Joao Afonso
Missangas

When you are a child, everything is clear.

Then you become an adult, and the sun of that purity sets, disappearing beyond the horizon and sinking into dark waters.

You become blind to what is inside; your hidden eye becomes clouded at the exact moment the interior violently crashes against the rocks of "objective reality."

"You've become a man," they tell you.

I'm not so sure about that.

"The dream is gone, the child is grown," sang Pink Floyd, when their dream had already faded.

It happens that such candor is reabsorbed into the core of our being, though its echoes will often bounce along our inner walls.

Of that delicate and pure crystal, which was our intimate dimension, only a few scattered shards remain to timidly shine in our darkness; right there, where that day, as children, we had the prudence to bury it, with trembling hands of fear.

Not fear of death, because that belongs to the adult: the child is impervious to it. Rather the blind terror of the atrophying of the heart, the serpentine unease that one day we would become unable to discern what sounds true in the appearance of words from what truly is.

So we bury our treasure in a hidden corner of the chest, with religious diligence, careful not to be discovered. We hide it in a shady nook, where the short-sighted eye of adults will never manage to find it with the intent of destroying it.

We do it to save something authentic.

Then we grow up, and we almost forget about that little treasure... on that sacred ground, hidden at the bottom of our consciousness, every day, the anesthetizing daily life passes, the cursed train that takes us to work with its screeching metal wheels. The bullshit peddled by the TV while we eat settles on top of it. And so, we don't talk about that treasure... ever.

Because speaking of it would profane its meaning, making the vividness of that star fade, like when night degrades into day.

But these fragments of diamond, these mute stars, these precious crumbs of truth vibrating with symbols, guide us and reassure us in the darkest moments: their flickering flame creates a halo of light in the darkness of the lie that was told to us with surgical coldness and that we, sadly, ended up telling ourselves automatically.

Until one day we happen to be alone, reflecting, and, struck by a moment of clarity, we try to look beyond the thin membrane of memories, to penetrate that fragile surface that separates them from the “objective” idea we have formed of the past. Our thirst is to seek the sensations, the taste of those times...

And there, where those luminous fireflies, the last shreds of authenticity, continue to spread their light in the darkness, like the fish living in the abysmal depths of certain seas, we feel nostalgia for all that could have been and ultimately wasn't.

Are we perhaps destined for a path inverse to that of butterflies? Being born capable of flying, capable of riding rainbows and painting ourselves with their shades thanks to our kaleidoscopic wings, only to close ourselves in a cocoon, where our wings wither in the dark until we transform into larvae?

Is it possible that life is a book with a magnificent prologue, a disappointing development, and a horrid end? But then a distant echo comes to mind: once upon a time, we liked that ending... In fact, more than liked it, death seemed to elevate and seal the sense of all existence. What happened since then? What made us change our minds in the meantime? Where does that insane terror come from?

From the cursed trains unleashed like hunting dogs to gnaw at the future and reduce it to a trivial celebration of a worn-out routine?

If the moment is right, and we feel brave, we remember with bitterness that the meaning of the cosmos, once, for us, was something tangible; that truth existed for us, once upon a time; and perhaps after all, it still exists, even if we've forgotten how to recognize it. And the hope that blossoms from this thought is that the truth we had inside, that umbilical cord that connected us to the flow of the universe, before being brutally torn away by the preachers of objectivity in pills, perhaps left a seed. And that (who knows), one day, that little seed will bloom into a sprout; and even if we've forgotten for so long, on that fateful day, finally, we will remember.

I believe our first family trip to Portugal happened in '98; back then, I was still a boy, and the memory of that summer fades into those of subsequent summers. But I distinctly remember how that unexplored land struck me, trembling with a virginity as slight as it was pregnant with primordiality. At that time, in fact, Portugal was practically off the maps of tourists: once, at Lisbon airport, my mother expressed her concern about air attacks at the check-in desk. The attendant raised his eyebrows and assured her there was nothing to fear: "Nobody knows Portugal, and nobody comes here," he said.

