Brazzil

Since the last census in 1991, the population of Brazil has increased by 1.6 percent, to total 169,544,433 people. The total population of Brazil increased 22.7 million in relation to the 1991 census—over 3 million more than the IBGE predicted. There are increasingly more women than men because the mortality rates for women is decreasing at a faster rate with the better medical technology. And in the Southeast 90.5 percent of the population lives in cities.
By Brazzil Magazine

If there are two musicians who complement each other perfectly and whose collaborations are always simultaneously kinetic and captivating they are Armandinho Macêdo, Brazil's leading representative of trio elétrico, and Moraes Moreira, one of Bahian popular music's most creative artists. Each man, a respected leader and outstanding performer, has earned the admiration of musicians as well as critics and displays an aesthetic judgment and charisma that reverberates directly and indirectly throughout the other's musical style. So we are fortunate that just one week after the celebrations in Brazil, Armandinho, his trio elétrico, and his special guest, Moraes Moreira will be spurring dancers to their feet and escorting revelers to the center of an extravagant party when on Saturday, March 10, they bring to the Hollywood Palladium the history, fantasy, and frenzy of Bahian Carnaval.

In any ranking of important Brazilian instrumentalists, Armandinho Macêdo has a place of honor alongside Pixinguinha, Hermeto Pascoal, Baden Powell, Raphael Rabello, and Paulo Moura. Luís Nassif writes in Folha de São Paulo: "To affirm that Armandinho is the greatest bandolim player in Brazil today is merited, but not enough. To say that he is the greatest to appear in Brazil since Jacó do Bandolim is better, but insufficient. To maintain that he is the greatest Brazilian instrumentalist to emerge in the last 20 years is just, but still does not reflect all of his talent. In truth, Armandinho, guitarist, bandolim player, and king of Bahian Carnaval is one of the greatest instrumentalists in history." Admittedly, Armandinho's history is a fascinating chronicle that recounts remarkable feats of creativity and experimentation.

Armandinho's musical passion and virtuosity, in an expansive spectrum of musical genres, can be traced to the influence of his father, Osmar Macêdo, a pioneer of the trio elétrico.1 So perhaps it is worth recalling at the outset that in 1942, Adolfo Nascimento ("Dodô"—1920-1978) and Osmar Alvares Macêdo (1923-1997) perfected the solid body electric guitar without any knowledge of developments made in North America by Leo Fender and guitarist Les Paul. When Dodô and Osmar performed with their electric guitars at the 1950 Carnaval in Salvador from the bed of a 1929 Ford truck, competing with the sound of 150-piece brass and woodwind bands from Pernambuco, they elevated frevo to a level never before imagined and ignited a state of excitement in the streets of Bahia that prohibited their truck from any further movement.2

Surrounded by a contagious net of happiness, they prefaced one of the most fertile chapters in the history of Brazilian music, proved that musical instruments—in their simple or sophisticated ingenuity—reflect an artistic savoir-faire, and changed forever the face of Carnaval in Bahia. Today a bust of Dodô and Osmar stands at the culminating point in the trio elétrico circuit, establishing for all times the Praça Castro Alves as a symbol of Bahian Carnaval.

In the mid-seventies, after Armandinho's preeminence as the most celebrated exponent of guitarra baiana (Bahian guitar) achieved national recognition, the name of Trio Elétrico Dodô & Osmar changed to Trio Elétrico Armandinho Dodô & Osmar, and the group embraced Moraes Moreira as its producer, composer, and first vocalist. Moreira went on to become one of the musicians principally responsible for the affirmation and development of Carnaval in Bahia as well as a leading Carnaval composer, authoring countless hits, which have been interpreted by, among others, Elba Ramalho, Maria Bethânia, Gal Costa, Ney Matogrosso, Marisa Monte, and Daniela Mercury.

Interestingly, many of the tunes Armandinho and Moreira have co-written, bear such a similarity in style and pronounced closeness in approach, that it is often difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. Both musicians seem to have a personal obligation to provide exciting, essentially extroverted music-making; their interactions and parallel interchanges over the past quarter-century, both on stage and on dozens of recordings, are the very essence of an artistically affluent and continuous partnership, a legendary teaming, and one that promises to be the catalyst at California's Brazilian Carnaval 2001.

I spoke with Armandinho and Moreira about their backgrounds, trio elétrico, and Carnaval via a three-way conference call linking Rio, Bahia, and Los Angeles.

