In the Jardim da Saúde[1]
[1] Name of a district of Sao Paulo, Brazil — literal translation “Garden of Health”
My father worked long hours a day and, when he could, he rocked himself in Strauss’ waltzes; recollections of his youthful days (when he was a dancer and an excellent billiard player — not snooker! — I imagine a flirtatious; he used to arrive at morning in the baker’s cart, my grandmother told me).
Classical music, he learned at home following the saga of his sister, Elza Beatriz; she was a particularly good pianist, concert performer and composer, praised in the pages of newspapers at the time.
Classical music was introduced to me by my dear uncle Geraldo when I, as a young boy, would spend time in Rio and a lot of it at his house. The intro for me was… “Ravel’s Bolero”! Pretty weird was it not?
It was a lesson on how an orchestra works, the sounds of each instrument, the harmonic scales. I have never been able to play any instruments, but my ear for music has sharpened; maybe I’ll talk about it elsewhere.
Long live Uncle Geraldo!
My mother, born and raised in the Musa family, sipped music from Grandma Francisca’s breast, and at the auditions and soirees promoted by her and Grandpa Musa, in the huge hall of their Meyer house, where light music musicians attended, accompanied by their instruments, beautiful concerts by my mother’s cousins Luis Pompeu, clarinettist, and Marcelinho, violinist, − both from the municipal orchestra — , and they enchanted everyone with classical and popular pieces.
She always sang, always working, songs from her youth, “emboladas”, popular songs of the time, which she listened in our little RCA radio. She fell in love with the classics when I was at university and had been given a set of turntable and stereo from my colleague and friend Pedro Cuyumjian, who adored my mother.
Ziembinski (Zbigniew)[1] was our neighbour. He had a huge piece of equipment of the so-called “Hi-fidelity”, a really spectacular sound! And you can imagine how many long-playing dishes he had. I became his friend and of the guy who took care of the house, a sympathetic and extremely cultured person. Whenever I could, I went there to listen to Gimba’s beauty records. Gimba taught me, first to listen, then to like Shostakovich, and much more.
Ziembinski arrived late from the theatre and put his high fidelity in high volume. My father, who had difficulty sleeping, would get furious, yell from the wall for him to turn down the volume, and other little words. At one night, Gimba went out and came to talk to Dad; he explained what his life was about, that he arrived stressed and tired, and music was the only way for him to relax and find himself and not as the characters he had lived hours before. He said he would look to reduce the volume, although songs like these needed good volume to appreciate their quality. My dad stopped screaming, he turned the volume down a little, and the sleeping pills fixed the problem, for my dad and the neighbours on the corner across the street. They had a dog that barked wildly at night; my father shared with him pieces of his sleeping pill in meatballs. The neighbours didn’t complain; I think they were grateful.