Purple Magazine
— The Magic Issue #42 F/W 2024

cover #21 carminho in palm angels f/w 2024-25

SOUL AND SAUDADE

Palm Angels F/W 2024-25

 

Photography by OLIVIER ZAHM

With CARMINHO

Olivia Drozdz, style

Helena Vaz Pereira, hair

Rita Fialho, make-up

 

INTERVIEW WITH THE PORTUGUESE FADO SINGER CARMINHOIN A FISHING VILLAGE, FONTE DE TELHA

by OLIVIER ZAHM

 

OLIVIER ZAHM — Fado is magical music because it’s all about the soul, about real feeling. What’s the story of fado? Where does it come from? Is it specifically Portuguese?

CARMINHO — As far as we know, fado was born more or less 200 years ago in Portugal. It’s an urban culture that came from the poorest neighborhoods near the ports and the prostitutes and the merchants. It was born from the marginal side of society. People gathered as a community, playing instruments and sharing their feelings about what they were going through in their daily lives. They communicated their loves and their fights.

OLIVIER ZAHM — Is that why it’s very sad?

CARMINHO — It’s very deep. People sing from the heart, what they truly feel. It’s more or less a translation of Portuguese hearts, a way of translating what we are feeling. At the time, in the poorest neighborhoods, people were not able to be fragile and vulnerable. So, they sang — in that way, they didn’t expose too much.

OLIVIER ZAHM — They couldn’t express their feelings openly?

CARMINHO — Singing was a way of expressing their feelings and their pain. It’s similar to American soul music. But in this case, they couldn’t show their fragilities because otherwise they could lose power. It’s a way of behaving like a survivor: you need to be strong, and you cannot show your weaknesses. This is not a musicologist’s point of view. It’s my point of view, from what I observe about myself when I sing. So, singing fado, for me, is a way to escape and survive because I can express myself without showing too much.

OLIVIER ZAHM — How did you begin?

CARMINHO — I used to sing in fado houses. There are little pubs in Lisbon where you can listen to fado live. You have dinner and drinks, and then the lights go down, and there’s a set, and you’re completely drowning in these deep feelings. And sometimes a friend will say, “How can you sing those things in front of your parents?” Because it’s so personal, and we reveal so much. Even though it’s something controlled by poetry, it’s very much about love.

OLIVIER ZAHM — It’s about love? About breaking up?

CARMINHO — Breaking up, love, jealousy. But now, there’s a beautiful thing in fado where you can change the lyrics of the old songs. There are a lot of old lyrics that I don’t identify with anymore. It’s a living tradition, and you can change it. Each fado singer can sing and express the words they want. I can bring other themes that interest me besides love: betrayal, solitude, saudade.

OLIVIER ZAHM — What is saudade, exactly?

CARMINHO — Saudade is a word with no translation. It’s a Portuguese word that can represent a lot of things. It means missing someone or someplace. It can be a very sad feeling, but it can also be very warm. You can miss something you never left. You can have saudade for a smell, a person, a feeling. It’s very complex, a word that combines a lot of things.

OLIVIER ZAHM — Are you also influenced by Brazilian music?

CARMINHO — In a way, yes. Because when I was a child, we had Brazilian soap operas, and with them came a lot of music, of course, like jingles and theme songs. And I thought each song was directly related to a character. So, I was completely fixated on soap operas. When I realized that the song and the composer had a world outside the soap opera, I turned to the music and the careers of these incredible artists, like Chico Buarque.

OLIVIER ZAHM — Your mother was a fado singer, too?

CARMINHO — My mother is a singer. So, I started to practice when I was in her belly [laughs] and grew up in an environment with guitars. We lived in the Algarve, in the south of Portugal, and there are no fado houses there. It’s not a place with a fado culture. My mother started to do jam sessions at home with her friends just for fun because she missed it so much. I have photographs of me at the same age as my son now, with my father listening nearby, my mother and her friends with the Portuguese guitar and the bass and the classical guitar, and the singers. It wasn’t just about the music but also an ambiance.

OLIVIER ZAHM — Do you play the guitar yourself?

CARMINHO — I play some classical guitar and piano to compose. I don’t play to perform. Sometimes I play in my albums, but my voice is my real instrument. I also play the Portuguese guitar a bit.

OLIVIER ZAHM — Fado seems very pure and very strong.