Indeed, at least until the first half of the 2000s, it was hardly considered in Europe as a holiday destination.

Lisbon was (and still is) one of the most beautiful and extravagant cities I have ever visited, with its steep climbs and descents, roller coaster tracks in an abandoned amusement park; its winding streets, throbbing veins in the heart of the city, squeezed so tightly between buildings that you had to slow down when a car approached from the opposite direction. While the typical yellow trams darted up and down, you could sense the aroma of the ocean, carried by the wind throughout the city from the port.

Its characteristic multi-colored houses were covered in thousands of azulejos (ancient hand-painted tiles). These seemed to gleam like scattered confetti in the constant fresh breeze, making it impossible to feel the sun's heat even if it was two o'clock on an August afternoon. How could one forget the constant fetid wafts emanating from the sewers, which after a week, your nose struggled to distinguish... and the light, damn it, the sunlight! It glittered white and blinding like that of paradise, a unique sparkle, like nothing I've ever seen anywhere else. The countless artisanal shops, the tailors who made bespoke clothes, the outdoor markets selling everything, not the usual useless and old stuff, but true antiques.

And the countless tascas, typical small restaurants serving (after an hour and a half wait) homemade food, with an ancestral and rustic flavor (my father always said the flavors were so authentic they reminded him of Italian food from the 50s). Portions so abundant it was hard to finish, fish so fresh and tasty, something we could only dream of back in Italy even at the time, meat so tender it melted in your mouth, salad of tomatoes and onions (a variety of onions so delicate, sweet, and refreshing that it seemed like fruit), with coarse salt on top. Grilled chicken on rooftops, olives with garlic, salted butter, cured ham, fresh cheeses, sauces, various types of pâté, and all the things they brought for free to entertain you during the interminable wait for your meal. And then the desserts: chocolate mousse, passion fruit, mango, cheesecakes... and you spent a mere thousand lire for a complete dinner.

The nature was and is overwhelming. How to forget the fine and light sandy beaches, whose tongues spread endlessly; those beaches that would contract with the tide, like gigantic organs, revealing lunar landscapes spanning hundreds of meters. The towering waves that only the best surfers could ride galloping without being overwhelmed and ending up smashed on the beach, with a fistful of sand in their mouths and a liter of saltwater in their belly; the regenerating spit of the ocean, so cold it stopped the air in your lungs and crystallized the blood in your veins; the intricate and impenetrable forests of cork oaks and eucalyptus...

In short, Portugal at the time was the last outpost of the real: capitalism and its frantic rhythms were unknown and despised by the locals, still anchored to a mythical past with essential traits. The people were reserved, and looked at tourists as if they were dangerous aliens... and in hindsight, I can’t deny they were absolutely right; and that, indeed, they should have kicked us all out.

Time, there, was something that still existed, rather than something to be feverishly filled at all costs, squeezed between one commitment and another: there was time to walk, to observe, to meditate, to appreciate the beauty of existence. That life is to be sipped slowly, I learned from them...

...And then there was the music; the characteristic fado, but also songwriters and guitarists performing in the streets, outside cafés... and they often didn’t hesitate to sit in the tascas and play, content with the few coins (and they were indeed few) the customers lazily gave, movements slowed by an enormously abundant meal or still nervous about the long wait that separated them from the meal.

It was on one of these occasions that we had the fortune of listening to Joao Afonso. He was a songwriter born in Laurenco Marques, Mozambique, where he had lived his first thirteen years. The nephew of Jose Afonso, a key anti-fascist songwriter of the '70s who played a crucial role in the downfall of Salazar's regime, his music was only marginally influenced by Jose. Because Joao, in his years spent in the colonies, had absorbed mainly the sounds of African music, and only secondarily those of traditional Portuguese music. He sat on a chair, outdoors, in the middle of the restaurant's tables, with his guitar on his lap, without a microphone. Shy, reserved, focused on his music, he kept plucking the guitar strings, while around him the hum lowered progressively until it became imperceptible like the faint orange glow of candles.

