Cesaria Evora has overcome poverty, a revolution, and even a recent stroke to become a national treasure of Cape Verde and uphold her reputation as an increasingly adventurous icon of world music. On her latest album, Nha Sentimento (Lusafrica), Cesaria ventures further afield than ever before, twisting Arabic musical traditions into bluesy, sinuous compositions from some of Cape Verde’s best songwriters.
Perhaps this is the spirit of morabeza, the warm welcome Cape Verdeans are known to give to visitors of their homes and of their country. “We are a people who like to be sympathetic with other people,” Cesaria explains. “It doesn’t matter where you come from, who you are… dress doesn’t matter, the color of your skin… what we like to do is to make you feel at home. That is morabeza.” As the lyrics of “Parceria E Irmandade say, “Morabeza is our essence//It’s our lifeblood, it’s not oil//It’s our happiness smiling//It’s a tear of sodade.” Cesaria Evora is indomitable. She started out singing in an orphanage when her mother, a well-known chef, could no longer support her. She had lost her father, who played the guitar and violin, both mainstays of Cape Verde’s indigenous music, and shown her a creative world that she would not rediscover until her teenage years. When she was only fifteen, the musician and author Gregorio Goncalves, known as Ti Goy, sensed her budding talent and took her under his wing. He taught her the mornas (Cape Verdean blues), and Cesaria’s voice was born again.
On the island of São Vicente, far from the coast of Senegal, in the port of Mindelo, a city that leans against the sea, in the Café Royal, she would gather in the company of Mindelo’s musicians in the late afternoon, preparing for a night performing in the clubs, where she quickly became a local idol. She sang the blues in the Cape Verdean creole, a punchy, silk-gloved West African Portuguese. Between trademark puffs on a Portuguese cigarette and shots of hard liquor, in front of the richest men in Cape Verde, a blooming Cesaria sang in an adult’s alto tones of the distances across the ocean. She mourned for love in the bosom of craggy and accidental islands washed warm by tropical currents. She began recording at local radio stations (recordings which only made it to light last year on the album “Radio Mindelo,” which compiled these archives; www.myspace.com/radiomindelo). Her place in the leaves of local music history was assured. Cesaria’s song was the epic of Cape Verde, but it was a song that could not yet reach across the waters.
The world had come to Cape Verde, and the world might have left it behind, save for the tenacity and talent of artists like Cesaria. Forty-five years since she began her career, this unassumingly matronly and weathered woman with a crinkly, lopsided grin found her music in a studio in downtown Cairo. For this album, Cesaria and her crew found a collaborator and an admirer in Fathy Salama, a former conductor of the Cairo Orchestra who arranged the three mornas on Nha Sentimento. Fathy brought Egyptian instrumentalists into his studio in downtown Cairo to add a new texture to the music, largely written by fellow Cape Verdeans Manuel de Novas, Cesaria’s friend since childhood, and Teofilo Chantre. The music of Cape Verde is diverse and New World-y, incorporating guitar, violin, and the soprano saxophone into its Latin scales and rhythms. Egypt’s reedy pipes, edgy percussion, lush strings, and the crystalline sound of the kanun (Arabic zither) feel right at home. Cesaria and Fathy’s efforts paid off on the album, which boasts hybrid arrangements that sound both Egyptian and Cape Verdean, yet as classic and visceral as Depression-era jazz.
On some tracks, the musical traditions are in a dialogue. On “Sentimento,” a Verdean blues where the Egyptian flute wails in a mournful, ululating call-and-response with Cesaria and her understated questions. Elsewhere, Fathy’s arrangements lay a bed of dynamic tension beneath her effortlessly direct delivery. On “Vento de Sueste” and “Mam’Bia É So Mi,” there is no question who is in charge: Cesaria Evora stands before the footlights with the posture of a defiant dandelion, projecting the light of the sun, and when she opens her mouth, the world turns to listen.
It was this vocal “texture” that first intrigued Fathy Salama over fifteen years ago. Cesaria Evora’s voice is hot chocolate and brandy – on the very first sip, the bite of liquor that fills your nose provides a warmer feeling than hot milk ever could. From the very first track, “Serpentina,” it is clear that Cesaria’s voice has aged well, that her sugars have fermented into something adult. Her joy is never saccharine, and the sound of experience and age nudges her blues into memory. “Zinha” was named for an old girlfriend of writer Manuel de Novas. Years ago, her father had disapproved of their relationship. This song records Manuel’s attempts to comfort her. With decades of hindsight on his side, Manuel wrote this as a playful, danceable song, but Cesaria sings as a young Manuel, taking it right back to that day when he told her not to worry, not to cry. Evora’s voice has a peculiar range that makes her as credible as a young suitor as she is as a respected matron of song.
This worldliness was born of the tight-knit community of Cape Verde, a melting pot on a Bunsen burner. “Mine is a normal life of a Cape Verdean,” claims Cesaria, permitting a rare and telling smile. This album, named for the “feeling” that Cape Verdeans share, celebrates the islands at their best. “Verde Cabo di Nhas Odjos,” the sprightly, slinky second track, walks through a Cape Verde turned a rare shade of real green. Asked about the track, Cesaria intones, “Green is life, green is dreams, green is hope, green is all.”
On this album, Manuel de Novas cast the net that connected Cesaria to that world of common experience. Tragically, he passed away in the Fall of 2009, before the world could hear Nha Sentimento. Cesaria Evora and Manuel de Novas had known each other since they were children, since the days when their mothers were like sisters. “He was a great friend, a very good composer,” recalls Cesaria. “We were always laughing whenever we were with Manuel.” In a late interview, Manuel praised not just Cesaria’s considerable talent, but her dedication and artistry, observing with more than a little admiration that “She lives the music not just with her voice but with her deep soul.” Pressed for comment, Cesaria bluntly explains her “method”: “I listen to the songs, and they have to move me. If I don’t feel the words, I don’t sing.”
Cesaria tempers and channels her feeling and movement with incredible vocal skill. On “Verde Cabo di Nhas Odjos,” Cesaria slings her phrases deftly about like comets tossed over her shoulder, hitting a target with every casual gesture. The same is true of “Ligereza,” featuring accordion tracks recorded by Henry Ortiz in Bogotá. Here, the instruments and Cesaria’s carelessly precise voice brush lightly against each other, building a mad spontaneous circle dance of static tension. Cesaria’s background shows through: as a young woman performing for local audiences, she learned a tradition and a genre inside-out. Cape Verdean music is local music, music for entertainment and art, and music that was long blind to the global market. Over the years, Cesaria’s voice, sometimes compared to Billie Holiday’s, became a sensual thing with a timeless and serene character, so refined and sophisticated an instrument as to seem impossible here on Earth.
Yet, Cesaria Evora is a worldwide star with globetrotting credentials and shows no sign of stopping. “This time it was from Egypt,” she relates, with an enigmatic eye already trained on future projects, “but it can be from anywhere.” “We cross other borders to achieve other styles,” explains her producer, José da Silva. “We recorded a disk with Cuban musicians and also with Brazilian musicians. The previous album involved African musicians, and now we have taken new inspiration from Arabic music. This makes us open-minded to other cultures.” The result is music as cosmopolitan and potent as a cocktail: a dozen exotic potables swirl in Brownian motion, lifting up a shot of pure grain Cesaria.
