Concert in
Correggio (10/7/'97)
Before you read this article, it's necessary for you to know that I'm an enourmous fan of Madredeus's music and concept. So, you'll not appreciate false objectivities or the ipocrisy of the critics who want to describe in a pseudo-scientific way the most irrational creation of humanity: music. I'm sorry for all the grammar mistakes you'll certainly find in my description. Try to be patient.
The evening was cool and windy, we were late and I have forgotten the most important things: the camera, the registrator and the binoculars. We arrived at the time signed on the tickets, and we were able to see the artist play behind the scene.
The show was part of a
political manifestation, and I imagined that we wouldn't have
stayed in a theatre, but what I saw when I entered the place was
obscene. The stage was in a football ground surrounded by a
curtain of metallic barriers; two "fast food" were in
the middle of the field. The "extraordinary" publicity
made by the local media have filled the few benches with no more
than 300 people. The lights turned on and we all saw the sober
but splendid scenography of the stage: an immense black curtain,
tied as a sail, of great elegance, refinement and scenic taste.
The elegance and the class of the instrumentalist entered on the
stage, but there was something strange; the people murmured:
"...they are four...where are the cello and the
accordion?...".
The muttering was abruptly stopped by her entering on the stage. She was dressed in black, with a shawl and a great traditional gown. A thrill. The first caresses on the microphone were those of her voice announcing (in a perfect italian) the new repertoire (!?). Earing her voice pronouncing italian words was an emotion that an aficionados like me will never be able to understand and describe: she was one of us. But the people, remembering "Lisbon Story", were confused and someone wondered if it was really Madredeus. The music suddenly bloomed, muting every thought. The rite began and the priestess intoned the chant. The metallic barriers disappeared, as well as the present people, and the dialogue between the music, the voice and the heart of each began. The wind stopped to see and was silent, while the stars danced on the clouds.
In that moment I realise
how the music is able to put together many and talk to each. She
was there, swaying her gown in an hint of dance, while the new
songs followed one another with short introductions.
The enchantment suddenly broke after one hour of music. An interval (!?). The glances were astonished: who ever have made an interval in the middle of a concert? The minutes passed and the people were confused by the number of "surprises" and by the entirely new repertoire. After 25 minutes of waiting Madredeus returned on the stage, while someone was beginning to stand up and go. The spell went on. Still new songs: Agora, Coisas Pequenas, and others. Really incredible.
The most
extraordinary thing came after twenty minutes, when Teresa,
probably tired, began to sing sitted on the stage on which Pedro
e Jose were playing. She sang in such a manner for some minutes
and it was moving: in those moments it was like being sitted
there with Teresa and talking about us, love, life. She talked to us personally, intimately. For the last
songs I approched to the stage and I realised about all the
people that were sitted on the grass with an enraptured glance
and a full heart. On the notes of a happy song Teresa started
dancing and even the coolness of the audience couldn't impede a
rumble of applauses. These applauses came from a great interior
happyness, that those artists have dealt to us. The rite
concluded without old songs, without Gomes, without Ribeiro, without
Rodrigo, without a theatre, without the needed popularity. But in
the end everybody rose to it's feet to greet an evening of
emotion and happyness. The final comment can be that the
Madredeus transfigured the football ground in the Scala teatre;
transformed bad premises in a triumph; showed everybody a better
world. Like Jorge Pires in his book about Madredeus I think I
should end with "Que palavras? (what words?)".
Visions
Institutional