Crystal clear, Joao’s soul shone transparent like that of someone who never ventured beyond the boundless borders of the childhood era. At the end of the show, my father was so thrilled he bought the disc; and for the next ten years, every time we returned to Portugal, it never left the stereo. Often, we'd hear it even at home, in Italy: but it wasn't the same.

All the songs on that disc, released back in '97, were written by Joao; for the arrangement and instrumental execution - except the acoustic guitar, which is played by Joao - Júlio Pereira, a historical composer, multi-instrumentalist, and producer from Lisbon took care of it.

All the tracks on Joao's first solo work are memorable, to be honest, but I will limit myself to painting my favorites with a few words...

"Carteiro em Bicicleta" is of touching tenderness, a sort of lullaby supported by the gentle caresses of the acoustic guitar.

"A Sesta" instead shows the most playful and lively side: always accompanied by the guitar, with the addition of a candid piano, a warm female choir, and an African percussive rhythm, Joao captures the joyful spirit of a nation... and of an era that has dissolved.

"Fugir Com O Cientista" is of excruciating beauty: the guitar carves a transcendent melody, and Joao’s voice soars in a melodious and not at all trivial singing. Meanwhile, the keyboards paint an ascending riff to rival the great names in popular electronic music. The piece is a bittersweet union between youthful melancholy and the calm serenity of a sage at the end of his days.

The enchantment of "Entre Sodoma e Gomorra" is absolute: wordless vocalizes, simple “Nena-ninena-nine-ninani-nano” open the piece. The crystalline piano, winding sinuously between the guitar and the vocals, prepares the ground for the entrance of a female choir, which crowns the corolla of this graceful flower with petals of sublime notes.

"Na Machamba" is, instead, a journey to the pure heart of the African continent, which the tentacles of Western multinationals have not yet managed to scar. The track is introduced by an ancestral wail, performed by a (surely) colored singer. It then transforms into a glorification of small things, complete with Mozambican instrumental accompaniment, while our artist continues to repeat a primordial melody, always immersed in a cheerful-nostalgic ecstasy.

"Com A Minha Toada" has a captivating theme, a carousel that, once you climb aboard, makes reality fade into abstract smears of vivid colors. Imbued with passion and sparkling with positive energy, this track too is impregnated with the evocative aroma of music coming from the African colonies.

Every time I listen to this album again, ancient stalactites silently rise from the dark ocean that has submerged my memory; and, despite the abyss still being present, the ticking of clocks falls silent. Many eras have passed since the times of discovering that peninsula and that album. Many things have changed...

Recently, with the explosion of low-cost flights, everything has sunk: globalization has destroyed almost everything genuine that remained in this splendid country. The artisanal shops, the nostalgia stores, the excellent quality and negligible prices of the restaurants, the deserted beaches, the tailored clothes from tailors, the street vendors creating necklaces by carving brittle stones from the beach with their knives: everything has exploded into nothingness like a soap bubble.

In the street, you hear more Italian than Portuguese, following the invasion of retirees (and not only) who, attracted by the low cost of living, have moved there.

And Joao? He continues to perform, to wander through the city's alleyways: his heart, like mine, is trapped in the grid-like labyrinth of those streets.

Perhaps he knows that, after all, something remains: those small starry shards that I still carry in my chest, now fused indissolubly into the caramelized matter of memory. There, the scattered scents and snapshots spiral, and in the right moments, I can soar on the thin wings of memory. Detach myself from the tracks of objective truth, to be sucked once more into the luminous whirlpools of the origin.

And then I play this album: but almost never more than once a year, because otherwise, on those scents and those images, the grey patina of the present would overlap; and then the small flame that keeps those stars burning, those precious shards of diamond, would falter and suffocate. The echoes of the essential would thus be lost, and the night would fade into a day without any dawn.

And it is the dawn the only moment when we are still children, and the hypothesis of sunset and night does not stir anxiety in the solar plexus.

Where those stars still burn.