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Fado. The word means fate in Portuguese. It is also the name of a particular kind of haunting music heard mostly in small cafes and bars in Lisbon. Spain trampling her foot, fast-paced, sensual flamenco. Portugal has the slow, sad fado sung by men and women to the accompaniment of Spanish guitar and the Portuguese guitarra, a lute 12-string.
According to a spokesman for the House of Fado Museum, near the waterfront of Lisbon, "Fado is an expression of the Portuguese soul."
Find real fado can be difficult, as tour operators, taxi drivers and hotels tend to extol the less-than-authentic "forkloric" shows, which may be more fast moving and exciting, but not the way in search of the Portuguese soul.
During a recent trip to the Iberian Peninsula, my wife and I were determined to find the real fado, not so much finding the Portuguese soul to find a cheaper way to hear music that for $ 60 person dinner and show tour director was bragging. We also were sure we could find fado live for less than the cost of $ 35 more performances by our hotel.
Using a guide (Rick Steves Spain and Portugal) and the phone We found a small cafed in Bairro Alto section of the city, known for its nightclubs, discos and restaurants. The owner speaks English coffee, Canto do Camoes, assured us that we could get a full meal and watch the performance of less than $ 20 each.
With a couple of Connecticut, we met during the trip, Joe and Amy McManus, we took a terrifying trip into a taxi driven by a driver who sped quickly through the narrow streets, lack of other cars and pedestrians by thickness of a dime spent.
The driver left us off at the base and pointed up the street too thin, even for its small car, the Travessa da Espera. We climbed the pavement to walk for two blocks before coming to Canto do Camoes, a small coffee can sitting up to 40 people.
Gabriel, the owner, greeted us and gave us a table near the small performance area. As we entered, we have chosen Recent fish caught from the ocean. The meal was delicious, are vegetables, a salad, a bottle of wine for each couple and a dessert. Later, Gabriel threw a glass of cognac.
The four of us were his only customers. Nevertheless, the performance started on time, at 9 pm The first singer was a little man in spectacles, with gray hair. He sat in front of two middle-aged men playing stringed instruments and threw his head back, closed his eyes, put his thumbs in his belt and began to sing.
We had said earlier that most of fado songs are love and misery, a sort of Portuguese blues. Except for the fact that the words were in a strange language, he could be on Beale Street in Memphis in the singing of a lost love.
Since we had no idea the words of the lament, we were free to think of our own lost loves and ambitions, or failed to imagine that the singer was on storytelling.
I thought he was a former Enron employee told through his trembling lips of savings lost and the prospect of old age doomed to poverty and inadequate medical care.
It was followed by a massive woman, solid as a mountain dressed in black lace, the Sophie Tucker fado. She had a face of parchment overwritten, but his hair was black and shiny as the wet asphalt. She sang with great passion and presence. I was convinced she was telling a handsome husband killed in his youth and manhood full combat in the Spanish Civil War of the 1930s. She had never met his equal.
The third singer was also a younger woman with red hair and a faded air of melancholy. She wore a light dress with flowers, but like other singers, sung slowly, eyes closed and head held high. I imagined sh.