Baden Powell & Vinicius de Moraes: Le Monde Musical de Baden Powell / Os Afro-Sambas de Baden e Vinicius (1964/1966)

Two beautiful, rich records, reaped at the remarkable height of Baden Powell's creative harvest in the 1960s. I'm featuring them both, in part because it's my birthday and I want to offer something extra in light of this, but more importantly because I always think of them in tandem: Le Monde Musical de Baden Powell and Os Afro-Sambas represent, in a sense, the Apollonian and Dionysian sides of Powell's musical imagination, respectively. If Le Monde is a collection of highly stylized baroque explorations--over which the ghosts of Segovia and especially Bach hover--then Os Afro-Sambas sounds like a set of gleeful (and ingeniously constructed) chants belted out at some satanic sabbath. Together they comprise a profoundly compelling picture of the man who, when the smoke clears, may well emerge as the most talented--and technically proficient--guitarist to have thus far come out of Brazil. Which is saying a great deal, given that this is the land that produced the likes of Gilberto.

Of the two albums, Os Afro-Sambas is the more universally lauded; practically everyone seems to be in agreement about its magic, as well as its cultural importance. But for whatever reason, Le Monde is the one that initially grabbed me. The French title derives from the fact that Powell, originally from Rio, had emigrated to Paris in 1963 (aged 27), beckoned there by friend Vinicius de Moraes, the well known poet, diplomat and lyricist. In hindsight, this seems an odd choice: Rio was, in the late 50s and early 60s, an epicenter of musical activity, the city where bossa nova, the style invented by Jobim and perfected by Gilberto, was just then reaching its fullest expression. Perhaps Powell had grown bored of this music--its commercialization, and the fetishization of Brazilian culture abroad (esp. in America) that this had partly caused--and hence wanted out. Or maybe he was following in the footsteps of certain of his musical heroes, like Django Reinhardt, who had done the same in decades past. Whatever the motivation, he arrived in Paris and quietly but quickly began to make his presence felt: on television specials, in performances at private homes, Powell introduced his signature sound, an artful admixture of Brazilian and European styles, the latter stemming from his training as a classical guitarist. The finest tracks on Le Monde, which he cut in spring of 1964, beautifully enact this dual heritage. "Samba em Preludio," for example, begins classically, with a series of relentlessly repeated arpeggios, over which a tensely mysterious string part is delicately sustained; in the second half, though, it shifts gears to samba mode, with Powell plucking away methodically while a woman's disembodied voice pours out a lovely, fresh-peeled melody. Ghostly, gorgeous stuff.

It's funny, though: go to the All Music Guide to read up on Le Monde and you'll find that their review of it, written by Scott Yanow, is decidedly lukewarm. Giving it three stars, Yanow complains that "the music comes off as overly sweet, safe and sleepy," notes the presence of "unimaginative arrangements" [!], and finally passes it off as "pleasant background music" that's "nice but predictable." Sometimes one wonders if these charlatans actually listen to the albums they're reviewing from start to finish. (To AMG's credit, they had another guy re-review it some time afterward, and he wrote of it much more positively.) At any rate, even if there is some controversy about the record, there is little to none about its successor, Os Afro-Sambas, which is continually ranked among the dozen or so greatest Brazilian albums. Listening to it now for the fiftieth time, it strikes me, like so many other records thus far featured on this blog, as a marvelous feat of syncretism. Powell (like, say, Jorge Ben) had a special genius for integrating any number of vastly distinct musics into a unified style that was rich and strange, and that somehow cohered, somehow worked. We now know that prior to making Os Afro-Sambas he'd been studying various African musical traditions alongside Gregorian chant; and the record, accordingly, marries African (specifically, Yoruban) and Bahian beats and instrumentation--and call-and-response patterns--with medieval choral modes, the latter heard especially in the weird female vocal parts (sung by the Quartet em Cy, a group of four sisters from Bahia). Supplying the lead vocals is Moraes, who had contributed ideas to Le Monde but not sung on it, and here provides what are considered some of the most poetic, mellifluous lyrics in Brazilian music, delivered in a mellow, slightly husky voice that often evokes nostalgia and world-weariness ("Vem comigo a Salvador. . ."). Moraes was something of a musical soulmate for Powell; the two of them would often retire to Powell's house for days at a time, drinking whisky and composing songs. Though this write-up has focused primarily on Powell, it's well worth noting that Moraes was an equally fascinating figure in his own right: the self-professed "blackest white man in Brazil," he began his career as a poet, then left his country to pursue a degree in English Literature at Oxford; having earned this, he went on to work for the Brazilian consulate in Paris, and, finally returning home, wrote the words for more classic Brazilian songs (e.g. "Desafinado") than one can count. Hell, he even co-wrote a musical, Black Orpheus, that won the Palme d'Or at Cannes in 1959.

