Don’t Do This At Home

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All this talk about music is really making me hungry.

Scroll up through my last few posts and you’ll see photos of “Juliana Soup” and “Cozido à Portuguesa.”  That’s what I ate in Lisbon working on “NO STRAIGHT LINES.”  But now let’s get down to business.  Directly overhead is a photo of a Brazilian “Feijoada Completa,” often called the national dish of Brazil.  Now we’re talking real, “massive-coronary” food.  Maybe the tastiness of Brazilian cuisine explains why Brazil reputedly gained independence from Portugal without a single bullet ever being fired.  (Recognize I’m trying to rein myself in here.  The Bahian food (e.g., vatapa, moqueca, and xin-xin de galinha) I had at the Covento do Carmo during Carnaval in Salvador in 1984 was some of the best food I’ve had in my life; and the Galinha de Cabidela (Chicken In Its Own Blood) at Nelson Faria‘s family farm outside Brasilia that same trip equally gratifying in its own way.)

I started cooking feijoada completas in the mid 1980s and surely have made that meal more than 100 times, probably even twice that.  I have many stories to tell about past feijoadas and some really great hangs, too many to go into here…and many stories about where I’ve had eaten great feiojadas, including at the Tropical Hotels in both Manaus and Foz da Iguazu during the 1980s.  (Years later I was at Iguassu Falls staying on the Argentina side and traveled over to the Tropical Hotel in Brazil just to have another go at their feijoada!)

In my last post I briefly mentioned Toninho Horta.  I met him at a party at Sergio Mendes’ house the same night I met Ivan Lins and Djavan in about 1982 I imagine.  I never saw Djavan again.  I ran into Ivan briefly at the NARM Convention in 1989 when he was being promoted by Warners and I was being promoted there by Private/BMG.  And once around the same time at a feijoada at John Pisano‘s house.  Ivan still barely spoke English at that time.  I remember he described how people disappeared during military rule in Brazil as “suddenly they never returned.”  That about sums it up.

Many years ago Toninho was staying with me in LA, which seemed like a great reason to have a feijoada.  Actually, Toninho later confessed to me he wasn’t all that fond of feijoada, preferring healthier food.  This came as a surprise to me, especially because when I stayed with him in Belo Horizonte in 1984 he took me to a local restaurant to make sure before I leave Minas Gerais I eat this:

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What is this? It’s a “Feijao Tropeiro,” a Mineiro feijoada – as if a feijoada alone wasn’t already an immediate heart attack – WITH eggs on top!  Yow!  Shame on you, Toninho!

I always loved this lyric I wrote for Toninho’s “Aquelas Coisas Todas,” here recorded by the artist Kenia (with my old friend and bandmate Paul Socolow on bass):

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But I digress. At this particular feijoada, Frank Zottoli (who, like Paul Socolow, eventually became fluent in Portuguese) showed up with a friend of his, Leon, who was a Brazilian chef.  Leon made an absolutely killer hot sauce that night that everyone commented on.  I was totally wrapped up preparing the basic meal (there were more than 30 guests) so I didn’t see how he made it but he left the recipe.  I’ve had it pasted in my Brazilian cookbook for decades now.  The key ingredient is in bold italics.

Leon’s Hot Sauce

Marinate the following ingredients:
Cilantro, chopped as fine as possible
Garlic minced into paste
Red onions minced as fine as possible
Malagueta peppers minced as fine as possible

Put above 3 ingredients in bowl and add:
2t rubbing alcohol or 3-4 t cachaca, whichever available
Green or red pepper, minced fine

Mix with cilantro (save 1/3 until the end)
Add 4-5T olive oil to alcohol mix
Salt, cumin, crushed black pepper or white pepper
Lemon or lime

Mix and add remaining cilantro at end

Before anyone does this at home, here is something I quickly found on the internet: “When ingested, isopropyl alcohol can cause: “drowsiness, unconsciousness, and death. Gastrointestinal pain, cramps, nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea may also result. The single lethal dose for a human adult = about 250 mls (8 ounces).”

Thank god we were totally safe!

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Cozido

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All this talk about literature is making me hungry.

