Don’t let samba die/Don’t let samba end/The hill was made of samba/Samba for us to sambar — “Não Deixe o Samba Morrer”, Alcione (1975)
To sambar is to surge beyond oneself. The beat goes from reverberations on the ground to a tip-toed step, a swing of the hips, a turn of the arm. It wasn’t something I learnt — it was a music I embodied. Samba moves my body on marionette strings of a cultural memory that reverberates back upon itself.
I first embodied samba at family birthday parties and barbecues. Hiding under tables, I peered at the legs swaying on the dance floor. My dad took me by the hand as I copied my cousins through a samba miudinho, the ‘small samba’ steps traditional in the Northeast. I would try to copy the musas in Rio’s glitzy carnaval parade with a homemade paper mask against my face.
Samba is how I connect to my family in parties, to my culture in Carnaval, and to myself whenever I feel lost in my Otherness. From the drumbeats of resistance to the melodies of joy, samba forms the soundtrack of Brazil. It built the hills in Rio, mortared the streets in Salvador, and filled the beaches of Olinda.
Brazilian culture is one of the most dynamic in the world, a maelstrom of music, media, memes that I cannot hope to follow. But I have samba. The anchor in our culture, the rock that I cling to through the winds of my cyclical identity crises, is samba. With African rhythms, Afro-Brazilian instruments and Portuguese lyrics accompanying the undercurrent trauma of the Brazilian migrant, samba is the melting pot the country claims to be.
Allah-la-ô/What heat/We crossed the Sahara/We came from Egypt/And many times had to pray to Allah — “Allah-la-ô”, Haroldo Lobo and Nássara (1940)
Even in the depths of its political critique of the military dictatorship and of institutional racism, samba is a celebration of life. It is a hope for a better tomorrow, a spit in the face of our oppressors. From its origins in forbidden Afro-Brazilian dance rounds in early twentieth century Rio to its contemporary celebration in the samba schools’ glamorous parades, the molten core of samba is a resilience and joy that has poured over and molded me throughout my life.
You who invented this State/Invented inventing/All this darkness/Despite you/Tomorrow has to be a new day — “Apesar de Você”, Chico Buarque (1978)
The soul of samba is a hope for future happiness while acknowledging present sorrow. From ecstatic to introspective, samba is as much a call to community as to communing with yourself, of living within quiet moments and of seeing the small wonders in the world.
A good samba is a form of prayer/Because samba is the sorrow that sways/And sorrow always has a hope/Of one day not being sad anymore — “Samba da Bênção”, Vinicius de Moraes (1967)
While samba has been a tsunami carrying me through euphoric days and nights of Carnaval, it has also been a warm shower, a comfort in my distance from home and family. It’s the Carnaval marches I’d sing with my grandma, the axé I’d sing hiking with my parents, the pagode I’d samba to, screaming-laughing, with my friends.
It is both an introspective lyricism and a distinct, shameless ecstasy, a confidence, a gingado – a sway in the step – that forms the core of my being and the way I navigate through life.
Living and not being ashamed of being happy/I know that life should be much better/But that doesn’t stop me from saying/It’s beautiful, it’s beautiful and it’s beautiful — “O Que É O Que É”, Gonzaguinha (1982)
Samba is a genre of constant dialogue, with the greatest artists endlessly covering, referencing, and building upon each other’s covers so each version of a song speaks to a different emotion, experience, and time. From it have flowed many tributaries — bossa nova, pagode, samba-enredo, to name a few.
But as with Brazil, what makes samba great is also its downfall. The ocean of samba is, in many senses, long dried out. While there are many new performers, there aren’t many new songs. It is the music of nostalgia – our greatest artists are either long gone or playing to half-dead crowds. My anchor is made of paper, disintegrating against the tides of time.
Coming from both inside and outside of Brazilian culture, I think I try to inculcate an appreciation of samba in my friends (and now you, dear reader) to keep the genre alive. In anchoring the history, the society, the culture, and identity of Brazil, samba should be made timeless. Don’t let it die.