I'm tempted to say more about individual tracks off Os Afro-Sambas, but this review has already become rather monstrous, so I'll leave you instead to lose yourself in the album's eerie bacchanalian delights. I'll only add these disclaimers: that the sound quality is regrettably mediocre, with occasional fluctuations in volume; and that you might initially find the Quartet em Cy a little shrill and off-putting, especially on the more up-tempo tracks--but give yourself time and you'll come to appreciate them. Note, finally, that the version of this record that I'm featuring here is the original masterpiece from 1966, not the so-so remake that Powell did in 1990. Enjoy!



Le Monde Musical de Baden Powell

1. Deve Ser Amor (3:54)
2. Choro Para Metronomo (3:00)
3. Adagio (3:07)
4. Berimbau (3:03)
5. Samba em Preludio (3:30)
6. Chanson d'Hiver (2:27)
7. Samba Triste (3:33)
8. Berceuse a Jussara (2:37)
9. Prelude (2:54)
10. Euridice (3:05)
11. Bachiana (4:10)
12. Garota de Ipanema (2:59)

Os Afro-Sambas

1. Canto de Ossanha (3:23)
2. Canto de Xangô (6:28)
3. Bocoché (2:34)
4. Canto de Iemanjá (4:47)
5. Tempo de amor (4:28)
6. Canto do Caboclo Pedra-Preta (3:39)
7. Tristeza e solidão - (4:35)
8. Lamento de Exu (2:16)

Mahmoud Ahmed: Erè Mèla Mèla (1975)

If your ears are accustomed to the likes of The Decemberists, this recording may--and likely will--fuck with you. Listening to its ten tracks for the first time might, in that case, be comparable to doing neat shots of Bacardi 151 after years of sipping Franzia. Dizziness, confusion, even panic will ensue; you'll recoil, as if from an electric shock; and, finally, you'll grow used to it, love it, perhaps become hooked on it. Indeed, you'll marvel that you ever made do with boxed zinfandel, now that you've gained access to daddy's liquor cabinet.

There is something innately shocking about Erè Mèla Mèla (1975), a mind-expanding strangeness that alone makes it worthwhile listening for anyone weaned on Anglo-American pop. The first few bars of the excellent "Abay Mado - Embwa Belew," for example, sound familiar enough: a saxophone soli played atop a raucous foundation of percussion, resembling any number of soul-jazz records from the 1970s. But then Ahmed opens his mouth and begins to sing. As for what comes out, I have no idea how to classify it because I've never heard anything quite like it. It's a quivering, impassioned vocal that swirls up and down the scale with seeming ease, wonderfully melodic, as you'll see once you get the hang of it, and clearly Arab-inflected. The record's "trick," to the extent that it has one, lies in the way it brilliantly grafts these ecstatic Middle Eastern-sounding vocals atop a scaffolding of jazz rhythms. The thrilling result is a kind of trance music that demands your full attention but will, in return, elevate you into the sort of sublimely hypnotized state that one senses Ahmed was in when he produced it. Simply stated, songs like "Atawurulegn," "Era Mele Mele - Meche Neu," and the terrifying first two pieces (really one extended song) represent some of the most moving, danceable, and frequently ferocious music I've lately heard. They have the heft of ancient chants.

Ethiopia, it seems, witnessed a surge of musical creativity during the 1950s, 60s, and 70s, when a range of fiercely original voices entered the studio under contracts with national record companies (of which Philips-Ethiopia appears to have been the best known) that granted them a great deal of artistic freedom. Of these voices, Mulatu Astatke, who played with Duke Ellington, made the biggest splash, and was perhaps the most prolific. But Mahmoud Ahmed remains the most affecting of the ones I've thus far heard, and Erè Mèla Mèla (1975) seems to be the best introduction to his challenging output.

