Within the gleaming architectural masterpiece that is Brazil’s TV Globo, the strobe lights are flickering and the crew is hiving around the grizzled Giancarlo of Sicily. He’s holding an inflated sheep that has various pipes sticking out – one of which he is chewing nervously. They have him on an elevator that will rise from the depths up to the TV stage to join the rest of us in the bright lights of Jo Soares. Which, I’m told is like the Brazilian Letterman.

My fellow tribesmen arrived in Sao Paulo this morning at 7:30 AM (From Brindisi, Puglia) and came straight to the studio to play a song on national TV. Most of the gear is still in transit so we have few instruments. Just a row of oil barrels, some giant tambourines, one drum set and an inflated sheep. We’re a pretty ethnic crew but we do usually have, you know, musical instruments to accompany the banging and clattering. But this ain’t Steely Dan. This ancient Pizzica music could be communicated with hollow logs and upraised voices. Right there on the bandstand we figure out a song, thus and how to perform.

Then they let in an audience of raving teenagers. These kids are buzzing with the joy of a weekday not in school and surge right up to the stage gawking at the Salentini and greeting every move with a cheer. While the TV crew plan their swooping camera plunges and get rigged for a run-through-with-audience, we can’t help but tickle the vibe with a little groove. The kids are right on it and very soon we are all blazing (with Giancarlo still down in the elevator). The boys are hollering and the girls are shrilling and this television studio – normally a bastion of fakery and mime – has become a real party! Juke joints and dance halls don’t get more down into it than this. This is exactly what music is for – and you can find it in the strangest places. So we saddle up for the run-through then shoot the shot and now La Notte Della Taranta has gone national in Brazil.

8:30 next morning we’re on a bus to Paraisopolis - a neighborhood of disadvantage on the edge of Sao Paulo – to participate in a “workshop” that has been organized by the festival as a good deed for the community. We’re not sure what to expect and feel a little like the Great White Fathers, come to bless the children with our tambourines. We’re off the trunk road now, and winding through a neighborhood of marble gated skyscrapers. Rich foliage drips from the landscaped razor fences. We’re beginning to think we’ve been booked for the Exxon president’s birthday party when, crossing an alley we are deep into full-on shanty town - lurching over pot holes past tin clad hovels with insane wiring. But not for long. Suddenly we’re at a brand new school, surrounded by sporting facilities, cool designed classroom buildings and a sparkling concert hall. The towers of power lean over the school on one side and the reeking masses heave on the other. Something does seem to have trickled down here.

Turns out we’re here to perform a song in the high school variety show. Now if this were Sheffield, or West LA for that matter, it would be hell. But here in Brazil they are born grooving. Even the school ballet class has that flick of rhythm that is so pronounced in Brazilian culture. It also turns out that some of these folks are not just teachers at the school; there are native luminaries, one of whom is my old chum Joáo Barrone, the legendary drummer of the Brazilian mega band Parrallamas.

This time we’re down to no oil cans, no sheep – just a drum set and two mics. Fortunately the Salentini never go anywhere without their tamborellos. So we work up an even more streamlined version of a thing and go out there and take on the students. Well the great thing about kids is that they have no respect, but lots of enthusiasm. Just like the TV station with the swirling lights and swooping cameras, the high school on the edge of the barrio is rocking! Asking around later, I learn that this isn’t a Potemkin village – a model of progress to show tourists. It is actually happening all over Brazil. The squalor of huge urban areas is being addressed with national resources and schools like this are spreading across the land. I hope it’s true; how would I know?


It takes just an afternoon of rehearsal at a studio somewhere in Sao Paulo to sharpen up our show. Last time we saw each other on stage was four months ago at Cartegena. Vittorio leads the ensemble with confident authority that is spiced with a wit that has every ear tuned to his baton. There are a lot of pieces to the puzzle and we all remember our parts…more or less the same way. I go cross-eyed trying to count exactly how many there are of us but it’s about twenty guys on a common purpose. They just love to play and a day of music with my adopted tribe is one of the great rewards of life.

The show itself is in an architectural masterpiece in the heart of the giant Ibirapuera Park. Beautiful hall, but indoors. Comfy seats. Now I’m all for comfy seats within great halls for sit-and-listen music, but cosa nostra is a tribal dance thing. We were kind of hoping to light up the crazy Brazilians with the full heat of our Pizzica drive. The raw version worked great on the kids but there’s no getting around those comfy seats in this spectacular hall with immaculate acoustics, expansive stage, and perfect shower.

In the same way that this music can be communicated with any instruments or none, it also has a beauty that can work magic in any setting. On this big wide stage we sprawl luxuriously. There is power and life in the resonance of the hall, with crystal clarity. We now have all of our bouzoukis, accordions, normal instruments and sheep. We’re now fully armed. Well we don’t cause Carnival to spontaneously combust in November but we, in the time-honored fashion, really slay ourselves. Even without the raging Italians in the piazzas or the rocking barrio school kids, we all get carried away by the ancient tunes and rhythms. The tamborellos pump their intricate triplet throb and the voices rise in a ceremony that works every time.

STEWART COPELAND