Brazzil—Moraes, Carnaval 2000 commemorated 50 years of trio elétrico and paid tribute to your contributions. Can you talk a little about the role you've played in the popularization of the trios elétricos?

Moraes—When I began my solo career, trio elétrico fascinated me greatly because they were playing everything from frevo Pernambucano to Paganini. At first, I was like everybody else playing behind the trio elétrico. But as I learned more about this musical universe and what was behind it, I got heavily into composing for Carnaval, into capturing and translating the soul of Brazil into a musical catharsis. I found with trio elétrico, it was not enough just to write good melodies and lyrics. In order to reveal the spirit of the people and of the times, I had to be a poet, prophet, politician, historian, critic, and comedian. For five years, I stayed with the trio participating in everything—writing, playing, producing—and thanks to Osmar, becoming the first singer in the history of trio elétrico. As a result of this work, I was the only artist presenting trio elétrico at this year's Rock in Rio festival.

Brazzil—Armandinho, what comes to mind when you think of Osmar and his contributions?

Armandinho—My mother passed away early, so Osmar was like father and mother, and he was amazing. Musically, he could do wonderful, terrific things. On the trio elétrico truck he would put the guitar over his head and play it behind his back or take off his T-shirt, dress the guitar in it, and play like that. He was the Jimi Hendrix of trio elétrico, and my dream was to be like him. As a little kid, I was immersed in a musical environment. We always had cavaquinhos, bandolins, and guitars in our house. When I was eight years old, I saw my dad on television, and I just went, "Wow," and cried because I wanted so much to be like him. Whenever I heard anyone else playing I would say, "Umph, my dad plays better." And besides being my father, he was my mentor and always knew what was going on in the world of guitar. He created the Trio Elétrico Mirim (Little Electric Trio) for me when I was ten so I would have opportunities to play publicly.

When he heard the John McLaughlin, Al Di Meola, and Paco De Lucia trio, he brought a copy of the record home and said, "I have something here for you to listen to." He gave me Paganini's "Moto Perpetuo" and said, "You've got to study this. It will be a good exercise for you." When I learned the whole thing by ear, he told me, "You've learned to play that very well, but you haven't done anything with it." In his honor, I recorded it on Jubileu de Prata (Silver Anniversary). My brothers and I were always saying, "Wow! He's my dad." I'm proud of what my dad could do with the guitar, but I'm prouder of his inventions.

He was an engineer and whenever problems came up, contractors would call him and he always found a solution by inventing some piece of machinery. My dad said that the trio elétrico was the only thing he created just for fun, just to play, while all that equipment and those machines he built, which were serious, documented, photographed, and talked about in the construction industry, brought him very little attention. The grandeur of Bahia's Carnaval happened because of tropical technology, because of the trio elétrico, and because of his work with Dodô. Folkloric music crossed over an electronic bridge and through time, so that today in Bahia, we have 70 trios elétricos and more that 700 trio elétrico musicians.

Moraes—Osmar helped create the conditions for folk music to become a contemporary reality. Bahian Carnaval revolves around the trios elétricos, and anyone who is interested in music, wants to play in trio elétrico because it offers opportunities and provides new artists with a way to get in. All the Blocos-Afro depend on trios elétricos. Even very traditional groups, like Filhos de Ghandy and Olodum, use trios elétricos to express themselves. Carnaval is trio elétrico and Osmar was its generator.

Brazzil—Since we're speaking about your father, can you talk a little about how he met Dodô and their work developing the electric guitar?

Armandinho—My father met Dodô in 1938 when he joined Os Três e Meio (Three and a Half), a group started by Dorival Caymmi. Their experiments with electric pickups started after they heard a guitarist using a microphone that restricted movement and gave horrible sound quality. Dodô was an electrical technician and started designing a tiny microphone that would fit inside the guitar's hollow sound box, which initially seemed like the right approach. But when they started playing their prototype at parties, the feedback was so great that my father had to stuff pieces of carpet inside the instrument. Afterward, they attached a slab of tree trunk onto their workshop table, screwed the pickup on, then guitar strings, and doubled the power of the amplifier without any feedback.

Whenever they played parties with this "pau elétrico" (electric stick), everyone in the neighborhood would run down to see what the sound was. They called themselves the dupla elétrica (electric duo) because electrical appliances, like the electric vacuum cleaner and the electric iron, were miracles in those times. And it wasn't until the late forties when my uncle returned from a trip to the United States with a Hawaiian steel guitar that my father and Dodô realized that people in other parts of the world were doing the same kind of research.

