26.3.'93, Greece, Athens, Pallas Theater, Madredeus enters with  familiarity as they find in the wooden stage the home's floor, the  clothes-tree, the kitchen and the bedroom. They walk on the pavement  with the tranquility of whom is walking down the central street of a  small town, stopping in front of the shops and behaving with that  automatisms that allows you to think and to be elsewhere, while your  body carries out the tasks that the world order us.
But in that case it is not the world which asks the exibition of  Madredeus, but the circumstance, the place, the hour, the lights, and  that altered perception of the senses that we have when we perceive  that art will happen just before it shows. Madredeus was nothing more  than necessary.

The dress of the musicians was the usual, elegant and sober, of that  elegance consequent to your expression, of that elegance which is  obvious consequence of your glance. Teresa is strangely dressed, in  black. A gown to the knee on two shoes that seem to come from another  time. In that ancient shape that make the foot similar to the earth  for umbleness and nobility, making the entire person an appendix of  the ground, a sculpted and fashionable stalagmite. She wears a jacket  widely low-necked, vaguely masculine which opens to a black body  neither chaste nor malicious, but simply disquieting. The hairstyle  is wildly traditional, gathered on the nape, while a black band wrap  up the beautiful head, allowing only to a rebel and long forelock to  pour out on the right cheek. The shadow of that forelock tear the  face from that apparent canvas which is the stage in order to give it  to a reality which crave for it.

The show starts in the shadow. Obscurity which suffocates the  audience and lays its veil on the entire stage leaving light only on  the white skin of Teresa, wrapped up on the microphone as to protect  it. The face of Teresa is the only source of light and sound, the  only real presence in that moment of art. Teresa is lonely in an  space altered by what we want to do with it. The obscurity make the  theater a world on its own that we can easily imagine as we want it  to be, where the voice of Teresa is the only music and her face the  only shape.
The song talks about Lisbon and is entitled "A Cidade". The playing  is kept slow, beating and alternates the wave to the backwash on the  beach which is the audience. We would say "Panta Rei", "All Flows",  and, talking about Madredeus, we would be right.
Teresa sings with the eyes shut, pardoning us of her eyes, of her  smile and letting us the suffering pang that bends her on the  microphone in a torsion similar to that of a kiss, a long awaited  kiss that can harm you. She opens her eyes when she stops singing, as  if the look and the singing have the same origin and though, maybe,  the same cause.

The show continues, necessary, consequent. It arrives softly to "O  Pomar das Laranjeiras" and when I listen to the first notes, my heart  seem to want to break.
It is a new Teresa, absolutely different. A Teresa that has  definitely changed my certainties. She pronounces the first words  while her body starts to bend like a solid body under an overwhelming  pressure. A bending that seems caused by the weight of the music, as  if the body of Teresa materializes over itself the spirit of the  music in order to sustain it. She shuts her eyes while the skin of  her face stretchs and contracts in an unnatural way. The hand grabs  firmly the microphone, as to make it a hold for a climb, an edge of a  rock on which her heart shipwrecked. The other hand, the left one,  rise toward the face, as it want to grab the hold dramatically small  for two hands. The hand, so, twists to the back, widely open in the  trial to open behind the nature's limit, in the manner of who is  suffering too much to sustain and tries to drive away the pain to the  limbs which are shakened, twisted and bended.
The voice is unbelievable, and for that reason, my senses find a  haven in the face of Teresa, in her hand vibrating for the stress.  Teresa is incredibly beautiful. I have never seen her in that way; so  really beautiful, so veraciously beautiful. Beautiful of a beauty  showed and hidden in a malicious way; the make up is dark, charming  and temptating. The dress is the contrast between two wills: one  which don't want to charm and the other which want to seduce. It is a  Teresa who is romp, girl, young woman but also teen-ager. It is a  Teresa of a blasphemous beauty. Really blasphemous, because in its  showing off there is a challenge, an outrage, the proposition of a  divine of pagan uman, sinful origin. As the "San Matthew and the  angel" by Caravaggio was blasphemous not for the choice of how to  describe the subject, but in the excessive beauty of the painting  which make the subject something real, consistent, living, so Teresa  Salgueiro is blasphemous because concretize ideally that pair, that  antinomy of holy and profane, of earthly and heavenly. Newton brought  toghether the two worlds, the earthly and the heavenly, through  science. Teresa Salgueiro made it that night through singing and  looking.
Teresa sang that song in a way that offended my ears, my ability to  comprehend and all my feeling. I was offended because for the first  time I discover that is possible to make perceivable an intensity of  feelings superior to that that I have ever felt. She altered the  song, she gained possess of it, she materialized her loved one, the  field of the orange trees (the "Pomar das Laranjeiras") and she  became the author of that words and the protagonist of that story, of  that love. I have never listened Teresa singing like that.
The end of the song provokes an emotional fall, an abyss of silence  filled by the cries of my soul already addicted to that notes. The  next song was "Amanha", "Morning", when Teresa became another one,  she became joy, happyness and purity. She looked to the sky that her  eyes have painted on the ceiling and it seemed that she was really  seeing that inexplicable cyan described in the song. She told us her  story and her face transfigure for the joy in that happyness that  find genuinity in the reflection that has in whom is seeing it. It is  instantly perceivable and, differently from the acted happyness, it  flows from the glance, from the hands and from the voice and is able  to change the life of whom is witnessing it.

The concert ends describing the end of a natural cycle, accelerated  and intensified by music. As water do, the music of Madredeus rised  from the sea of music to the clear sky of the pure ideas and is now  raining on us quenching the thirst of the earth of our soul. And, as  the sky after every rain, my soul has a more intense, pure and true  colour.