Nanà Vasconcelos
R.I.P.

Oration
Friends, Debaserians, music lovers, lend me your ears; I come to remember Nanà, not to bury him. The good music that men create often outlives them; their personal affairs are often buried with their bones; and so it is with Nanà. The Critic has told you that Nanà was talented, technically skilled, though self-taught, but that he played with everyone, even in works of not great depth: if so, it was indeed a serious flaw. Here, with the permission of the Critics and Debaser and others—for the Critic is an honorable man; so are they all, all honorable men—I come to speak in remembrance of Nanà. He was, for us, a friend, prolific and generous with his art: but the Critic says he was not ambitious enough and too popular; and the Critic is an honorable man. Many records he made brighter, whose value filled the hearts and ears of those who had hearts and ears: did this seem too commercial a gesture from Nanà? When the talent-poor have cried, Nanà rushed to their aid, playing with all of them: the market should be made of coarser fabric; yet the Critic says he was more of a session man than a composer; and the Critic is an honorable man. You all saw how eight times the Grammy was presented to him and as many times the award for best instrumentalist: was this a demonstration of little creativity? Yet the Critic says he was not ambitious, someone—even horror!—remembers him on the Sanremo stage; and truly, the Critic is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what the Critic said, but here I am to speak what I do know. You all loved him once, and not without cause, whether it was for "Duas Vozes" or the tropical enchantment of "Saudades" or perhaps for his collaboration with Pino Daniele: what reason holds you back then from mourning him? O reason, thou art fled to brutish beasts and men have lost their reason. Bear with me; my heart lies there in the coffin with Nanà and I must pause till it comes back to me.
Just yesterday Nanà's music could have given more joy to the whole world: now he lies there, and there is none so lowly that doesn't give him honor.
But here is the legacy of his Music, it is his testament: let the Debaserians hear only this music, that, forgive me, I do not intend to recall and quote from memory, if they heard it, they would seek out the remains of the late Nanà and immerse their hearts in his work; indeed, they would ask for a record (or even a file in mp3 or flac format) as remembrance, and dying, they would mention it in their will, leaving it, a rich legacy, to their offspring.
Patience, kind friends, we shall not have to wait long (the market will bestow upon us, for an appropriate fee, all that can be sold of him); you ought not to know how much He loved you with his Music. You are not made of wood, you are not made of stone, but of men, and being men, and hearing his music, you would understand how much we have lost.
Have I exceeded the mark in speaking to you in this way? I fear I might offend the Critics and the Competent; truly, I fear it.
Do you oblige me to cite his works? Then form a circle around me so I may cite his works. Will you permit me?
If you have hearts and ears, prepare to open them now. You all know "Africadeus": I remember the first time I listened to it; it was a summer evening in my room, the day we discovered rhythm: look, here the dagger of criticism has pierced it: behold the tear that lower-than-expected sales have made; and then came "Amazonas" and then "Dança das cabeças" and then others that are too many to name—it was more than twenty—but it was only with "Cundalini" that he began to be truly known.
A stealthy Illness was the cruelest blow of all, the one that bent him, and when his lungs became diseased, he didn't stop, the noble Nanà continued to play and dream of music, but while he was playing—on a stage—he fell. Oh, what a fall was that, my fellow countrymen! Then I and you, and all of us fell, while Silence triumphed over us. Oh, now you weep; and I perceive, you feel the sting of pity: these are tender drops. Gentle souls!
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not urge you to such a sudden search for albums, collections, or all the posthumous tributes.
Those who will commit this action—of offering us posthumous albums, collections, or tributes—are honorable men; what private causes of interest they have, alas, I do not know, that have induced them to commit it; they are wise and honorable men, and, undoubtedly, with reasons, they will answer you.
I do not come, friends, to tell you what to listen to and what not, what to buy and what not. I am not an orator, nor even a Critic; rather, as you all know me, a simple and frank man, who loves his music; this is well known by those who have given me permission to speak here on Debaser about him: for I have neither the wit, nor the eloquence, nor the skill, nor the gesture, nor the accent, nor the power of speech to rouse men's blood: I merely speak plainly; I tell you what you yourselves know; I show you the beauties of sweet Nanà, but if I were the Critic I would know how to tell you more precisely what and where to look for in his Art.
But finally, here is the will, and with the seal of the Artist: to every citizen of the world he gives, each individually, twenty-one solo albums.
Hear me with patience.
Moreover, he has left you all his participations, his collaborations, his ideas and the dozens and dozens of recordings for anyone who sought him out; he has left them to us and to our heirs forever: public places of pleasure, for you to listen to and enjoy. Such was Nanà! When will there come another like him?