They built the first instruments for their own satisfaction, not recognition. Exchange of information with the United States was rare, so they didn't wait. By the time I started to hear about the Beatles and Hendrix, I already had a guitar and an amplifier, and in those times, having an electric guitar was like being a king. Dodô and Osmar designed the best guitars in Bahia until the seventies, and even after that, the pickups we used were still of Dodô's design.

Our first amplifiers had only a volume control, so in the sixties, my father and Dodô added treble, bass, and reverb to their designs. And by late seventies, they were building big amplifiers, like Marshalls, with six speakers in each cabinet that gave us the volume, clarity, and fidelity we were looking for and that could hold up in the heat without burning up. Everyone used Dodô's amplifiers. They were the only ones that could support the trios elétricos.

Brazzil—How do you think others remember him?

Moraes—His talent to be kind to everybody, to embrace everyone as if they were his own kids, is what was most special about Armandinho's father, more than all his creations. I used to hear people say, "Oh, Osmar, he's like my father." When there were rivalries between the different trios elétricos about who was going to bring more people, and this and that, when people started to argue with each other, he always came like a wise man and pacifier, saying, "No, no, no. Let's just do it. We don't need to fight." He found space and time for everybody and treated all of them like they were sons and daughters.

He was unshakeable, and his presence is always felt at Carnaval when people witness the evolution of the trios elétricos, which are no longer little trucks, but enormous, enormous ships with backstage areas, dressing rooms, air conditioners, multiple generators, separate installations for singers, musicians, and dancers, and huge stages. They are, bigger than a house; in terms of technology, they're amazing. The one that I took to Rock in Rio is over 70 feet long. If you stand anywhere near one, you feel the sound, not in your ears, but in your chest and your spine.

Brazzil—Armandinho, would you mind describing your father's funeral?

Armandinho—At Dodô's funeral there was a trio elétrico, and Osmar said, "Wow, this is great! Do you think they can do this when I die?" He would speak very casually about death, "I want a party when I die. I want the trio elétrico." So when he passed away, I called a guy who had a trio elétrico and told him that my dad's dream was to have a trio elétrico at his funeral. Word started spreading, and although the mayor didn't believe people would close their stores, Osmar's funeral was followed by twelve trios elétricos and thousands of people all carrying alecrim (a small, blue, fragrant flower). It was like Carnaval, except that people were crying with the emotional resonance of his passing. My brothers and I rode with the casket, which was placed atop a fire truck, but I kept searching the crowd for my dad. I knew he was there and was very happy. The circle of his life was closed in a glorious way.

Brazzil—Moraes, why did you become one of Carnaval's major critics?

Moraes—The spirit of Salvador's Carnaval—people dancing, playing, and celebrating behind the trios elétricos—was what made it the greatest street carnival in the world. Carnaval had always been a party where poor people could enjoy themselves. But in the eighties, we began to experience a slighting of the independent trios elétricos. Carnaval was being abandoned by the organizers and changing from something that had always been a natural expression of the people into a commercial venture. The poor couldn't participate because they lacked the funds; they became bystanders. The only way they could participate was to dance a little when the trios elétricos passed by. They were removed, alienated, no longer connected as in the past. My complaints about Carnaval in Bahia in the eighties were about not having independent trios elétricos. I complained a lot about it, and I will again whenever it's necessary because this has always been a free Carnaval.

Armandinho—Osmar was radically opposed to the idea of blocos roping off elite areas and people having to pay to participate.3 This really saddened him. He said, "I want my trio elétrico with the people. To have fun, dance, and play with a trio elétrico, we just need breath." He detested the way security people, who were just supposed to hold the cord and move with the performance, hit and fought with those outside the cord. Outside the club, you know? It was a social issue, but the Carnaval managers liked it because it generated a lot of money. Blocos like Eva, Camaleão, and Internacionais were the ones that started this thing with the cords. Osmar was really sad about Carnaval becoming an event just for those who had money.

Brazzil—What part does politics play in Carnaval?

Moraes—I'd rather stay on the good side and not talk about this. I will just say that there is a very strong, an obvious connection, between the governor and the blocos. We all have interests in making Carnaval in Bahia special, so I'd rather just acknowledge that the politicians provide important services for Carnaval, the rest, we'll just leave alone right now.