CARMINHO — For me, fado is all about the voice, more than anything. The voice is the leader, and the Portuguese guitar follows the voice, then the other guitars follow the Portuguese guitar. It’s like a pyramid. And it’s incredible because, at the same time, we are always influencing each other — because there’s a lot of improvisation. The norm is that you have to keep the first verse with the original melody, and then you can add interpretation with your text and the lyrics. Because it’s all about the voice — it’s all about how to express feelings. So, fado has a lot of dramatic performance. That’s why there are soft notes followed by very strong notes.

OLIVIER ZAHM — There are male and female fado performers, but the women are more famous.

CARMINHO — It’s like people think all crooners are men because of Frank Sinatra. I think fado is all about women because of Amália Rodrigues. She made it iconic, and it’s about the voice of the woman.

OLIVIER ZAHM — What was Portugal like when you were growing up?

CARMINHO — Portugal was very peaceful. We were not like Spain or other countries, where the dictatorship was much stronger than ours. Even so, it was very hard for Portuguese people at the time. But my generation doesn’t remember what it means not to be free. I was born after the revolution, so my generation doesn’t know exactly what it means. I understand that the generation before mine had mixed feelings about fado because it was used for propaganda. Some people still say it’s controversial.

OLIVIER ZAHM — So, you free fado from its political instrumentalization by nationalists?

CARMINHO — Music needs to be a political act. If it’s not, it’s because you are just an instrument. I think you need to really understand what you are singing and sharing with people. My music is how I do politics. I think that in fado, there’s a lot of masochism. I am changing the themes and reshaping them from my perspective.

OLIVIER ZAHM — And now you compose within this tradition? It’s a tradition that is very open.

CARMINHO — You build the tradition — otherwise, there’s no future and no possibility to maintain anything. It’s so old that it dies. And fado is very alive: it’s a live language because of the new lyrics you can put in old songs. But also, I’m completely dedicated to the composition of traditional fados, which have multiple forms, like the four verses and decasyllables.

OLIVIER ZAHM — So, it’s like writing poetry.

CARMINHO — It’s like writing music for poetry with a classical form. And you can change it, but there’s also harmony and melody. So, I intuitively go around the tradition and the language. It’s difficult to be exact when explaining what fado is or not. But in the community, we understand.

OLIVIER ZAHM — What I love about fado is that it’s very pure, in a world where music has become so repetitive and a bit lost. It’s important to maintain and elevate this purity and originality for everyone because the emotions are universal. In that sense, you are a medium. It’s a big mission to communicate emotions that are bigger than you. In a way, you are just the instrument for those emotions.

CARMINHO — When I started to sing, nobody wanted to hear fado — at least, nobody from my generation. It was very hard for me because I didn’t have friends. I was marginalized in a way.

OLIVIER ZAHM — You were marginalized by your music, which was marginalized itself. [Laughs]

CARMINHO — Yes. But imagine how powerful it is to be marginalized because of your music. It was very hard for me because I didn’t get invitations to parties. Things have changed completely now. So, I was protective of fado and tried to make people understand why it’s so special. But I was so young, without much personality at the time, just building my confidence, and I didn’t have the will to fight. I earned some money in fado houses, and I went on a backpacking trip, doing volunteer work in India and some other places. When I was traveling, the thing I was asked the most was, “Who are you?” I was tempted to lie and say I was a ballerina or a lawyer or studying for NASA — something cooler than fado because it had ruined my reputation in my hometown. [Laughs] But with a very brave attitude, I decided to say, “I’m a fado singer.” And the reactions were so different, like: “Wow, what is that? That’s amazing.” I gained so much confidence traveling and exchanging experiences. When I came back, I realized I was completely sure I wanted to make fado my career.

OLIVIER ZAHM — And it speaks to everyone, including the younger generation. It’s very rare that music can be so transgenerational. It’s incredible.

CARMINHO — Yes, it’s true. It deeply touches people of all ages. One day, a friend came to a fado session with me. And when it was over, she was upset with me: “Why did you do this to me? You do not have the right to do this to me.” She took the lyrics too personally, and they had touched her in some deep way. Some people say, “You make me cry.” It’s not me or my music that makes you cry. It’s you, yourself. It’s your history up until that moment that makes you cry. Fado is beautiful because it opens doors to your emotions and to your reality that you may have tried to keep closed. So, just let it flow.

OLIVIER ZAHM — This is the medium-like aspect of music: your music channels emotion in a very universal way.

CARMINHO — And even for people who don’t understand the lyrics, there’s something so moving about fado.

OLIVIER ZAHM — I wish I could understand the lyrics.

CARMINHO — But even without understanding them, people feel they’re touching some strange zone — like walking on the moon or something.

END

[Table of contents]

The Magic Issue #42 F/W 2024

Table of contents

© Purple Institute

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