Musical Mindelo, Cape Verde

My early-to-bed, early-to-rise DH promised me he’d stay up late enough to go hear live music with me once we arrived in Mindelo. This is the home town of musical legend, Cesaria Evora. Also known as “the barefoot diva”, Cesaria single handedly popularized the “morna” music of Cape Verde.

It wasn’t an easy road. Her father died when she was seven. Her mother struggled to support Cesaria and her five siblings. Among other jobs, for a while the mom worked cleaning an orphanage. She convinced them to take Cesaria into their care. Cesaria wasn’t thrilled with the arrangement, and ran away at 15. She had always loved singing, and she started performing for Portuguese sailors who came into Mindelo. She performed in little bars like the one we went to last night (Livraria Nho Djunga). One of those sailors apparently impregnated her. Later she had another child or two with other men. It is hard to get much information about this part of her life. The Wikipedia entry skips it completely. Most articles simply refer to the fact that she struggled to earn a living as a singer, but in her late 40s was invited to perform in Portugal. There she caught the ear of a French music producer. Her work with him propelled her to super-stardom. She stayed down-to-earth, still performing barefoot whenever she could get away with it. (She acknowledged, as she started touring globally, that bare feet didn’t work everywhere. Like in 20 degrees below zero in Edmonton, Canada.) All those years of heavy smoking and drinking took their toll, and she died at age 70 in 2011.

Cesaria’s impact on Mindelo is still felt strongly. Her image is everywhere, the airport is named after her, and her voice echoes in the Morna singing of other locals. One of the best places to go hear live music is the Livraria Nho Djunga. In theory a bookstore, it is actually an active bar hangout and musical instrument store for the local artsie crowd. Its reputation as “the” place to hear local talent now also draws a substantial tourist trade. We went on a Friday night and enjoyed it so much we returned on Saturday. (There are different performers every night.) Not only is the music fun, but so is the people watching.

Shows normally start at 10 p.m., so pale-skinned Northerners are the first to arrive and start filling the tables in the tiny space. Our first night the performers actually did start not long after 10. I’m glad we were there early because the first singer, Marisa, has an outstanding voice. Had I realized that she doesn’t yet have any recordings I would have recorded more on my phone. I wish I were an empresario and could help her launch her career. She should become a superstar.

By the time the main group for the evening took to the stage the audience packed into the small space was mostly locals. Personally, I wasn’t keen on the Friday night singer. He’s clearly well known locally, but he sounded too much like a lounge lizard for my taste. I cringed when he started singing (in English) “Summertime, and the Living is Easy”. But his local fans were happily singing along to all his schmaltzy tunes. He had tight control over the band and even the audience: he shushed a local who had started shaking improvised maracas to the music.

Saturday night’s group was not as well organized. Three of the musicians and the singer were well into their 50s, and some were perhaps past their prime. One more failed to show up, much to the obvious irritation of the band leader. He also had to call out repeatedly to get his blasé drummer in from the street, where the pockmarked, pale-skinned, dyed black hair old drummer was smoking and drinking with friends. The scowl on the drummer’s face never fully disappeared.

I did like one of the musicians though. Wearing a red toque, with a loose greying goatee, he played what looked like a ukulele but sounded more like a classical guitar the way he played it. Unlike the others, he was clearly happy; just enjoying being able to play in front of this eager audience.

Their singer was a woman I had noticed as one of the most appreciative audience members the previous evening. When she had come in Friday night I spotted her as a smiling older woman with a bit of red dye in her hair. I thought that DH should give up his stool to her. I don’t think he had seen her though. When I reflected on the fact that she was likely younger than DH (or at least, no older) I decided not to say anything. She was clearly enjoying singing along and moving to the music. Eventually a chair did become vacant and she took it.

When she arrived the second evening she was wearing a woolen winter coat over her matronly dress, but had bare legs and was wearing sandals. Eventually the coat came off and she took to the stage. She sang some of Cesaria Evora’s songs, with a very similar voice. Like the musician with the red toque, she clearly enjoys her art, and was a pleasure to listen to. Unfortunately the band behind her was too loud, so her voice couldn’t be heard as well as I would have liked.