Part I
Part II

Erè Mèla Mèla

1. Sigedegnash Negn/Samiraye (5:33)
2. Indenesh Gedaow (3:45)
3. Bemin Sebeb Litlash (4:32)
4. Abay Mado/Imbwa Belew (6:57)
5. Atawurulign Lela (3:57)
6. Ohoho Gedama (4:44)
7. Ere Mela Mela/Meche Neu (8:01)
8. Fetsum Dink Lij Desh (4:31)
9. Belomy Benna (3:55)
10. Asheweyna (4:32)

Gato Barbieri: Latin America: Chapter 1 (1973)

Gato Barbieri is one of the unsung heroes of late twentieth century music. If you've heard of him, it's probably through the credits of Last Tango in Paris (1973), that faux-arthouse spank film that Marlon Brando did in the immediate wake of The Godfather. Gato wrote the award-winning soundtrack for the movie, and this was probably the most valuable and enduring thing about it. If you watch the film and are sufficiently enchanted by the music, you might even hit up Amazon.com and search for Gato in the website's music section. The first two results that will come up are a "Best of Gato Barbieri" disc with an outrageously tacky photo of Gato on its cover, along with an album called Caliente that he recorded in the late seventies. Here's the thing: Caliente, while a good and fine album, doesn't represent Gato at his best--not even close; and that "Best Of" collection is filled with tunes culled from the latter portion of Gato's career, after he'd jumped the proverbial shark. You'd hardly gather from the reviews, however, that there was anything lacking about either of these discs; most customers are veritably slobbering over them.

If you want to hear Gato at his feral, manic best, you'll need to backpedal a few years to the early seventies, when he scaled a towering Alp of creative vision that most other musicians can only dream of. An Argentinian born in 1934, presumably he came of age imbibing the sounds of middle and late Coltrane, those impassioned ebullitions of sound that distilled, in their own way, the fury and determination of the Civil Rights movement. "When 'Trane died," said one of Coltrane's contemporaries whose name I can't remember, and whose exact words I'm struggling to quote from memory, "it was like he left a giant crater in his wake. We all felt a little empty and lost." A number of saxophonists, all of them touched by Coltrane in some way, quickly rallied to fill that crater. The best of these, perhaps, were Pharaoh Sanders, Wayne Shorter, the underrated Gary Bartz, and Gato. To be sure, distinct echoes of A Love Supreme and Crescent can be found in Gato's best work: the daring harmonic experimentation, the famous "cascades of sound" approach. But what makes albums like Bolivia, El Pampero, Fenix, and the four-chapter Latin America series tick, it seems, is their cunning synthesis of North American jazz harmonies with the indigenous folk rhythms of Gato's native South America. (Check out, for example, the second movement of the stunning four-part suite "La China Leoncia".) Underneath the deranged Orphic probings of "Encuentros," "India," and especially "La China," one senses the presence of something really profound: vast swathes of rhythmic and melodic tradition, the accumulation of centuries, which Gato was frantically seeking to excavate, commit to vinyl, and preserve for all time. The fact that he recruited a group of session men exclusively from Argentina, and cut the record in Buenos Aires, further hints that he was attempting something like a sonic panorama of his native continent, insofar as such a thing is possible; whether he succeeded, you can of course decide for yourself. What is beyond debate is that Latin America: Chapter 1 and its three successors represent one of the most frenzied, original projects of 1970s music.

Whatever it was that Gato had tapped into by this point--and it was something truly special--it may have been too much for him to contain. By the second half of the seventies, he had signed with a different record label (A&M, and later Sony, Columbia, and CBS) and was recording the comparatively innocuous stuff found on The Best of Gato Barbieri. Thankfully, though, by this point he had already left behind a string of albums that testify to his astonishing gifts, and that we can only listen to in rapt wonder, even disbelief, marveling that we have never heard of him.

