Athens

 

26.3.'93, Greece, Athens, Pallas Theater, Madredeus enters with familiarity as they find in the wooden stage the home's floor, the clothes-tree, the kitchen and the bedroom. They walk on the pavement with the tranquility of whom is walking down the central street of a small town, stopping in front of the shops and behaving with that automatisms that allows you to think and to be elsewhere, while your body carries out the tasks that the world orders us. But in that case it's not the world which asks the exibition of Madredeus, but the circumstance, the place, the hour, the lights, and the altered perception of the senses that we have when we perceive in the air the impending happening of art. Madredeus was nothing more than necessary. The dress of the musicians is the usual, elegant and sober, of the elegance which is consequent to your expression, of the elegance which is obvious consequence of your look. Teresa is strangely dressed, in black. A gown to the knee on two shoes that seem to come from another time, in an ancient shape that make the foot much nearer to earth for umbleness and nobility, making the entire person an appendix of the ground, a sculpted and fashionable stalagmite. She wears a jacket widely low-necked, vaguely masculine which opens to a black body neither chaste nor malicious, simply disquieting. The hairstyle is wildly traditional, gathered on the nape, while a black band wrap up the beautiful head, allowing only to a rebel and long forelock to pour out on the right cheek. The shadow of that forelock tear the face from that apparent canvas which is the stage in order to give it to a reality which crave for it. The show starts in the shadow. Obscurity suffocates the audience and lays its veil on the entire stage leaving light only on the white skin of Teresa, wrapped up on the microphone as to protect it. The face of Teresa is the only source of light and sound, the only real presence in that moment of art. Teresa is lonely in an space altered by what we want to "do" with it. The obscurity make the theater a world on its own, that we can easily imagine as we want it to be, where the voice of Teresa is the only music and her face's the only shape. The song talks about Lisbon and is entitled "A Cidade". The playing is kept slow, beating and alternates the wave to the backwash on the beach which is the audience. We would say "Panta Rei", "All Flows", and, talking about Madredeus, we would be right. Teresa sings with the eyes shut, pardoning us of her eyes, of her smile and letting us the suffering pang that bends her on the microphone in a torsion similar to that of a kiss, a long awaited kiss, that can harm you. She opens her eyes when she stops singing, as if the look and the singing have the same origin and though, maybe, the same cause. The show continues, necessary, consequent. It arrives softly to "O Pomar das Laranjeiras" and when I listen to the first notes, my heart seems to want to break. It is a new Teresa, absolutely different. A Teresa that has definitely changed my certainties. She pronounces the first words while her body starts to bend like a solid body under an overwhelming pressure. A bending that seems to be caused by the weight of the music, as if the body of Teresa materializes over itself the spirit of the music, in order to sustain it. She shuts her eyes while the skin of her face stretchs and contracts in an unnatural way. The hand grabs firmly the microphone, as to make it a hold for a climb, an edge of a rock on which her heart shipwrecked. The other hand, the left one, rise toward the face, as it want to grab the hold dramatically small for two hands. The other hand, so, twists to the back, widely opened in the trial to open behind its nature's limit, in the manner of who is suffering too much to sustain and tries to drive away the pain to the limbs which are shakened, twisted and bent. The voice is unbelievable and for that reason my senses find a haven in the face of Teresa, in her hand vibrating for the stress. Teresa is incredibly beautiful. I have never seen her in that way; so really beautiful, so veraciously beautiful. Beautiful of a beauty which is showed and hidden in a malicious way; the make up is dark, charming and temptating. The dress is the contrast between two wills: one which don't want to charm and the other which want to seduce. It is a Teresa who is romp, girl, young woman but also teen-ager. It is a Teresa of a blasphemous beauty. Really blasphemous, because in its showing off there is a challenge, an outrage, the proposition of a divine of pagan, uman, sinful origin. As the "San Matthew and the angel" by Caravaggio was blasphemous not so much for the choice of how to describe the subject, but for the excessive beauty of the painting which make the subject something real, consistent, living, in the same way Teresa Salgueiro is blasphemous because concretize ideally that pair, that antinomy of holy and profane, of earthly and heavenly. Newton brought toghether the "two worlds", the earthly and the heavenly ones, through science. Teresa Salgueiro made it that night through singing. Teresa sang that song in a way that offended my ears, my ability to comprehend and all my feeling. I was offended because, for the first time, I discovered that is possible to make perceivable an intensity of feelings superior to that that I have ever felt. She altered the song, she gained possess of it, she materialized her loved one, the field of the orange trees (the "Pomar das Laranjeiras") and she became the author of that words and the protagonist of that story, of that love. I have never listened Teresa singing like that. The end of the song provokes an emotional fall, an abyss of silence, filled by the cries of my soul already addicted to that notes. The next song is "Amanha", "Morning", when Teresa become another one, she become joy, happyness and purity. She looks to the sky that her eyes have painted on the ceiling and it seems that she is really seeing that inexplicable cyan described in the song. She tells us her story and her face transfigure for the joy in that happyness that find genuinity in the reflection that has in whom is seeing it. It is instantly perceivable and, differently from the acted happyness, it flows from the glance, from the hands and from the voice and is able to change the life of whom is witnessing it. The concert ends describing the end of a natural cycle, accelerated and intensified by music. As water do, the music of Madredeus rised from the sea of music to the clear sky of the pure ideas and is now raining on us, quenching the thirst of the earth of our soul. And, as the sky after every rain, my soul has now a more intense, pure and true colour.

Corvinus

from the site Madredeus - O Porto - http://go.to/madredeus