Brazzil—When axé music first arrived, some people wanted to prohibit its presence in Carnaval. How was the controversy resolved?

Armandinho—That was in Recife, not in Bahia. They forbade the participation of axé groups in order to avoid any competition with bands that played traditional frevo. But in Bahia, because Luiz Caldas had already started incorporating different rhythms, it was well accepted. Axé music is Bahian music, and once it arrived, it became tremendously popular. Even those bands that had been exclusively playing frevo, started to incorporate samba reggae. The trio elétrico plays samba-reggae, Beethoven, choros, ballads, Beatle tunes. The particular rhythmic groove doesn't matter because our sound is our trademark. The guitarra baiana is what makes the difference.

Brazzil—Can you describe the instrument and your particular sound?

Armandinho—Dodô and Osmar called their first instrument the cavaquinho elétrico. It was a mix of cavaquinho, bandolim, and guitar, and because it was used just for the trio elétrico, it came to be called guitarra baiana. Mine looks like the conventional one. It's short, like cavaquinho, has a solid body, and is tuned like a bandolim because my dad used to play a cavaquinho tuned like a bandolim. Having an instrument shaped like a lightning bolt is just fashion; it doesn't improve the sound. My father used four strings, and amplification was the only modification in sound. What changed my sound was the addition of a fifth string, which gives me a lot more bottom. And, because my information also came from the Beatles and Hendrix, I started using distortion, so my sound has a more contemporary edge.

Brazzil—How were you able to get distortion on the early recordings?

Armandinho—You're right. We didn't have effects pedals when I started recording, and we had to have the same sound that we got on the street. So I plugged my guitar into the input jack of a tape recorder, turned its volume control all the way up, and ran the tape recorder's audio output cable into the input jack of the soundboard. When they received the sound, it had distortion. That was how we got that sound in 1975 when we did the first trio elétrico album. On the trio elétrico truck, we didn't need to use that method because when we turned up the volume on the street, we heard a natural distortion and reverberation, which is the sound of trio elétrico. But in the studio we didn't have it, and we couldn't record like that.

Brazzil—Folha de São Paulo called you one of the best instrumentalists in Brazil's history and said that you are on the same level as Jacó do Bandolim and that your ability to improvise parallels Pixinguinha's. Would you comment on that?

Armandinho—I'm happy that people recognize my playing, but feel that I'm just continuing the work of the great players who preceded me like Luperce Miranda, Garoto, and Jacó do Bandolim. It's really interesting for me, and it must be for others, when the media calls me the modern Jacó do Bandolim and publishes pictures of a long-haired guy in bright clothing holding the guitarra baiana. Maybe they see something that I'm blind to. I never planned to develop this kind of sound and never searched for a new sound. It's something that just came from inside and is the result of what I got from my dad.

Brazzil—When the trio's name changed were you prepared to carry on the tradition your father and Dodô had established?

Armandinho—I was proud to use my father's name. But the year after we recorded Jubileu de Prata, because I had become the featured soloist and we were playing tunes I had written, my father felt I was ready to record under my own name. He told me, "Dodô isn't playing any more, and I only play once in a while. It isn't necessary to put our names on the album. You're the soloist, and it's basically instrumental music, so just put Armandinho and His Trio Elétrico. You're doing the whole job, so put your own name and it will be your trio elétrico. You've got to face the truth. It's you. You've got to assume it officially."

Today people call me Armandinho, but it was my father who professionally baptized me. He said, "Don't put Armando Macêdo, put Armandinho. It sounds more trio elétrico." I didn't want the group's name changed and kept resisting. "You know what?" he told me. "If you don't put Armandinho and His Trio Elétrico, don't put Dodô and Osmar either!" For our next show, my father erected a huge sign with my name printed in enormous letters and Dodô and Osmar's written in letters so small you could barely read them. I still have a picture of it. He told me, "In my trio elétrico, it's going to be like this!" From that day on, we used the name Armandinho Dodô & Osmar. Dodô & Osmar has become my last name.

Brazzil—Moraes, your son, Davi, has played and recorded with Marisa Monte and just launched his solo career. How do you think you have influenced him?