Latin America: Chapter 1

1. Encuentros (12:29)
2. India (8:58)
3. La China Leoncia Arreo Correntinada Trajo Entre la Muchachada la Flor de la Juventud (13:30)
4. Nunca Mas (5:27)
5. To Be Continued (2:26)

Jorge Ben: A Tabua de Esmeralda (1974)

First thing's first: this is one of the most breathtakingly original recordings I've had the pleasure of hearing, in any genre. The first of the so-called triologia mística, that celebrated string of three esoteric records that Ben made between 1974 and 1976 (the other two are Solta O Povao and the already-discussed Africa Brasil), A Tabua de Esmeralda is also, arguably, the best. As a shameless Jorge junkie who has clocked far more hours listening to the guy's discography than I'd care to admit, I would venture to call it his greatest album, period. Apparently, it also happens to be Jorge's own favorite among the records he's cut, which must count for something. There are other junkies whose taste I respect who give this distinction to Solta O Povao or the even more obscure O Bidu - Silencio No Brooklin (1967), but I think they're just being cute. Pound for pound, A Tabua is Jorge at his superb best.

This isn't to say, however, that A Tabua is an exceedingly complex recording, or even a varied, eclectic one. On the contrary, what strikes one about many of these songs is their simplicity: the best of them possess the radiant transparency of elegant math proofs, and all of them are spun from the same sonic cloth, as if they comprised a single album-length suite. The title is a reference to the Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus, a legendary Hellenistic text that purported to hold the secret of the primordial substance from which all other matter in the cosmos derived. In the Middle Ages the text was considered the foundation of the art of alchemy. This is all quite absurd, of course (although Newton took it seriously enough to translate a supposed version of the text from Latin into English), and Jorge treats of it with an appropriate mixture of humor and fascination. There is nothing facetious, though, about the manner in which this record will, in time, come to take hold of you irrevocably, permeating your mind and, if you elect to play it with a stereo system, your body; indeed, there is something genuinely mystical, as befits its subject matter, about the otherworldly power of its melodies, its grooves. Before long, you will need to hear it every day, perhaps several times a day. Don't think you won't.

The stand-out tracks on A Tabua are, to begin with, the first five, an unfalteringly gorgeous sequence of songs suffused with an irresistible sweetness--tunes like "O Homem da Gravata Florida," "Eu Vou Torcer," and the especially excellent "Os Alquimistas Estao Chegando" have a summery loveliness about them, a warmth and exuberance that will immediately transport you to a sunnier clime. The glittering jewel, however, is "Errare Humanum Est," as eerily masterful a song as any to be found in Ben's catalogue, or indeed anywhere else in the music of the 70s. My buddy Jarrett, the only other soul here in Madison I know of who's alert to the mind-boggling riches of classic Brazilian music, theorizes that this song, whose theme is space travel, was inspired by the whacked-out writings of Erik von Daniken. Daniken's notorious bestseller, Chariots of the Gods (1968), posited an "ancient astronauts" account of the origin of human beings, one which Jorge, an intensely devout Catholic, may well have had reason to rebuke as erroneous. (The title is a phrase borrowed from Seneca.) Whatever the song's provenance, and whatever the significance of its cryptic lyrics, these matters ultimately have little to do with the five-minute acoustic orgasm that is the music itself.

Other high points include "Zumbi," an homage to the leader of the 17th century fugitive slave community called Palmares in Brazil, and the weirdly mesmeric closer, "Cinco Minutos." The only weak point, it should be noted, is the irritatingly pious "Brother," which I'd advise you to skip over. The download is available here courtesy of my anonymous friend, "F.," who runs the spectacularly encyclopedic blog Flabbergasted Vibes, which was the partial inspiration for this blog. He's generously given me permission to share all of the links to Ben's discography available on his site. Check out FV sometime. The password for this DL is "vibes."

So that's it. I'm going to close this entry with a somewhat random quotation by Percy Shelley, which I came across in the course of my reading last night:

For the end of social corruption is to destroy all sensibility to pleasure; and, therefore, it is corruption. It begins at the imagination and the intellect as at the core, and distributes itself thence as a paralysing venom, through the affections into the very appetites, until all become a torpid mass in which sense hardly survives. At the approach of such a period, Poetry ever addresses itself to those faculties which are the last to be destroyed, and its voice is heard, like the footsteps of Astraea, departing from the world.

Heady, beautiful stuff. I'd add that music ideally performs this same function. With poetry, it's humanity's last bastion against the insidious venom of social corruption, which for Shelley meant abuse of political power, moral hypocrisy, and selfishness--all of which conspire to deaden the individual spirit over time. It's poetry--and, I think, music--that offer us a means of combating this process, through the regular promise of ecstasy that both provide. They remind us that we're alive.

