Fabulous fado - when fate meets song

Fado. A traditional, soulful, powerful music of Portugal. Fado means fate and the lyrics of this music are about fate, or saudade (longing, yearning and nostalgia for something lost). 

Fado, much like opera, is music where I need not understand the language of the lyrics to feel the music envelope me; the emotions of it settle and sink into my pores and my own emotions begin to stir in response. I’ve found myself crying at a fado song without understanding a single word. Anything that has the power to make me react like that humbles me with the awareness that as much as I’m in control, I’m not. And giving in is all I can do.

I was first introduced to fado on my first visit to Portugal. My Heart Sister here and her husband said it was on the must-do list. We walked through the narrow, winding streets of the Alfama district, passing several restaurants before reaching the one he was seeking. The restaurant was small, the food was good but the music! The music! Captivating. I have no Portuguese blood in my lineage but I felt connected to this land and this history. 

On my second visit to Portugal, I experienced fado a bit differently — on a sunset river cruise in the Lisbon harbour. Seeing Lisbon from this viewpoint with its history accompanied by fado music, the music took on a different feel. 

This trip, my fado experience was at the yearly Alfama district fado festival. I had missed attending my last trip (by mere days) and I had carefully planned this trip to include time to take in a performance or two. 

My Heart Sister and I carefully studied the performance program and venues, and plotted the performances we could take in, including the wait times to get into the venues. Mother Nature, however, had a different plan for Day 2 of the festival — the day we would be attending — and blew in wind and rain — remnants of Cyclone Gabrielle. Because the organizers were responding to changing weather, venues shifted, performances were cancelled and our experience would be a mixture of figuring it out and attending what we could. 

The first event we were going to see was a rooftop concert that needed to be moved indoors because of rain. It was moved to a beautiful church at the very top of a hill, with narrow, killer steps made of cobblestones. So, the girl whose right knee is killing her and her trusty walking sticks (brought for navigating hilly, cobblestone paths) trudged them all — only to find that the last-minute switch had filled the church to capacity and there was nowhere to stand, never mind sit. As we turned to go, beautiful fado music drifted through the open church doors, a taste of what we could expect for the balance of our experience. With that promise in mind, we turned and made our way down the endless stairs and back into the heart of the Alfama.  

The Alfama district is the oldest neighborhood in Lisbon and one of the oldest in Europe. It’s a maze of narrow cobblestone streets, home to restaurants, shops (tourist and local) and homes that have the history of hundreds of years permeating their walls. The street signs are small and blend in with the walls making it hard to find your way around. The charm though is the mix of old and new — homes with electricity that have laundry hanging from the rail of a window overlooking the street. The cobblestone streets are crooked and narrow, crushed and discarded cigarette butts wedged into the cracks. There is graffiti. Both mural and unplanned sentiment — “Fuck Netanyahu" — tag some of the walls. And yet, both because of it all and despite all of it it holds a captivating charm that takes hold and invites me to belong for a moment, for an evening.

When we were back in the heart of it, we looked to find fado a janela — fado serenaded through open windows. Ever the romantic, I envisioned this to be how I would’ve wanted to be wooed in a different lifetime. But when we arrived to the location, we found that the planned janela had been moved or cancelled because of the weather. Despite our frantic digging, we found no information. 

It would’ve been so easy to become despondent at this point but neither my Heart Sister nor I wanted that. We both have perseverant attitudes. We were going to listen to fado, damn it, even if we had to sing it ourselves! Luckily for both of us and everyone else, it didn’t resort to that.

We did take in two amazing performances that stirred my soul. The first was in an athletic club where the acoustics are made to absorb boxing punches and not elevate fado singers. Despite that a beautiful, seasoned fado singer, Mariana Correl, took the sitting and standing audience to school with her voice that soared. Accompanied by a trio of musicians — one of them playing the magical Portuguese guitar — she entertained with her words and music. I sighed and sank into my chair, closed my eyes and allowed myself to be transported.

After her show, we made our way to the historic San Miguel church. Fuelled by street bifana sandwiches, we were energized to stand in line for one of the last performances of the festival. I have heard about the amazing acoustics in this historic church, about how the music drifts into the nooks and crannies before reverberating back into the sanctuary. 

The church, rebuilt between 1673 and 1720, is beautiful and ornate. A place where heart-stirring music that digs into your soul is meant to be played and enjoyed. We were able to get seats at the front for the next performance, a male fado singer and accompanying trio. The church was filling to capacity: the pews, the floor and a standing circle mesmerized by the deep voice filling the building.

The time passed too quickly. The performance softly coming to a close.

The final note faded and the audience remained silent before exploding into applause. Then we turned en masse and exited into the rainy Lisbon night. Stepping onto cobblestones that leaked the fado music.

My Heart Sister and I chatted about what we experienced, giggled at a few different things, shook our heads at a few others. Fado music is one more reason why I call this place my second home and why I understand the meaning of soledade just a bit.