The above photo is of Portuguese cozido, a typical Portuguese stew.   It can be made from a range of vegetables and meats including pig’s ear, pig’s tail, blood sausage and other various “unmentionables.”  Ahhhh…

When I went to Lisbon to write, two friends I made there, Ana Bárbara Ramalho and Pedro Simoes Dias, separately both wanted me to do the very same two things (so I did them): go to a particular Japanese tea house they loved, and eat a genuine Portuguese cozido.  In its eclectic use of unmentionables, a cozido is not all that divorced from a “feijoada,” the national dish of Brazil in which I have seen pig’s tails.  I was later surprised to learn that the Portuguese actually also have their own various versions of feijoada, some made with white beans.  Nao posso acreditar!  By the way, my Brazilian Portuguese (not that it’s all that great any more) was utterly useless in Lisbon.

It rained a lot of the time I was in Lisbon, perfect cozido weather.  I stayed in my room a lot, working on “NO STRAIGHT LINES.”  I wrote most of the lyric for a song called “Tale Of My Life” that didn’t make it on the album (but which I’ll release separately next year).  Over the process of making the record I wrote three entirely different sets of lyrics for the song that became “Road Of Pain,” one of them in my little room in the 2-star Albergaria Senhora Do Monte, situated on the highest of Lisbon’s seven hills.  Here was the view, without the rain.  The good life.

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Speaking of feijoada, the guitar part in “Road Of Pain” was very Brazilian-influenced, a holdover from my past.  I was expecting to hear lots of Brazilian and maybe some Angolan or Mozambican live music in Lisbon, one of the principle reasons I was exploring possibly relocating there during that trip.  Although Brazilian music is nowadays ubiquitous worldwide (though I spent a lovely evening listening to two guys playing bossa novas out of the Real Book in a tiny restaurant on Santorini all the way back in 1979) I either didn’t know where to look or Lisbon wasn’t a great international music town — disappointing given how musically rich Portugal’s former colonies were and are.  (And speaking of the “Real Book,” a song I wrote with Jimmy Haslip for the Yellowjackets years ago called “Sonja’s Sanfona” is included in Chuck Sher’s classic “New Real Book.”  I wrote the opening of that song in a hotel lobby in Belo Horizonte (speaking of Brazil) in 1984 waiting for Toninho Horta to pick me up to stay at his house.)

But I did hear some wonderful fado in Lisboa though, in the back streets of the Alfama and once in a jam-packed club in the Barrio Alto where the players didn’t start playing until 2:30 am!  Lisbon is most definitely a late night city.

A couple of the currrent era fadistas I quite like are Mafalda Arnauth, especially her “Encantamento” album, and Ana Moura.  (For me Amalia Rodriguez is too much an acquired taste from another era, or I’d recommend her initially as well.  Fado can be a bit like crawling through fudge for all its sentimentality, though this from someone who admittedly speaks limited Portuguese.)  Here’s one of the many beautiful songs off of “Encantamento” called “As Fontes.”

When I got back I wanted to incorporate some kinds of Portuguese influences on “No Straight Lines” beyond the mere fact of having been inspired so deeply by Fernando Pessoa (see my last post) and having spent time in Lisbon.  I early on wrote a couple of songs in a fado style for the album but never felt comfortable singing them and abandoned the idea.  I also really wanted to use Portuguese guitarra on the album, but had no ideas for players.  I called my good friend Don Cohen (who has written great introductory books on not only fado, but also tango and gypsy music), who told me to forget about trying to find anyone nearby or even in California who could play the instrument well (though I did find one guy who could do that), let alone play it outside a fado context.  I toyed with the idea of doing a long distance session with someone from Portugal but for various reasons it was too cumbersome.

So, for better or worse, I bought one and played it myself — not all that well, mind you, and surely not anything like a real fado player, but passably, I hope!  What an amazing instrument, very particular, and incredibly fun to play.