A Tabua de Esmeralda

1. Os alquimistas estão chegando (3:15)
2. O homem da gravata florida (3:05)
3. Errare humanum est (4:50)
4. Menina mulher da pele preta (2:57)
5. Eu vou torcer (3:15)
6. Magnólia (3:14)
7. Minha teimosia, uma arma pra te conquistar (2:41)
8. Zumbi (3:31)
9. Brother (2:54)
10. O namorado da viúva (2:03)
11. Hermes Trismegisto e sua celeste tábua de esmeralda (5:30)
12. Cinco minutos (2:57)

Clara Nunes: Clara Clarice Clara (1972)

I've been having so much fun listening to this album over the last several days that I decided to make it my next feature here at Wanwood. It was a near-impossible choice between this one and Nunes's later record, Alvorecer (1974), which is most often considered her career high-mark and which is, indisputably, a magical LP. It may be, though, that Clara Clarice Clara (1972) is even more varied and deep, its obsessive grip even harder to resist; and, given that it was the album on which Nunes first really found her artistic voice, it is likely the best place to begin.

Clara Nunes is a difficult artist to introduce, in part because I'm still in the process of discovering her myself. This much is true: her discography represents one of the deepest, most ore-laden mineshafts in all Brazilian music. If you're willing to follow her where she wants to lead you, she'll take you, in the course of her dozen-and-a-half studio albums, through far-flung pastures of sheer musical bliss. For the most part, they're pastures untrodden by listeners outside Brazil, since Nunes's records inexplicably languished out of print for many years following her early death in 1983 at age 39. (She underwent a failed operation to treat varicose veins.) As a masterful interpreter of the samba form, she's often grouped together with Alcione and Beth Carvalho, whom she inspired. But, with all due respect to both these women, neither holds a candle to Nunes, who easily transcended the status of a mere sambista in part through a seamless mingling of samba with other ingredients, including African dance rhythms derived from Umbanda and Candomble religious rituals. Of course, samba had been an essentially African phenomenon from the beginning, when former slaves, newly migrated to Rio in the late 19th century, brought their dance customs with them, melding them with traditionally European grooves like polka. So in a sense Nunes was just returning samba to its origins.

Clara Clarice Clara has a bit of everything: the insidiously catchy "Sempre Mangueira," the vigorously uptempo "Ilu Aye," the overwhelmingly lovely ballad "Morena do Mar," even a cover of "Clarice," the crown jewel of Caetano Veloso's self-titled album from 1968. What unifies it all is Nunes's glorious voice, by turns soaring atop West African rhythms, by turns chirping coquettishly with the acoustic guitar that punctuates many of these tunes. In all likelihood you'll go through the following stages in listening to Nunes's albums: a.) You'll marvel at the artistry of the songs, at the contagiousness of their melodies; b.) You'll get addicted to them and play the shit out of them; c.) Regardless of your orientation, you'll begin to fall in love with Nunes. You'll want to take her out to dinner and a show--hell, you'll want to have her in bed, then talk to her about everything under the sun until the wee hours of the madrugada. d.) You'll have the melancholy recollection that she's been dead some thirty years, cruelly ripped out this world on the mere threshold of middle age, and hence you'll never be able to meet her, much less woo her. e.) You'll remember that you've got that panoply of fabulous Nunes records at your fingertips, and you'll content yourself with basking, again and again--and yet again!--in the irrepressible joy they lovingly convey.

Clara Clarice Clara

1. Sempre Mangueira (2:24)
2. Seca Do Nordeste (3:00)
3. Alvorada (2:24)
4. Tempo A Bessa (2:31)
5. Morena Do Mar (3:19)
6. Ilu Aye (3:28)
7. Opcao (2:34)
8. Anjo Moreno (3:10)
9. Tributo Aos Orixas (2:47)
10. Ultimo Pau-de-Arara (2:52)
11. Clarice (6:07)

Jim Hall: Concierto (1975)

This is a record of such understated majesty, such hushed grandeur, that it is very easy to miss, on first listening, the astonishing artistry that went into its creation. Indeed, many longtime devotees of Concierto, and of Jim Hall more generally, overlooked it outright when it was first released, not discovering the album until years after the fact--and then having the sort of revelatory moment that Keats once described on first gaining access to the Homeric epics: the "wild surmise" of stumbling upon a work of oceanic breadth and profundity that had been there all along, though they'd not been aware of it.