Moraes—Davi heard me playing, he watched me composing, he met the musicians and composers who frequently came to our home to rehearse. All this was both a gift as well as a second language for Davi. It's something that happens naturally, and Davi, like all children, learned the language we spoke at home. He was always surrounded by the music of Alceu Valença, Ary Barroso, Dorival Caymmi, and by the whole history of the Novos Baianos. He learned about the influence of the Tropicalistas and the work of the generations that came before them. Today he is a prolific recording artist with a distinctive sound, broad tastes, and the capacity to play any idiom from rock `n' roll to choro. And he's ready to build on this and pass his language on to those who will follow.

Brazzil—Would you agree that Novos Baianos introduced samba and choro to a new generation?

Moraes—I don't think that we introduced these styles to the public, but our playing was so energetic, that surely, we reconquered a generation that had been seized by the onslaught of English and American rock `n' roll. We projected so much energy and played with such intensity, that an entire generation woke up to its own instruments and musical styles.

Brazzil—Was it the social and political atmosphere of the seventies that brought Novos Baianos together?

Moraes—Tropicalismo was our greatest motivation, our strongest influence —Gil, Caetano, and Gal. Tom Zé was my master and taught me many things. I studied guitar and composition with him, and those times I watched him compose are marked in my memory and have influenced me tremendously. It was the time of Gláuber Rocha, when so much was happening in the theaters, in visual arts, and the cinema. Although we were pushed by the entire movement and it nourished us, Novos Baianos was post-tropicalismo and created its own history. Our music was very closely connected to and directed by the persona of João Gilberto, who lived with us and taught us. We had more than just the influence of bossa nova. Novos Baianos had an exclusive synchronization with João Gilberto. He was our guru and the musical father of Novos Baianos.

Brazzil—How did Novos Baianos meet João Gilberto and what was his subsequent influence on the group?

Moraes—We were all great friends and lived together in a large apartment in Botafogo, playing loud rock music day and night—everything we thought João abhorred. But Galvão kept inviting João over because they were both from Juazeiro and had met each other there, plus, we were all great fans. One night Dadi, the group's bass player, heard something, opened the door, and when he saw a serious-looking guy wearing glasses and a coat, thought the police had come. João entered our lives that way and stayed, charming us, playing guitar all night long, making us play and sing together, teaching us the music of other composers.

It was a great apprenticeship that changed our course. My guitar style was stimulated by João's, especially his phrasing and harmonies. The other big influence on our group was moving to Jacarepaguá where we spent all of our time writing music and playing soccer. Jacarepaguá was a tranquil place far away from downtown Rio, like a ranch, where we had open space to walk and play soccer. Some of our best songs, like "Preta Pretinha," were written there.

Brazzil—Would you agree with Galvão that Novos Baianos was like a religion?

Moraes—Galvão is a fundamentalist. To say that Novos Baianos was a religion, no. I don't feel that way. It was a marvelous time in our lives, when we believed in and deeply explored our ideals, that taught me a lot and gave me the foundation to develop a solid career. Without any doubt, it has enriched my life as a musician, composer, and artist in general. But it is a time that has passed. I believe Novos Baianos already found what they were looking for, and now each one of us has his own work to do. I'd rather leave it that way, without meddling. Sure, I miss those days, but we must remember them in a positive way and not think about what we've lost. I wasn't in favor of the last meeting. Our work together is done and should have been left alone. The release of another CD is out of any discussion, completely out of my mind. Novos Baianos was one very good thing that happened, but it already happened. Now we have to move on with our own work and show everybody that we don't live Novos Baianos, that we have other interesting stories to tell.

Brazzil—What are your thoughts on Baby Consuelo's new religious beliefs?

Moraes—She has the right to believe in whatever she wants. Baby Consuelo was always like that. One moment she's in one place and the next, another. I respect that, although many times I don't agree. I do think she's a great singer.

Brazzil—How did A Cor do Som (The Color of Sound) develop from musicians in Novos Baianos, and what was the group's impact?

Armandinho—A Cor do Som began as a power trio inside Novos Baianos and expanded. Two years after Moraes left the band, Dadi left and took the name A Cor do Som with him, launching the group commercially with me on bandolim and guitarra baiana; Mu, keyboards; Gustavo, drums; and Ary Dias, percussion. It was visually a rock `n' roll band that played a fusion of chorinho and Northeastern rhythms. Many people played chorinhos and samba, but with A Cor do Som, traditional genres began to sound modern because we fused acoustic and electronic elements. The young people totally embraced the idea and brought the music home to their parents, who couldn't say, "What! This is a lot of noise! This isn't music!" It was music, their music, and it was good. Basically, the same thing happened when Dodô and Osmar electrified frevo. By dressing traditional styles in modern clothes and bringing the young people together, A Cor do Som opened that same door. We were recognized by the kids and respected by their parents.