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Lisbon 2005

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In 2005 I traveled to Lisbon to continue writing songs for “NO STRAIGHT LINES.”  I was considering moving there at the time, where I thought I might try to set up a European legal practice representing high-end clients needing advice on U.S. intellectual property law.  I met with several of the largest Lisbon firms and explored various strategies with them, made a few friends I still keep in touch with today, and wound up doing a few Portuguese deals afterwards as result, but eventually decided against the move.  I was also hoping to meet up with Mafalda Arnauth on that trip to see if she might be interested in singing on the album, but she was out of the country on tour.

But all was not lost, of course, because I was there mostly for Fernando Pessoa.

pessoaFernando Pessoa

Tucked away in a corner of Praça do Comércio (back behind the red trolley car in the photo above), the main square of Lisbon that fronts the Tagus (i.e., Lisboa’s version of St. Marks’ Square in Venice), one can find the illustrious Restaurant Café Martinho da Arcada, Pessoa’s favorite haunt.  I of course needed to eat there at least once, though I chose not to try the juliana soup (see below), cod and fried eggs with cheese Pessoa usually ingested there.  I can’t remember what I had, but it was probably the grilled sardines or caldo verde, neither of which I could ever get enough of in Lisboa.

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I am in the process of re-reading one my favorite books of all time, Fernando Pessoa’s remarkable “The Book of Disquiet.”  Pessoa’s work has been swirling around my head ever since I first discovered him in the early 1980s.  I often read Pessoa while I was working on “No Straight Lines,” and plainly see his influence on certain lyrics on the album, especially I suppose “At The End Of The Day.”  But it has been now more than 10 years since I last read cover-to-cover this tour de force of prose.  I’m savoring it page by page.

For anyone who has never encountered the amazing work of Fernando Pessoa here is an exquisite short poem of his from 1933 found in “Poems of Fernando Pessoa” (translated and edited by Edwin Honig and Susan M. Brown), Ecco Press, one of my very favorites:

To be great, be whole; exclude
Nothing, exaggerate nothing that is you.
Be whole in everything. Put all you are
Into the smallest thing you do.
The whole moon gleams in every pool.
It rides so high.

I owe my discovery of Pessoa to Dori Caymmi who, at a feijoada at John Pisano‘s years ago (more on that subject and John later), told me Pessoa was his favorite poet in the Portuguese language.  That led me to first read Pessoa’s poetry, and later everything of his I could ever get my hands on.  This being back in the 1980s, a fair amount of his work still wasn’t readily available in the U.S. in English translation then, including “The Book of Disquiet,” though that has changed.

It turned out that I had already by then heard a fair amount of Pessoa without knowing it.  It wasn’t until I traveled to Lisbon in 2005 that I discovered the album “Various Artists – A Música em Pessoa”

and realized I had been listening to these songs for years without knowing the lyrics came from Pessoa — songs by Jobim, Edu Lobo, Dori and his sister Nana Caymmi (my favorite female singer from Brasil, at least from the MPB era) and many others I knew so well.  Vicente Soto Sordera”s “Pessoa Flamenco” is another great offering, showing Pessoa’s influence extending into the flamenco realm.

I’ll write more about Pessoa later.  I’m far more interested in his literary output than others’ use of his work as lyrics, but it’s gratifying to see the world embracing this visionary poet and thinker.

Frigiliana

 

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In my last post I was writing about Al-Andalus music.  “Al-Andalus” refers to the lengthy period from roughly 711 through 1492 during which major parts of Spain were under Moorish (i.e., Muslim) rule.  If you enjoyed the music I linked to there then why not throw this on some Saturday while you’re cleaning house…a Spotify playlist that purportedly contains a full 26 hours of Al-Andalus influenced music (assuming you’re willing to use Spotify, which I do have mixed feelings about).  https://play.spotify.com/user/prakalos/playlist/0NxQpTdmstDfIVRlJ6Qp6E

The small, whitewashed hillside Andalusian village of Frigiliana looms large in the creation of No Straight Lines. I rented a house there in early 2006 where I worked on a number of songs that wound up on the album, and where I took the photo above.  But to discuss Frigiliana I need to go way back.

