By Jayant Kairam Ex-Peace Corps Volunteer in CV & FORCV Correspondent in New York

Twice a year, on the vespas di Anu Nobu (New Year’s Eve) and Festa Sao Pedro the small patio of Photcha’s morphs from a lazy meeting area characterized by idle chit-chat and foosball, into a frenzied hive of people, dance and gaita (accordion). Photcha’s, which functions as store, bar, bakery and residence, is located, more or less, in the center of the town of Rincon (Cape Verde) and serves as a natural landmark. Yet on the town’s big party nights, it is an unrivaled attraction. I unknowingly stumbled upon this transformation on New Year’s Eve, 2004-2005.



After following a group of teenagers around to different dark and isolated corners of the village, I had grown sluggish off countless rounds of massa (dough balls) and sumu (juice) and weary of trailing this roving pack of hormones. Though my body craved a more sedentary situation, I couldn’t help but be drawn to the activity and movement at Photcha’s. As I maneuvered the ditches and mounds of the main road, I could see kids darting in and out, clutching tiny cups of pontxi (milky, fruity rum), while others spilled over the walls, landing and kicking up small, gaita-fueled dust storms. Finally, I came upon the patio. Crammed into the space, lit by a single, bare bulb, was a cross-section of the town: young and old, male and female, married and single, drunk and sober. The music was prominent yet invisible, buried somewhere in the thicket of swinging bodies. Odd pairings defined the mass, none more so than cradle-robbing old women cutting up the dance floor. Yet despite the congestion, every coupling effortlessly hit each step. As they carved out distinct shapes amid the crowd I marveled at their balance of top and bottom; what I later learned was funana’s great trick, the combination of European upper body movement with African lower rhythmic groove. Eventually, I managed to establish a line of vision through the swarm and onto the musicians. The group was just three, Beto on gaita, joined by a rotating band of ferro players, hand-clappers and vocalists. Apart from Beto’s calm presence, the number of “contributers” created a riotous and often chaotic scene, stumbling through verses, fighting over the ferro and layering on mistimed clapping. Yet, the beat never dropped. With Beto guiding the group through a maze of dizzying runs and zig-zag melodies and each ferro player injecting a distinctive panache of hoots and stomps, I was struck by this striking brand of improvisation; one that was based more in communal involvement than technical ability. This was an act of creation grounded in the moment and the people—suddenly I started understanding what roots music really meant.

That said, seeing Ferro Gaita perform in New York City on July 1st was sure to prove surreal. I was ten months removed from my last day in Cape Verde and hadn’t experienced anything to quell my sodadi. I didn’t want to be unreasonable about what to expect from the show. There were certain to be differences. Things like the crowd and the air, the clothes and the drinks would obviously be different here. But I wanted to believe that the meaning would cross borders. That the music was still linked by a thread of community and shared history; the warmth of familiarity and knowledge that roots music was defined not so much by style, but by people.



Starting at a characteristically late hour, the band tore through two sets of sweat-filled and uproarious funana—easily the kind that could incite censure (As happened during the colonial period when the Catholic Church banned it along with Batuque). The overwhelmingly Cape Verdean audience enthusiastically embraced each number first with semi-patriotic shouts of pride followed by frenzied, clash-of-diaspora-cultures-style dancing. Some bopped and cheered while others, like the scene on Potcha’s patio, sliced through the crowd, nailing each jump in the beat. Ferro Gaita who, true to their reputation as Cape Verde’s leading band, seamlessly captured the energy of the room, leading the audience through hits like “Rei di Tabanka” and “As Meninas.” Much like Rincon, the beat never dropped and before I knew it I was transported back.

When I saw Aninha feverishly spinning and shuffling to the txha-txha rhythm, I almost doubled over in shock. Aninha is an older woman. She once admitted to me that she was older than Luis, her common-law husband, though she playfully told me not to share such information. She is also a big woman. She walks slightly hunched over, with deliberate steps and using the closest wall as a balance. She amazed me in the way all the women of Rincon and her generation did: living as institutions. Yet seeing her like this was astounding. As the funana tempo escalated, the song reaching for its climax, Aninha never lost a beat. With her young partner firmly in hand, she hit each twist and jaunt, while quickly dispelling any doubts I had about the long-term life of the internal rhythm of a Cape Verdean.

With the tradition-minded modernizers dominating Cape Verdean music, I became very familiar with the likes of Lura, Tcheka and Ferro Gaita. All three artists diligently seek to both preserve the lineage of Cape Verdean musical heritage and ornament it with new approaches, styles and vision. And they are doing this while growing hugely popular off the notoriously difficult genres of traditional and roots music. Yet in truth, I never saw Lura, Tcheka or Ferro Gaita in Cape Verde. Indeed, the majority of my Cape Verdean musical education was borne out of the streets and sounds of Rincon. I was lucky enough to be witness to the inspiration, the roots of the new breed. For each of the main Santiago traditional music forms, I could recall a particular moment. When I thought of tabanka, I remembered the group from Achada Lem marching through the streets of Rincon in search of their “stolen” flag. If I thought of batuque, I recalled those famous Rincon batukaderas quarrelling more than practicing. And, of course, the thought of funana was immortalized by Aninha dancing at midnight.

Ultimately, my desires for Ferro Gaita’s performance were fulfilled. From the opening note, it was clear to me that this was soul music in the way it tapped something within, a feeling both ineffable and unmistakable. The music, despite its displacement and sheen, continues to mean something—it still signifies a bond, a link to the motherland and a celebration of the people and where they come from. I walked away warmed by its effect. Yet, I realized that it also resonated by stirring up my second-hand Cape Verdean roots; helping reinvigorate particular details and breathing life into dormant sounds. Soon enough I knew that far from satisfy my sodadi, it only amplified it.