Pitchfork

I heard somewhere that a person's tastes change every seven years. This would explain the sudden appeal of mushrooms, baseball, coffee, and Brit-pop a few years ago. And I believe it was in a Cellular Biology class where I learned that every seven years the molecules that constitute your body are completely renewed. That's pretty cool. Not one single atom that made up "you" in 1982 was there in 1989. This could explain the lifespan of widespread clothing fads, such as grunge, baggy pants, bellbottoms, and hippy scraps. Think about it: the Beatles lasted... oh, around seven years. These two scientific theories must correlate.

I have my own theory that involves a little more ontological thought. Trapped into each atom in your body, floating in that vast subatomic void between shooting-star electrons and deeply peaceful neutrons, is a little piece of your soul. As new atoms spin and crash into your mass, knocking off and replacing older chunks, you pick up tiny fractions of other souls. In seven years' time, enough broccoli-loving souls may have plummeted into your originally- broccoli- hating system of souls to make you a broccoli freak. The question is raised of why these new souls don't completely make a new "you." Why wouldn't the millions of soul-nuggets you pick up knock your original being into others, the air, space, etc? Well, they do. Old pieces of you are now a nebula or German or plantain. But these new soul pieces are greatly outnumbered by your original soul, and they taught how to be "you" while still keeping elements of their old entity.

Now, you may be wondering where this idea is heading in relation to a Caetano Veloso review. Seven years ago, I was listening to Helmet, Fugazi, Firehose, and punk rock in high school. If you had told me that in 1999, I would be falling in love with a Brazilian album, I would have put a steel-toe in your glutes.* But here I am, telling you that if you buy any international album this year, or buy any album this week for that matter, make it Caetano Veloso.

I would expect two questions to be raised by the reader at this point: first, "Where did you pick up atoms of Brazilian souls?"; second, "Why don't more peoples' tastes drastically change? For example, Brent, a suburban white girl who liked New Kids on the Block in her youth has subsequently gone through stages of Billy Joel, Sponge, Hootie, Live, Barenaked Ladies, and Dave Matthews Band fascinations-- she's not exactly jumping off the mainstream radio ship." I can answer those questions with one answer: I've traveled quite a bit in my time. I've entered nine foreign countries and have been in a good number of international airports. My hometown of Atlanta also hosted the 1996 Summer Games, where countless Brazilian and other South American peoples popped up to root for their long-distance runners and "futbol" players. A kid from Ecuador roomed across from me in college. I got my international soul molecules in those instances, where as that Hootie-rock girl has most likely never left the safe confines of Wisconsin malls and sorority houses. She's just getting soul molecules much like her own.

Of course, there's another explanation. Perhaps on each copy of Livro dwell sunny, tropical molecules from Caetano himself. The soul of a musician with such happy passion can generate enough escape velocity energy to send his soul satellites and probes rocketing from pore and mouth. They are kept safe in the disc until you crack it open and release these Caetano soul astronauts through headphones, shooting them down your cochlea, surrendering to them your brain and feelings.

I'm trying to imagine Ryan Pitchfork's reaction when he reads that I gave a Brazilian disc a 9.0. Ryan once told me that he hates World Beat. Ryan, baby, this isn't World Beat! This isn't some bongos n' acoustic jam off a Starbucks "Music From the Countries We Exploit for Beans" sampler. Caetano Veloso's style has been tagged "Afro-Brazilian" by genre freaks such as the All-Music Guide. That is to say that African rhythms fuse with sorrowful, minor-key Portugese fado and traditional, breezy Brazilian Bossa Nova.

Don't worry, though, there are several reference points for indie-rock Americans. An air of Burt Bacharach wafts throughout songs like "Livros" and the opening track, "Os Passistas." Effortless strings and arrangements sweep over popping percussion. You can even hear the rhythms of Tricky or Bjork in "Livros," with its happily loose loops and rolling snares. The vibraphone, xylophone, and slow- plucked zither on "Um Tom" would fit perfectly on a Tortoise album. But unlike Tortoise, Veloso injects his delicate jam with soul, warmth, and his cottony, cherubic voice. After being bogged down with piles of stale rock at our Pitchfork apartment, these wonderfully alien rhythms and graceful guitar pluckings are a savior.

I have to admit that I've been in a bit of a funk recently. Hospital bills, car thefts, accumulating rent, credit card debt, lame job, no girlfriend-- it's been adding up. But for the one hour I sipped on Caetano Veloso's aural absinthe through my headphones, I had a beaming smile and all was forgotten as I listened to the swirling layers of handclaps, drums, guitar, strings, and Brazilian tongues. And honestly, ever since then I've been a happy chap. (That's so sappy. I hope I made some of you wince.) This disc will also do it for audio freaks out there into complex compositions, detailed production, and original chord phrasings. The guy fills the "brilliant" cliché. But this album is just so happy. Of course, for all I know, he's singing about dead wives. Somehow, I doubt it.

[* Actually, this is an exaggeration of how tough Brent really was in high school. In this situation, Brent would have most likely mumbled "Nuh-Uh" and run down the hall, flailing his forearms like a sissy. He also never wore black boots, but beaten-up Airwalks. -Ed.]