Lisbon is the birthplace of Fado, and to come here and not experience it is a mistake that will leave you poorer for it. Refreshed and mildly cranky, we trucked out to find a Taxi in the cobblestone square once used to welcome traders from all over the world. Determined, we made the tourist mistake of saying we did not want a tourist experience and wished to enjoy a traditional Fado performance. Naturally, our driver took us immediately to the place that all the tourists who say that go. We sat down at first, amidst what we thought were locals with a sly smile on our faces delighted in our ability to be better than the average tourist.
The arched red brick roof distracted us, as did the food, so it took a short while to notice that we were directly beside a very large table of loud and unsurprisingly obnoxious tour-bus group.
Suitably amused with ourselves we resolved to ignore them while eyeing their wine for any possibility of heisting it from their table.
The lights dim, and we settle back to be lifted away by the beauty of what is described as bluesy folk music. It is terrible. Have you ever listened to music, and wondered why the people around you enjoy it while you do not? This was not like that, even the hosts cowered and grimaced as the man on stage wailed through the lyrics to an old tune as the tour group heckled him.
Ahh yes, passable food. Horrible music and a very large crowd of noisy french folk. Steller! More wine please.
Hours pass, and a heavy rotation of singers take place, some passable, most as horrible as the first. Then, magic. The tourbus leave, we are alone. It is dark, and only by squinting through the miasma of smoke can we see a small table of locals eating a very late dinner. The lights dim further, and the same singers we had seen all night play again. There is no audience here anymore, Emily and I have been accepted or forgotten, either way, the music comes alive. They sing in words we cannot hope to understand, but the soul of it is all there before us. There is no noise from the few people listening, we have all set aside our knives an forks and listen with rapt attention as through the swirl of intricate melody and song we hear it. With glistening eyes we see it. With beating hearts we feel it.
Fado is not about the music, not the performance. Fado is about expressing pain in the only way you can. Fado is about working tirelessly for that brief moment when you are allowed to eat with your friends and family as you always have. Fado is about a city long past it's prime, but not so long past that it has forgotten it. Fado is about pride, pain and the bittersweet feel of both. The cab driver did not bring us to the wrong location, he simply didn't warn us that we would have to learn how to understand what we heard. The french tourbus group will never hear Fado, no matter how many stops they make on their tour. The moment they walk in the door, the tradition turns to performance and all the beauty is lost.
When the singing subsides and just the musicians play for us, a lilting and soft tune that brings tears to our eyes.
The staff notices as we applaud, perhaps a little too loudly, and they are back to the performance. We leave, partially because it is late, and partially because we are intruding.
Portugal,
I would be remiss if I didn't say at least something about Lisboa (It's not called Lisbon here, oddly enough) itself. We are in the capital of Portugal here, and as I mentioned earlier it is a city past it's prime. The days of being the only trade route from India are long past, but still evident. Saying that this city has seen better days is not an insult, it wears that mantle with dignity. Preservation of the treasures of the past is important here, as is the tourism of people who are impressed by it. However Lisboa still has the soul of a city built on trade, only now it's knockoffs and soccer jerseys rather than exotic spices and silks. To be here now, admiring the city evokes a kind of melancholy. It is ancient and beautiful, but we are looking into the past here, wishing we could see it as it is meant to be. That is the best way I can describe it. I am touched by this city.
The arched red brick roof distracted us, as did the food, so it took a short while to notice that we were directly beside a very large table of loud and unsurprisingly obnoxious tour-bus group.
Suitably amused with ourselves we resolved to ignore them while eyeing their wine for any possibility of heisting it from their table.
The lights dim, and we settle back to be lifted away by the beauty of what is described as bluesy folk music. It is terrible. Have you ever listened to music, and wondered why the people around you enjoy it while you do not? This was not like that, even the hosts cowered and grimaced as the man on stage wailed through the lyrics to an old tune as the tour group heckled him.
Ahh yes, passable food. Horrible music and a very large crowd of noisy french folk. Steller! More wine please.
Hours pass, and a heavy rotation of singers take place, some passable, most as horrible as the first. Then, magic. The tourbus leave, we are alone. It is dark, and only by squinting through the miasma of smoke can we see a small table of locals eating a very late dinner. The lights dim further, and the same singers we had seen all night play again. There is no audience here anymore, Emily and I have been accepted or forgotten, either way, the music comes alive. They sing in words we cannot hope to understand, but the soul of it is all there before us. There is no noise from the few people listening, we have all set aside our knives an forks and listen with rapt attention as through the swirl of intricate melody and song we hear it. With glistening eyes we see it. With beating hearts we feel it.
Fado is not about the music, not the performance. Fado is about expressing pain in the only way you can. Fado is about working tirelessly for that brief moment when you are allowed to eat with your friends and family as you always have. Fado is about a city long past it's prime, but not so long past that it has forgotten it. Fado is about pride, pain and the bittersweet feel of both. The cab driver did not bring us to the wrong location, he simply didn't warn us that we would have to learn how to understand what we heard. The french tourbus group will never hear Fado, no matter how many stops they make on their tour. The moment they walk in the door, the tradition turns to performance and all the beauty is lost.
When the singing subsides and just the musicians play for us, a lilting and soft tune that brings tears to our eyes.
The staff notices as we applaud, perhaps a little too loudly, and they are back to the performance. We leave, partially because it is late, and partially because we are intruding.
Portugal,
I would be remiss if I didn't say at least something about Lisboa (It's not called Lisbon here, oddly enough) itself. We are in the capital of Portugal here, and as I mentioned earlier it is a city past it's prime. The days of being the only trade route from India are long past, but still evident. Saying that this city has seen better days is not an insult, it wears that mantle with dignity. Preservation of the treasures of the past is important here, as is the tourism of people who are impressed by it. However Lisboa still has the soul of a city built on trade, only now it's knockoffs and soccer jerseys rather than exotic spices and silks. To be here now, admiring the city evokes a kind of melancholy. It is ancient and beautiful, but we are looking into the past here, wishing we could see it as it is meant to be. That is the best way I can describe it. I am touched by this city.
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