Olodum & Pelhourinho Beats

Wandering out into Tuesday’s pagan Bahia night
Everywhere drumming and choreography,

cachoeiranos robed in white
Music spilling out from every possible niche
drawn towards slave church hymns of CatholicAfrica unleashed
I stroll into a 400 year old church while the service is swinging
Yoruba echoes of absent agogo bells ringing
40 meters up the way Olodum is holding court
Surfing polyrhythmic intricacies with Eleggua as an escort
The music here is beyond sound
A path to the beyond each time the crowd feels the turnaround
Cycles of growth and decay
Saintly spirits grind and sashay
as tourists in the earthen realm pay their deepest respects
to where Africa, Europe, and America intersect;
Throughout the Pelourinho the churches are aged and defaced
but still open up portals to those seeking contraband grace…

Walked out the hotel for the first time tonight… Was scared initially, braving the world outside the sheltered enclave that is this former convent. The streets are chaotic, replete with sketchy characters and uneven paths, shadows lurking in every doorframe… Ventured to the steps of Sao Francisco Church, where Olodum delivered the weekly Saint Anthony Blessing, a tight knit rhythmic invocation that fills the square and the winding, hilly streets that spill away from it in all directions. After Olodum concluded we ventured down into a storefront basement to discover a branch of Mestre Bimba’s Filho a Capoeira, with a roda in full session, presided over by a stern looking mestre rocking a solo birembau. Wandered down the block into a hipster bar called “Habeus Copos” where a battle of the bands was in full swing. Caught six acts, ranging from groups that sounded like Toad the Wet Sprocket singing in Portuguese to a a terrible band that sounded like the Kinks if they had no talent, and others that sounded like crosses between Counting Crows and Supernatural-era Santana. It was quite the spectacle, a feast for the ears, and we departed only to stumble over a half-dozen bands filling the streets on the way home. This place is tapped in to something deeper, something darker, an old-continent awareness coloring every face in this place… the spirits are palpable, their worship inevitable… swaying in Church I gazed upwards to find myself staring at a cracked façade, as the Church band swung into a practiced hypnotic refrain littered with Conga beats… The thought arises: if Jesus was only this funky everywhere…