Antonio Carlos Jobim
The Composer Of "Desafinado" Plays

Dismissing Antonio Carlos Brasileiro de Almeida Jobim (full name) as the composer of "Desafinado" means portraying him as a typical author who stumbles upon a melody and lives off it, perhaps for a lifetime.
There are plenty of such authors, but it can be said that our Antonio Carlos Jobim (official name) is quite the opposite: a composer of Brazilian "standards" so prolific and so consistently inspired that the 12 classics contained in this album, with a somewhat unfortunate title, still do not give an accurate measure of his creativity.

It is practically impossible not to encounter some composition by Tom Jobim (informal name) as soon as you catch a whiff of Brazil and bossa nova, that unmistakable sublimation of samba rhythm into more moderate cadences, which has enchanted many performers from various genres, from Miles Davis ("Corcovado") to Mina ("Insensatez").
Just to give an idea, in a collection of 36 Brazilian classics, a double CD by João Gilberto, the name "A. C. Jobim" appears 15 times among the authors. But you can find him even where you least expect, like amid the percussion bacchanal of Santana's "Caravanserai" with the driving "Stone Flower", or in the fluid notes of "Meditation" that seem to pour out from the deep funnel of Dexter Gordon's sax.
This last example falls within Jobim's privileged relationship with jazz, of which this 1963 album, the first recorded in the USA, is a confirmation. So the composer of "Desafinado" plays, specifically the piano: this fact is almost announced with amazement, but it's ever since his early youth that Jobim has dealt with this instrument, always using it as a means to free his boundless compositional imagination, rather than as a training ground for virtuosic exercises. And indeed, Jobim plays a bit like the leaders of the great jazz orchestras, as Duke Ellington teaches: sly and almost muted, hidden behind the orchestra, not dispensing a single note more than necessary to present the immortal melodies of his classics. The orchestra is as traditional as one could conceive in an era when small formations were rampant in jazz: a genuine string orchestra with some soloists (Leo Wright, flute) that occasionally step into the spotlight, and a rhythmic base formed by George Duvivier’s bass and the percussions of an unknown who isn't even mentioned on the record, but could be rechristened "metronome", since it marks the bossa nova with absolute precision and without embellishments.

Practically a hybrid between a classical orchestra and a jazz band, with a clear predominance of the former. In this way, the masterpieces of Tom Jobim, already stripped of the poetic texts often penned by Vinicius De Moraes, are further bared but still shine in their own light, both for the essential beauty of their melodies and for the enchanting bossa nova rhythm that envelops them. In some cases, the result is surprising: take the well-known "The Girl From Ipanema", which we are accustomed to knowing in João Gilberto's sensual version with his wife Astrud and the ardent sax of Stan Getz. In this orchestral performance, what is lost in color is gained in the absolute, photographic capacity to capture the brief enchantment, the vision of the now-legendary golden-skinned girl walking along Ipanema beach. Tom Jobim at the piano hints at a minimal variation, only to return to the safe tracks of the initial theme.

The nights of "Corcovado" ("Quiet Nights of Quiet Stars") here are truly an oasis of tranquility, watched over by the famous statue of Christ; whereas, in Miles Davis's magical version, fleeting in its intensity, there is a shiver of unease that ultimately disturbs the starry idyll of the Rio night. The setting of "Favela" (alias "O Morro Não Tem Vez") is far from the metropolitan hell one might expect: a sugary flute guides us into a fairytale favela (an unintentional pun), something out of the film "Orfeu Negro". Slightly accelerated "Samba De Uma Nota Só", but far from the sort of tongue twister that Astrud Gilberto's voice would make it. Like "So Danço Samba": more than the "scat-tled" (intended pun, referencing the daring jazz vocalizations known as "scat") versions of a still young Ella Fitzgerald, it recalls the more composed Ella of 1981, in her commendable "Ella Abraça Jobim", yet another collection of classics by the Brazilian master. "Amor Em Paz" and "Vivo Sonhando" risk being buried under a syrupy layer of strings but are both saved by their irresistible, subdued melancholy.
It’s partly true for "Insensatez" as well, but here the sadness is more palpable, though not as much as in the mournful interpretation by a still slightly unripe Mina (1964), who, when she intones the word "insensatez", seems to despairingly say "senza te". Even "Desafinado", besides the brief introduction, does not convey that strange sensation of bewilderment we know thanks to João Gilberto's sweetly dazed voice, but it gains a certain playful liveliness, which nonetheless does not undermine its charm.

And this whole album, this kind of journey to a Brazil of another era, proves to us that certain classics have such a marked personality that they are hardly influenced by interpretation. It is no coincidence they are classics, and Antonio Carlos Jobim was an indefatigable creator of them.