A Certain Smile, A Certain Sadness

Ten favorite tracks by the late, great Astrud Gilberto

Before we get into today’s post, I wanted to a) thank all the new subscribers who have recently clambered aboard the good ship Jagged Time Lapse, and b) let everyone know that there may be a break of about a week or so between this post and the next one.

I try not to take long breaks between posts, but I have a massive assignment deadline looming into view, along with a brief bop down to NYC next week for some work and family stuff. Plus, I’m also gearing up to play my first solo acoustic set in, oh, about 30 years, which will be at the Morton Memorial Library in Rhinecliff, NY on Friday, June 16 as part of “Richard’s Rhinecliff Acoustic Show”. It’s free, it’ll be me and three other acts, and it promises to be a good time; please stop on by and say hi if you’re in the general vicinity.

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But even as jammed as I currently am, I couldn’t let this week slip away without saying a few words about the wonderful Astrud Gilberto, who passed away Monday at the age of 83.

Astrud Gilberto’s recordings were my gateway to Brazilian music, in much the way that The Ahmad Jamal Trio’s At The Pershing was my gateway to jazz. And, as with Ahmad Jamal, my story isn’t a unique one — Astrud’s 1963 recording of Antonio Carlos Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes’ “The Girl from Ipanema” (with English translation courtesy of Norman Gimbel) wasn’t the first international bossa nova hit, but it was certainly the biggest, and her alluring rendition doubtless helped to put Brazilian sounds on the radar for countless listeners in the US and elsewhere.

My conversion came much later, however, It happened during the Chicago winter of 1991-92, a particularly grey and grim slog that never seemed to offer any end in sight. I was usually off from my record store on Sundays, and that day off was usually spent hibernating with my then-girlfriend until hunger finally forced us to get dressed, leave the house, and brave the abominable windchill in search of sustenance. We’d typically stuff our faces at an all-you-can eat Thai buffet, and then beat a hasty retreat back to her place and dive back under a mountain of blankets, where we’d typically sleep away the rest of the day. It just felt like there wasn’t much point in trying to do anything else.

I needed a musical escape from the deep psychological funk winter had put me in, and none of the contemporary alternative-rock artists I was listening to at the time — Teenage Fanclub, Nirvana, Dinosaur Jr., Robyn Hitchcock, Mazzy Star, Matthew Sweet, Velvet Crush, etc. — were really helping me dig myself out of that hole. Little did I know that defrosting my frozen soul would require a compilation of tracks recorded roughly a quarter century earlier by a Brazilian artist whose existence I was heretofore only vaguely aware of.

Brazilian music had become a big buzz topic Stateside circa ‘89-’90, thanks to David Byrne’s Rei Momo and Paul Simon’s The Rhythm of the Saints albums. Which, quite frankly, was why I was so suspicious of it — not suspicious of the music, per se, but suspicious of why it was suddenly hot. As with the sudden American interest in South African music that followed the release of Simon’s Graceland a few years earlier, there seemed something weirdly colonialist about it: Now that these intrepid white explorers had “discovered” this music from an exotic foreign land and figured out a way to interpolate it into their own, it was safe for Yuppies to play the real-deal stuff in their BMWs, while occasionally taking one hand off the leather-bound steering wheel to smugly pat themselves on the back for their sophisticated and open-minded embrace of “World Music”.

Though it was a small sample size, to be sure, the majority of my See Hear customers who bought CDs from our World Music bin clearly weren’t buying them because they had any interest in or understanding of the cultures that produced the music; for them, a World Music CD was just another lifestyle accessory, a self-awarded trophy signifying their hipness to the latest trend, and an inexpensive way to assuage (or flagellate themselves over) whatever guilt they may have felt for not actively giving a crap about much beyond the confines of their expensive Lincoln Park townhouses.

(To be fair, David Byrne cared a lot more about Brazilian music — and had a far deeper understanding of it — than most of my customers did: The first three releases on his new Luaka Bop label after Rei Momo were two Byrne-compiled Brazil Classics collections and a compilation devoted entirely to the music of Brazilian singer-songwriter and composer Tom Zé. The rediscovery/renewed appreciation of the Tropicália movement that occurred here in the States in the late ‘90s/early ‘00s was likewise certainly goosed by 1999’s Byrne-compiled Everything Is Possible: The Best of Os Mutantes. So big props to him for promoting the music instead of just cherry-picking it for his own use.)

If I was going to get into Brazilian music, it was going to be because I connected emotionally with it, not because it was the exotic flavor of the month. And that’s exactly what happened when my girlfriend introduced me to a compilation of Astrud Gilberto “hits” from Verve Record’s unappetizingly-titled “Compact Jazz” series. I guess I’d probably heard “The Girl from Ipanema” before, but it had never made much of an impression on me. But now, here in the dead of an ugly Chicago winter, that song — and the rest of the 16-track CD — totally charmed and disarmed me with its samba-riffic glow.

