The interval between our first visit to Brazil and the one our family made in July 1971 was, indeed, an historically turbulent one. Censorship, in the form of suppression of the news and print media, had expanded to alarming proportions; and the free-flow of ideas and exchange of divergent opinions - and with them, the freedom to express those ideas and opinions - were vastly curtailed.
The critical year of 1968, for example, was one marked by violent demonstrations and brutal crackdowns throughout Continental Europe and the United States. Brazil was no different.
But how much could a seventeen-year-old youth have known of these circumstances? Having lived in the South Bronx and grown up in a New York City Public Housing Project, could he have been cognizant of the harsh realities facing the country of his birth? Was he attuned to the problems encountered by native-born artists, singers, songwriters, journalists, politicians, and the like, or did he remain blissfully unaware? Just going about his business with nary a care in the world for what others thought or what they were going through?
"Let it all go to hell!" you say.
No, that couldn't have been the attitude. That's not how Brazilians, especially the ones I got to know and love and respect, reacted to the troubles afflicting their beleaguered homeland. A large portion of the population, including the majority of my family members, were working-class stiffs who took what was transpiring with their country in measured strides, not in resignation. If they also took their solace in song and other forms of mass entertainment, where expressions of hurt, loss, and frustration could be collectively shared via these means, who could blame them.
The Popular Song Festivals continued to be nationally televised, of course, but their glory days were over and coming to a swift and ignoble end. Tropicália had already been banned if not prohibited outright from public performance. It happened that the music and stagecraft that helped shape the tropicalista movement were branded as subversive and beyond the mainstream for the ruling classes to stomach. It would be many years before I, too, discovered how forward-thinking and "out there" this specific music genre had been.
As for the others, the "Jairzinhos" of their time had come and gone; they had served their purpose and were now being escorted off the stage. No longer did the former main attraction, Brazil's Jair Rodrigues, who continued to hold sway as a human prancing pony, mow his audiences down with silly grins and pointless hand gestures from "Deixe isso pra lá" ("Leave that alone"). True to his tranquil nature, "that guy Jairzinho" went on his merry way while remaining oblivious to the situation at hand.
An Uncommon ManMost, if not all, of the TV programs in São Paulo that I witnessed back in 1971 were preceded by the distinctive Censura Livre ("Cleared by the Censors") label before they began. And that included the ever-popular late Saturday-afternoon show Buzina do Chacrinha ("Chacrinha's Horn") on TV Globo. The clownish emcee Chacrinha, portrayed by comedian and Pernambuco-born actor José Abelardo Barbosa de Medeiros (1917-1988), was an eccentric and jovial radio and TV host from popular culture who personified (in attitude, not in looks) not only the carefree and quick-witted prankster and folkloric disrupter of legend Macunaíma, but more appropriately the Common Brazilian Man.
Resembling a potbellied, bespectacled, and top-hatted Harpo Marx, especially with that raucous contraption he carried by his side, the mildly pompous Chacrinha was the hardworking maidservant's dream, a domestic's ticket to possible fame and good fortune; the one person in all of Brazil who could command the respect of the masses in a program tailored to their tastes.
Amateur contestants, rookie aspirants, and veteran competitors alike were corralled into shockingly simplistic (and occasionally embarrassing) skits, games, talent contests, and anarchic diversions, along with an ever-present dancing line of leggy showgirls as backdrop. All were at the mercy of Chacrinha's noisy hooter and his fawning audience members, which consisted of everyday citizens: young and old, male and female.
Chacrinha, who never took himself too seriously, had about him an air of nonconformity. "I'm here to confuse you, not to explain" was one of countless aphorisms designed to both distract and bemuse the wary visitor. Faced with an avalanche of contradictory statements, it became increasingly difficult for anyone to pin Chacrinha down about anything. You might refer to him as a resurrected Modernist, a person of his time but born at the brink of Modernism. The best one could say about this peculiar fellow was that he looked and thought outside the box.
Although I hadn't known about it at the time, Chacrinha had been responsible for furnishing Caetano Veloso with the unambiguous title to one of the singer-songwriter's most requested numbers, the song "Alegria, alegria!" According to Caetano's account in Tropical Truth: A Story of Music and Revolution in Brazil, Chacrinha had appropriated the lyrics from a similarly-titled song by samba artist Wilson Simonal.
It didn't take long for Caetano to do likewise, thus a classic was born out of the chaos.
Another expression he employed with abandon, and that I recollect with mild amusement, was "É hora! É hora!" ("It's time! It's time!"). Time? Time for what, I wondered. With finger raised and placed in the space between his upper lip, the host would shout to the crowd: "É hora da Buzina! É hora da Buzina do Chacrinha!" I took this to mean, "It's time for Chacrinha's horn to blow!" And with the antics of funny man Jack Benny's The Horn Blows at Midnight reverberating in my head, the blast from Chacrinha's honker signaled the end of a contestant's "dream" before it had begun.
From the above descriptions, you may have picked up familiar elements from American TV game shows such as Let's Make a Deal, Truth or Consequences, and The Price is Right. And you'd be right on the money!
Seu Abelardo, as he was familiarly termed, knew his public well. For unlike many others, Chacrinha had kept in touch with Brazilian reality by dexterously placing his hand on the nation's pulse. In relation to Brazil's economy and politics, the garrulous presenter sensed how the situation in the country had deteriorated and had negatively affected his lower-class adherents. His outlandish mode of dress and outspoken demeanor were but covers - shrewdly applied and utilized not to make fun of his guests but to throw the censors off the trail.
As a form of social criticism and as a message to those who took undue advantage of their constituents, that wise-old clown Chacrinha and his popular television program represented a method of masking the people's contempt for their government in ways they would understand and appreciate.
What a way to spend a Saturday afternoon!
(End of Part Part)
To be continued....
Copyright © 2020 by Josmar F. Lopes
