting feedback and distortion like I had only heard with Jimi Hendrix. I understood right there why he had the nickname O Bruxo (The Sorcerer). The flute was like a magic wand, and Hermeto used it in a very musical way, without mannerisms, playing and pointing it at the amplifier, and using feedback like a melody. I heard tunes I had never heard in that concert, including the beautiful Aquela Valsa (That Waltz), played by Mauro Senise on soprano sax. I did not play piano all the time; Hermeto would run and kick me out of the instrument a few times, saying:
“Go, pick up some percussion and stand next to Pernambuco, but keep an eye on me.” I would go, and while I played the triangle or some shakers, I would observe how he could take a certain style or groove and inject something new, a new tonality, until the sound would stabilize again, and he would signal for me to return:
“Now continue playing like this, but don’t let the ball drop!”
I had not even noticed that the ball had dropped. I thought everything was fine, but Hermeto was listening to everything, with firmness and tenderness. He would correct my mistakes and would comment later:
“Look, sometimes I scream and I sound a bit rude onstage, but the music is happening, and the sound is sacred. Don’t think that I am angry, I am caring for the sound.” The sweet way he would treat everyone in the Group made that clear, but he never let a second pass when the pieces of that complex puzzle were out of place. He would always intervene to adjust one detail or another.
In São Paulo, I got to know the road warrior side of Hermeto. At home in Jabour, he would rarely go out – he would stay home, watching soccer or playing, but on our trips he would become what the Native Americans call “Coyote”, the trickster, the multicolored joker who challenges everything that would stand in front of the Sound. The morning after that concert at Portuguesa, I went to his hotel room and he told me:
“Listen to this beautiful choro I wrote:” and sitting on the bed he played a 3-part choro on soprano sax, and I was amazed how I had never heard that composition before. He then said:
“I wrote nothing, I just invented all this right now, it was all improvised.” That for me defined the essence of Hermeto. Such a structured improvisation that it seemed all composed and such a flowing way to write music that sounded like it came from the burning flame of free improvisation.
Something else that captivated me in Hermeto was his Northeastern spirit. I am a grandson of Brazilian Northeasterners. I grew up listening to that regional way of speaking, thinking and acting, and for me Hermeto represented that archetype, the cattle wrangler from the agreste (the arid region inland from the Northeastern coast), the person who faces harsh climate, distances, physical limitations and whatever else comes across the route drawn by his destiny. Hermeto reminded me of a cowboy riding a wild horse, running through the thorny shrub, chasing the runaway calf of melody, using the lasso of harmony and the gallop of the zabumba drum to achieve his goal.
At the end of the year of 1977, everything came together for me: the discovery of a musical universe which existence I did not suspect, together with being accepted for my master’s degree in Ecology at the Research Institute of the Amazon. A choice would have to made, and soon.
A path that splits in two in the middle of the forest, with no signs or arrows pointing to the right way. Should I follow the studies I had started, using my mind to explore the connections between nature and living beings, or jump headfirst into this adventure of being a musician, an apprentice of a sorcerer with a silver magic wand, and so many tricks hiding under his vast white mane? Those were weeks of reflection and insecurity. Slowly I realized that at that moment I was a passenger in a train station, watching two trains passing and going in opposite directions. At that moment I could see the space between the cars, like an open window. This was my chance to jump, trust my intuition and face the challenge of life as an artist, knowing nothing or almost nothing about it, leaving the straight line of science, a paved road that I knew how to follow, for the river stream of music, full of surprises, with its floods and droughts. Sink or swim?
I had the crucial support from my parents, who never opposed my choice. I remember clearly when I told my father that I would refuse the fellowship from the Research Institute to stay living in Realengo, rehearsing music everyday with this circus troupe. He looked at me and said calmly:
“It’s your life. Make your choice and follow it. Just don’t come back in six months and tell me you want to be a biologist again, right?”
That was the beginning of a new chapter, an apprenticeship that asked me for fifteen years of my life and gave me in exchange the key to a musical universe.
[1] Watch the performance here: