He arrived at the hostel tired from the tourist day and decided to listen to some music. He accessed the Spotify retrospective, a platform that poorly pays artists, whose owner invests millions in the arms industry. Lately, I have made this retrospective a therapy, each melody immersed in a moment of life, arousing a reflection: what has changed since, what led to a certain decision; the music he heard while walking around downtown São Paulo and realizing his relationship no longer made sense.
He arrived at the hostel room and decided to listen to some music. He remembered a song that was on the playlist and looked for the link with its name. “Pedro Barreto’s Colarzinho de Pedra Azul flooded the place with his powerful and soft voice, bossanova guitar, piano and drums that caressed jazz; but the melody stuck to Pernambuco, making this part of Brazil dominate everything, giving off a solitary and warm light, which welcomes.
He arrived at the hostel room and decided to listen to some music. Next came “Ijexá for Oxum,” by Jorge Alabe, from an album called Cantigas e Ritmos dos Orixás. He carried the Candomblé drums, he believed it was Candomblé, he admired more than he knew African religions, this divine resistance which suffers in the hells of racial prejudice. In that moment he was struck by fear, and the fear came from that, from prejudice, from violence, from being a target, from being struck by the hatred and ignorance that Brazilians, and Brazilians at that, have for everything that is black culture. He recalled the union between drug traffickers and pastors who spread prayers, songs and drums in the country’s favelas. A scent of the fear that the children of Terreiro feel running through his brain. He imagined the persecutions, the destroyed temples. What if the hostel owner doesn’t respect other religions? What if a guest wants to fight? He changed the music with fear.
He came to the hostel room and decided to listen to some music. The next song was “Copo Vazio” by Gilberto Gil, a beautiful melody, deep lyrics, but I barely heard it. Fear had given way to indignation. Which country maintains this oppression against Afro religions? Who subtly prohibits music in a public place? And even worse, why did he give in to this censorship? Why internalize it if you don’t even believe in God? I thought about it while listening to “Coisas do Mundo Minha Nega”, by Paulinho da Viola, one of the most beautiful songs in our history.
When the deep voice of Mateus Aleluia announced “Olorum”, he shuddered. It was just voice and guitar: “Olorum, leave your kingdom and come see us. Olorum, your people are tired.” Soon after, the drums and the agogô began, and the instruments sounded like thunder in his chest. There was no doubt. He turned the music up to maximum volume.
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