The warmth and sweetness of Astrud’s vocals were what I noticed at first… and then, upon repeated listenings, the melancholy in her delivery began to rise to the surface. I responded to that, as well; I didn’t know where it was coming from, but it definitely paired well with the dull ache of my mid-winter blues, and my desperate longing for the first signs of spring.

I would soon discover that this melancholy was what Brazilians called saudade, a feeling of longing or nostalgia for something or someone that may no longer be attainable; only much later would I learn that the sadness in her voice was well-earned. This 2022 article from The Independent details the heartbreaking exploitation and mistreatment — not to mention the rejection from her own country — she endured, none of which she would have experienced if she hadn’t stepped up to a microphone and shared her gift for singing with the world.

But for my own selfish reasons, I’m so glad she did. Not only has Astrud’s music led me to discover the delights of Jobim, Sérgio Mendes, Walter Wanderley, Marcos Valle, Eumir Deodato and so many other legendary Brazilian artists, but it has also remained a source of great comfort to me. During my “desert exile” of December 2008 to May 2010, it proved the perfect accompaniment for nursing heartaches and grappling with existential angst while also savoring a perfectly-mixed cocktail by a kidney-shaped swimming pool. And there’s not a whole lot of other music you can truly say that about.

Here, then, in chronological order, are ten Astrud Gilberto tracks that I love even more than all the other Astrud Gilberto tracks I love…

It Might As Well Be Spring

While that shitbag Stan Getz wouldn’t put Astrud on the cover of 1964’s Getz au go go, she’s definitely the main attraction on the album, and her dreamy rendition of this Rodgers and Hammerstein classic is one of the main tracks that got me through that miserable Chicago winter of three decades ago.

Agua de Beber

Few songs have the power to lower my blood pressure quite like Astrud’s soothing 1965 interpretation of Jobim and de Moreas’ “Agua de Beber”. And dig this simple-but-charming vintage promotional video for it!

Non-Stop to Brazil

A flashback to the classy days when folks actually used to dress up to travel by plane, Astrud’s 1965 rendition of Luis Bonfá’s “Non-Stop to Brazil” was always the perfect soundtrack for sitting by my pool on Sunday afternoons and watching the jets take off from the Palm Springs airport. Love the air-conditioned strings of Don Sebesky’s arrangement, too!

Fly Me to the Moon

Speaking of air travel… I’ve always loved her version of the Bart Howard standard —though the way her voice levitates over Claus Ogerman’s arrangement makes me think she won’t need any additional moon-ward assistance.

Don’t Go Breaking My Heart

For whatever reason, Astrud’s Don Sebesky-arranged 1966 cover of “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” — one of my favorite Bacharach-David compositions — didn’t make it onto any album at the time, and was released in the US only as a B-side. Which is a damn shame, because it’s absolutely intoxicating. I mean, the way she sings “One drop of rain doesn’t make the sand run away” makes it sound like she’s actually standing on a beach somewhere…

Berimbau

The opening track of 1966’s Look to the Rainbow, “Berimbau” — written by de Moraes and Baden Powell — is highlighted by a slinky Gil Evans groove, some sitar-like twanging on the titular instrument, and of course Astrud’s vibrant-yet-imperturbably-cool vocals.

Summer Samba (So Nice)

A Certain Smile/A Certain Sadness, the title of Astrud’s 1967 album with organ legend Walter Wanderley, sums up both the contents of the LP and the bittersweet allure of her singing. The pair’s lovely cover of the Marcos Valle classic is a highlight of the album, not to mention one of my favorite things ever recorded by either artist.

Tristeza

Another winner from A Certain Smile/A Certain Sadness. I particularly love her delivery of the lines “From this day on my days are days of sun and roses/My nights a carnival of song” — and I dig this 1972 clip of her miming to the song on Italian TV.

Beginnings

I have something of a love-hate relationship with the band Chicago (and maybe the city as well, though that’s a tale for another time), but I absolutely adore Astrud’s grooving 1969 interpretation of the Robert Lamb-penned “Beginnings,” which starts with the basic arrangement of the original before going off into someplace that’s both dreamier and groovier.

Brazilian Tapestry

An absolutely gorgeous cut from her deeply wonderful 1971 collaboration with Stanley Turrentine, “Brazilian Tapestry” is the kind of thing I can play over and over and keep getting lost in. Penned and arranged by Eumir Deodato (who also provides the electric piano), the song finds Astrud once again holding her own with an all-star collection of musicians — because, in her own quiet way, she was a total badass.

Rest well, Astrud. Thank you for all the joy and comfort you brought to me and so many others. I’m just sorry you had to suffer so much as a result.

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