Brazzil—Moraes, lately there has been a lot of celebrating and commemorating. Can you talk about your CD 500 Sambas and the recent "500 Anos Brasil" celebrations?

Moraes—For us, celebrating the 500 years of Brazil was more than a historical date. It was a festive moment, but also one of reflection, of looking back at our mistakes and learning from them. It was also about acknowledging facets of the Brazilian experience that have been undeniably positive and continuing with those. From that perspective, we can begin functioning as a mature culture and start resolving some of the fundamental problems that have plagued Brazil. One very positive aspect of our culture has always been our music, especially samba. Vinicius de Moraes once said that samba was born in Bahia, and with 500 Sambas, I pay homage to Bahian music and to the great composers of samba—Dorival Caymmi, Cartola, Nelson Cavaquinho, Assis Valente, Ary Barroso—by mixing Carnaval carioca with axé music. The CD commemorates samba and shows reverence to our greatest sambistas.

Brazzil—Atraçao will be releasing your new CD, Bahião com H. Why the abrupt change of label?

Moraes—I was not at all happy with Abril. The company was only interested in money, expecting results immediately, while never properly organizing and promoting my work. Abril only looks at the commercial side of a production and is not interested in the artistic. They basically screwed me and artists like Alceu Valença. On the other hand, Atração is very easy to work with and much more flexible. Artists can discuss ideas with the artistic director, who helps to better organize their projects. They've already made a video clip of the tune "Nordeste Cosmopolita," which is a good profile of the work.

Brazzil—Your new CD fuses forró with axé music and draws attention to Bahia's antiquated spelling of the word bay. Can you talk a little about the CD and whether you feel axé music in general is declining?

Moraes—Bahião com H is a work that travels through Northeastern Brazilian music via a healthy mix of xote, frevo, maracatu, baião, and the heavy percussion of axé. It's like Olodum playing baião and xote. As far as the rumors about axé declining, they are entirely incorrect. Samba reggae is marvelous, and the percussion of axé music is very important. It ushered in a creative era as well as a new wave of master Bahian percussionists. I like axé and samba reggae a lot. No matter what style is being played: candomblé, afoxé, samba reggae, the percussion from Bahia is beautiful. Bahians are born percussionists. But Brazilian music embraces all of our distinctive rhythms from pagode to axé to samba to frevo to bossa nova. This is a country of music, a full moon, not a waning crescent. It can't ever be just one type of music, just sertaneja or axé or pagode or this or that. I hope this attitude, which is promoted by the media, changes.

Armandinho—Many people were saying that axé music was dying. Now people are saying that pagode is dying. The same way sertaneja had its moment, axé had its moment of national media attention, when all the radio stations were playing it. The fact that it doesn't occupy the same air space, doesn't mean that isn't appreciated. When you look back on Brazil's best composers and artists, most of them have come from Bahia. The most successful pagode group, É o Tchan, is from Bahia. Axé is still a big market and axé bands have full agendas. Based on what the radio is playing, it may not be as evident, so people say axé is declining. But Daniela Mercury is here, and Ivete Sangalo is here, and so is the music. Axé keeps moving. Bahia's musical movement never stops.

* Many thanks to Sonia Santos of Yellow Green Productions for her invaluable technical support.

1. Although the proportions have escalated, trio elétrico was originally a decorated truck that moved through Bahian streets during Carnaval carrying musicians playing amplified guitars and percussion instruments.

2. The following year (1951), performing frevos, chorinhos, and classical excerpts from the bed of their truck, the duo was joined by Temístoles Aragão on a third electric guitar, thus becoming Trio Elétrico Dodô & Osmar.

3. Blocos are groups that parade together during Carnaval.

Bruce Gilman, music editor for Brazzil, received his Masters degree in music from California Institute of the Arts. He leads the Brazilian jazz ensemble Axé and plays cuíca for escola de samba MILA. You can reach him through his e-mail: cuica@interworld.net 

Web sites of interest:

Brazilian Nites Productions

http://www.braziliannites.com 

Dodô & Osmar

http://www.facom.ufba.br/pexsites/musicanordestina/dodosmar.htm  

Moraes Moreira

http://www.uol.com.br/moraesmoreira  

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