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Author: Halle Eaton
Posted on: Wednesday, April 23, 2003
Cyro Baptista and Beat the Donkey: Joe's Pub 3/26/03
by Halle Eaton
There is no category that adequately describes Cyro Baptista and Beat the Donkey,
the multi-member avant-garde percussion band from Brazil that packed the house
at Joe’s Pub last Wednesday night. Performance art, dance troupe, even circus
might equally apply. So would dazzling, innovative, kinetic, mesmerizing, funny,
fun, silly, sexy. But in one word, the performance was wild. A bacchanalian
energy swirled around the otherwise sedate décor and lounge like atmosphere
of Joe’s Pub. The lights surrounding the stage glowed red and all across the
club candles flickered, bouncing off the mirrored surfaces of the tables and
the walls so that the air shimmered as with the light of a camp fire. When Cyro
Baptista emerged from the back in silver pants, a soccer jersey and a tall fur
hat, squeezing an instrument that looked like the didgeridoo of string instruments
but sounded like birds chirping, he set the tone for what was to follow: a fantastic
show centered around a continuously morphing train of sound.
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| Photograph by Josie Close |
To give an idea of just how unusual Cyro Baptista is, how their music blends
the art of performance with the exploration of sound, it would be helpful to
list some of the instruments used, or perhaps the more accurate word would be
invented, as some of these instruments were clearly created by the band for
the purpose of the show. First and foremost there were drums, as percussion
makes up the backbone of their music. There was: a drum set, a drum tree, a
trio of metal drums. A bongo, an antique coke advertisement, also a drum. a
man’s body – stomach, thighs and throat, a woman’s body. There was tap dancing
and clapping to perpetuate the beat evoking the nearby performance of Stomp.
Beer bottles were used as wind instruments. Cow bells, whistles and wind chimes
competed for recognition along with what can only be described as an instrument
made up of kazoos. Cymbals clashed. Gongs gonged. A washboard in the style of
a bullet proof vest was worn and played by Cyro Baptista. Drumsticks clacked
in the air. An instrument that was played like an accordion but sounded like
a harmonica. More conventional instrumentation included a female guitarist in
a sparkling feather shrug. A saxophonist in a Peruvian style headdress. Cyro
Baptista himself looked exotic in a fur hat and goatee, a cross between a guard
at the gates of Oz and Omar Sharif. The outfits in general were off-the-wall
-- headgear, soccer jerseys, fish net and parachute pants, adding to the carnival-like
atmosphere. There was a kind of Mad Max aesthetic going on, a post apocalyptic
dream of the past, in which trash is recycled to make music and instruments
are worn as clothes.
The music was layered and complex: a smorgasbord of sound, less formalized composition
and more orchestrated noise. But what powerful noise it was. Ideally Cyro Baptista
should be seen in a venue that encourages dancing because the beat is wicked,
impossible to resist. And though Joe’s Pub, arranged as it is around square
tables, promotes a more passive kind of viewing, by the end of the show people
were dancing as best they could in the cramped space. The audience was neither
old nor young, with a whiff of foreignness about it, the melodic cant of Portuguese
and the subtle fashion of other countries adding to mix of downtown music devotees.
People sat up on the banquettes and bobbed at their tables, straining over the
crowd. On the ground level, at one of the tables laid out in front of the stage,
an older man sat impassive, staring up at the musicians, his white head conspicuous
as much for its lack of movement as it was for its color, but mid-way through
the performance even he was nodding.
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| Photograph by Josie Close |
Many of the songs performed had no vocals, but for those that did the effect
varied widely. At the beginning of the show Cyro Baptista’s voice sounded like
the chant of a Buddhist monk; his words rushed out like an incantation in the
Witches in Mac Beth calling forth the spirits at the start of the production.
At other times he sounded more like a Brazilian Serge Gainsborough, loose and
foreign and cool. There was a lot of hooting and howling, from both the audience
and the performers. At one point it sounded as though a pack of hyenas were
just behind the curtains howling at the moon. The hooting, on the other hand,
evoked monkeys in the jungle. Whether it was generated by voice, soundtrack,
or the scrape of an instrument on edge, the effect was reminiscent of The Creatures,
an off-shoot of Siouxsie and the Banshees, whose name refers to their sound.
Highlights of the evening included a Balinese dancer who hovered over the band
in elegant costume as they sat in a line beating instruments that looked like
bronze tea pots. There was also tap-dancing and a mime-like performance in which
two musicians played kadema with a ball of sound. But in spite of the performance
heavy element, it was the music that captivated the audience, the driving, intoxicating
beat. You can think of them as a lounge band on acid or as a reggae-infused
group of jazz drunk magicians, but however you understand them Cyro Baptista
and Beat the Donkey is well worth seeing. Their music conveys a melting pot
of sound and experience and once tasted is not easily forgotten.
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