Sometime around 2000 I took a trip to Spain.  After visiting old friends in Granada (I started going there in 1979), I wound my way through Murcia and Andalusia on back roads ending up in Seville in an old hotel near the Cathedral Gino Dauri had recommended to me.  It’s fitting I mention Gino, because he would later play his own role in No Straight Lines.  I met Gino really soon after moving to LA in 1980.  Probably the best-known flamenco player in LA during those years (though rejected by some purists because he was always into experimentation), he later sold me the Hermanos Conde flamenco guitar I used for most of the nylon string guitar parts on No Straight Lines.  Gino was quite a character…but if I were to go off on Gino – whose flamboyant life was cut down way too soon by cancer about 10 years ago – I’d lose the ever-important meticulous and decisive train of thought that so defines this blog.

My travel journals say I was re-reading Lorca’s plays, Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises” and Jan Morris‘ excellent “Spain” book during that trip.  As I’ve noted elsewhere, I often hand-pick books to read whenever I travel that are tied in some way to the place I am in.  I so strongly recommend traveling that way, it adds immensely to any trip.

But I digress, because on the way to Seville I had discovered this amazing small whitewashed village called Frigiliana, only 5 miles inland from the Mediterranean town of Nerja, but seemingly still 500 years in the past.  I arrived around 2:30 in the afternoon. The town was utterly dead and I mean utterly. There were a few dusty ancient cars and a handful of existential donkeys spread around the main square.  It was incredibly hot.  I started walking up into the village on these winding walkways that seemed to never end.

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I finally arrived at an outdoor café perched high on the hillside already closed for the afternoon with a large unoccupied patio that looked out over the Mediterranean in the distance.  I was totally winded so I sat down to catch my breath.  Remarkably, Pat Metheny Group’s “First Circle” album was playing softly through the patio speakers.  Having recorded This Perfect Day a few years earlier with PMG bassist Steve Rodby (who also played on No Straight Lines) but also knowing both Lyle Mays and Pedro Aznar in that group, I had a really uncanny feeling sitting there — in such thoroughly familiar musical surroundings, while simultaneously in some faraway distant place and time.

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For some reason I afterwards often thought if I ever found myself with an extended period of time to write, I might want to return to Frigiliana.  So in early 2006 (through an incredibly generous 5-month leave of absence granted my employer Morrison & Foerster to allow me to travel and work on music) I holed up there for a steady month of writing.  The photo above was taken from the rooftop of the 600 year-old house I rented, looking out beyond the newer part of Frigiliana to the Mediterranean beyond.

I’ll write more about my time in Frigiliana later, but today I am making Ajo Blanco (white garlic) soup, and that’s what prompted this post — the interconnectedness of Al-Andalus music and Ajo Blanco soup.  Because it was the Moors who introduced almonds to the Iberian Peninsula and most likely also invented Ajo Blanco.

Whenever I had put in an especially hard morning of work in Frigiliana, I rewarded myself with lunch at La Bodeguilla, a family-run place featuring regional food.  They made a truly memorable Choto Frito (stewed kid) that I always ordered with Ajo Blanco and Migas (fried breadcrumbs with garlic) on the side.  (For a short article on Andalusian food, see http://www.marbellagoldenmile.com/andalucian-food.asp).

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Not only is Ajo Blanco incredibly good, it’s just about the easiest thing in the world to make.  If you’re interested, I’ve included my recipe below, created from trial and error.  It makes batch large enough for about 12 servings or 1 small foot bath.

3 cups blanched almonds

6 garlic clove

one 6″ x 3″ piece of day-old white bread, crust removed

1 1/4 cup Spanish olive oil

10 tablespoon sherry vinegar (vinagre de Jerez)

4 teaspoons salt

5 1/2 cups water

Instructions:  Cover bread with water and soak 5 minutes.  Meanwhile, pulse the almonds and garlic in a blender or processor until finely ground.  Then squeeze the excess water out of the bread and pulse it into the almond mix until it becomes a thick paste.  With the motor running add the olive oil slowly, followed by the vinegar and salt, and finally the water.  Put the soup in a tureen in the refrigerator and cool for at least a couple of hours.  This will get you started, but then taste the soup and add more water, salt or vinegar to suit your taste.  It should be tangy.