Other fun people watching:

The Artist

At a tall table by the window sat a slim man who looked liked he belonged in a Hemmingway café scene. Youthful looking, but in his late 40s or early 50s, he wore an open collared white shirt with a string of white shells neatly strung around his neck. He was sketching on well-worn pieces of paper. He showed the drawings to one of his friends and I was able to lean over and have a look. The fact that I was interested delighted him. He and his table-mate had already been drinking for some time, and they got progressively happier and louder as the evening went on. They were tapping on their drinking glasses, on a motorcycle helmet, on tin cans, and on anything else they could find that would make a sound. Personally, I felt it distracted from the music (especially because they weren’t always in sync) but it was fun to see how much they were enjoying themselves. At one point, when DH had gone to get another drink, the artist leaned over to give me a fist pump.

The First Date

On a little bench close to the stage sat a young couple. The girl, who looked about 20, was probably American. She wore hiking boots, loose jeans, and an I heart PBS t-shirt over her nearly flat chest. Her hair was pulled back in a Pollyanna hairdo and she was drinking water. Her companion was a handsome young local man. Tight t-shirt over his well sculpted muscles and smooth brown skin. Perfectly coiffed hair, complete with the trendy light coloured dye on the top part of his tidy frizzy do. They sat side by side, not quite touching. They both looked nervous. She watched the musicians; he watched her. I speculated that they had met earlier that day outside her youth hostel. Or that he’d started chatting with her in a park, where she and some other young friends were debating what to do next. He had discovered that she liked live music and offered to take her to hear some. She was reluctant, but her roommate urged her to take a little risk for once in her life.

It took a long time, but as the music started to infiltrate their mood (and the beer to give him courage), their bodies got closer. His arm was now part-way behind her back. She was still pretending to be entirely focused on the music. Then one of the grizzled old bar regulars came to sit on the bench, and the couple were forced to squeeze closer together. Before long the young man’s arm had encircled her. Their fingers intertwined. She started gently gliding the fingers of her free hand along his smooth skinned arm.

Years ago my mother, then aged about 70, watched a young couple dancing sensuously at a Bar Mitzvah. Her comment was, “Inspirational.” Now I understand what she meant. Ah to be in my early 20s again! I would have so much more fun if I did it again. I was way too uptight and prim at the time.

The Still-Think-I’m-Sexy Dancer

Two middle-aged French couples came and shared our table. One of the women, a dyed blonde who was clearly fit but not the slim sexy something she had been 30 years ago, got up and started writhing to the music, wiggling her hips enough to erase any viewer’s concerns that arthritis might be creeping in. Her husband studiously avoided looking at her.

The Gay Couple

In the part of the hallway between the bar and the washroom a happy late-20s or early-30s gay couple with shaved heads and matching t-shirts were bopping to the music. They were clearly enjoying a safe space in a country where homosexuality is now legal, but not welcomed.

The Sugar Daddy

A pot-bellied man in his late 60s or 70s was trying to impress a curvy young black woman in a tight fitting white dress. He was not succeeding. Since he couldn’t get her to dance with him, he eventually found her a chair, and swayed behind her, hands on her shoulders.

Die Frau

A stern, Germanic-looking woman in her 50s had grabbed a chair next to the stage. Unsmiling, she peered from behind enormous cat’s eye glasses at the stage and, occasionally, at the people around her. Her husband was somewhere deep in the crowd. He tapped her shoulder when he brought her a beer at one point. Still no smile from her; barely an acknowledgement. At one point, a couple of hours in, she looked either at me or at someone behind me and broke into a big, friendly smile. I have no idea why. Then she turned back to the musicians. Her face had softened somewhat, but I never saw her smile again.

When we left the bar, around midnight, the party was in full swing. The crowd spilled onto the street, where people were smoking, drinking and laughing. Unfortunately our evening soured a bit as a man started pestering us to give him money, following us down the street and even continuing to harass us once we were safely in a cab.

One thing that does work well here: taxis. The central zone is all a regulated fare of 200 CVE (CA$2.64), and you never have to wait more than a few seconds to flag one down on the street. During the day we walked most places, but after dark it is better to take cabs.

We also stopped in at a few other local night spots. One that gets written up regularly in the foreign media is the Casa Cafe Mindelo. I wouldn’t recommend it. We did hear a bit of good music there, but mostly it was just way too tacky touristy.

Another highly recommended spot is the Jazzy Bird. Unfortunately, music there gets going way too late for my DH, and I’m just not comfortable going out to clubs after midnight on my own.

UPDATE: I have been listening to Cape Verdean music ever since our trip. I can’t get enough of it. It is tempting to go back there just to sit in delightful little clubs, people-watching and listening to more local talent. Maybe next time I’ll be brave enough to go to the Jazzy Bird even after DH has gone to bed.