There are anniversaries that do not only concern the artist, but also those who take possession of their seats in the stalls. Dulce Pontes celebrates its first 30 years on stage with a beautiful name show (Peregrinaçao), and it is impossible to escape the memory of that young woman who, shy but not exempt of arrests, dreamed of the inheritance of Amália Rodrigues at the beginning of the nineties . Oh, and to whom the most puritanical minds still reproached their Eurovision participation, granting the condition of category to what is still an anecdote proper to age.
This Dulce Pontes of today is not only far from the televised festivals, but also from the milestones of the traditional song. That is why it travels along a path that is so specific that it does not require GPS or display indicators. It is not Dulce fadista to use, of course, but neither is it confined to the music of the world nor to what English-speakers call crossover. And it does not stop charming a woman who, three decades later, still seems elusive to definitions.
Pontes must have fatigued a little from so much crying in the old-fashioned way. That's why it does not stop at Tear or in some other title adjusted to the paradigms. There is a point of confusion in all this stylistic reordering, and this explains why the Price Circus will not be filled in this important delivery of the Inverfest, since the next Spanish scales of Dulce will have to wait until June. But to keep 1,350 followers, so many years and stylistic readjustments afterwards, does not fail to deserve astonishment.
Because the diva de Montijo, a step away from being a fiftieth anniversary, has decided not to adjust to the norm anymore. He opened this Wednesday at Circo Price with lyrics in English and the heterodox accompaniment of violoncello and soprano saxophone. She wore a red-and-black cape, also far from the textile canon. And he boasted during the first few minutes of optimal pianist, an extraordinarily unusual condition in the guild. It was not a fado recital, but perhaps something we could radiograph as a contemporary chamber song.
The discourse could eventually be dispersed, misplaced, in a diffuse border between the popular song and a new age ethereal to the Loreena McKennitt (but, yes, without harp). Meu amor, lusitanisada version of the second movement of the Concierto de Aranjuez, seems pompous, emphatic, bombastic, perhaps because moderation is Pontes's great pending issue in these 30 years of graduation.
Better things marched at the height of Loneliness, an unpublished by Amália Rodrigues before whom it seems impossible to remain unchanged. "Forgive me, Amália, if I do not do it well," murmured an officiant in a reverential pose, conjured against the objections of the most prudent. And that ended up being the most intense and thorough moment, even if there was only one guitar as an accompaniment. So that each part of the body pricked up for such effects
Pontes continues to be an interpreter of peaks and valleys, only now at least we do not have it as usual at the Estoril Casino. They skated their final readings of Senhora do Almortão (José Afonso), too stiff first and unbridled at the end, and The Legend of Time (Camarón), which also transitions from the hieratic to the vociferous, as if the artist was not always clear by where to put a hand to such a classic.
We will stay with Canção do Mar, its most representative and recognizable title, has gained in emphasis and prosopopeya. Better that the solemn and pompous patriotism of Love of Portugal, the only bis of the night and doubtful colophon for an irregular, but emotional night. There have been approximations and disagreements, without a doubt, but the anniversaries allow us to reflect on the many years lived together.