Concierto really is that good. Each of the original five tracks is strong, especially the opener, a brisk seven-minute cut of Ellington's "You'd Be So Nice to Come Home To." What makes the record immortal, though, is the title track, a lush twenty-minute rendition of Rodrigo's classic guitar showpiece, "Concierto de Aranjuez." When most listeners think of this piece, naturally they first think of Miles's version, the centerpiece of 1959's Sketches of Spain. And while that version possesses undeniable power, mainly owing to the ingenious orchestration of Gil Evans, there are a good many jazz junkies--myself included--who consider Hall's rendition superior. Check out the personnel: how could it, legitimately, be anything less than superb? On guitar, of course, was Hall himself, a quiet precisionist playing in a decade distinguished by virtuosic showmen who were out to prove themselves. His playing on the title track epitomizes the style, intensely meditative and lyrical, of which so many of Hall's disciples are in awe: following a prelude of some 3 1/2 minutes, he delivers a solo consisting in a succession of highly wrought phrasings that sound like they were written out in advance, though one knows they weren't. Then comes a second solo by Paul Desmond, who seems to have found in Hall a musician whose approach jived perfectly with his own. (For a rare--and precious--audio interview of Charlie Parker by Desmond, check out this link. It's about halfway down the page. Even if you don't know anything about Desmond, it's worth it for the chance to hear what Parker sounded like.) Following this, we hear from an ageing Chet Baker, experiencing a kind of career renaissance after having been punched off a hotel balcony and busting up his chops during a drunken scuffle some years before. The cycle of solos is rounded out by Sir Roland Hanna on piano, a bad MF who was officially knighted by the king of Liberia in 1970, and whose playing, here and elsewhere on Concierto, is in some ways the single best thing about the record. Through it all, a young Steve Gadd on drums and Ron Carter, post-Miles quintet, on bass, conjure up the faultless rhythmic backdrop against which the whole thing transpires.

It's a shame these guys didn't get together to make any more albums, because they were as close to a jazz supergroup as any band that entered the studio after 1970 or so.
Enjoy!

Concierto

1. You'd Be So Nice to Come Home to (7:04)
2. Two's Blues (3:48)
3. The Answer is Yes (7:35)
4. Concierto de Aranjuez (19:12)
5. Rock Skippin' (6:01)

Jorge Ben: Africa Brasil (1976)

Three parts West African rhythms, equal parts Parliament-style funk, and a dash of soul, triple distilled, make up this heady brew, the last--and most boisterous--of Jorge Ben's cornucopia of 1970s masterpieces. Its most famous songs need little introduction: the thunderous "Xica da Silva," an immediate sensation, which resounded through the discotheques of Europe; "Taj Mahal," from which Rod Stewart promptly stole the famous riff for his (decidedly flaccid) "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?"; and of course, the anthemic "Umbabarauma," which could light a fire under damn near anyone's ass. The record's most enduring treasures, though, might in fact be found on its deep tracks, none better than "A Historia de Jorge," a shimmering piece of acoustic booty brought back from Ben's Id. The song climaxes with a sick disco jam in the middle, in which the tension mounts to an almost unbearable level, only to be somehow miraculously released with a sudden change of key at 2:05 ("Voa Jorge, Jorge Voa!" / "Fly Jorge, fly!"). Moments like this epitomize Ben's greatness: neither as innovative as Caetano Veloso, nor as ethereally beautiful as Milton Nascimento, he was nevertheless the greatest musical alchemist Brazil has seen, and listening to his output, at its very best, yields more sheer pleasure than anything short of simply shooting H. He would go on to release a plenitude of other LPs over the next couple of decades, but never recaptured the magic of albums like A Tabua de Esmeralda, Força Bruta, and Africa Brasil, as if, in making this last record, he expended himself in a final, exhausting burst of creativity. We are the better for it.

Africa Brasil

1. Ponta de Lança Africano (Umbabarauma) – 3:52
2. Hermes Trimegisto Escreveu – 3:02
3. O Filósofo – 3:27
4. Meus Filhos, Meu Tesouro – 3:53
5. O Plebeu – 3:07
6. Taj Mahal – 3:09
7. Xica da Silva – 4:05
8. A História de Jorge – 3:49
9. Camisa 10 da Gávea – 4:04
10. Cavaleiro do Cavalo Imaculado – 4:46
11. África Brasil (Zumbi) – 3:47