Dancing on the Douro
Story by Everett O’Flaherty
All concert photography property of Michael Winetrob
On a sunny October afternoon the Ship of Fools left the Frexio Pier in Porto, Portugal. She was rigged for two crews–one of captains, first mate and the like; and another with conductor, strings, horns, keys and percussion. Together with an intimate group of around 125 lucky soon-to-be-friends we cruised up the Douro river. Our deck was loaded with some of America’s all-stars in the jam band community causing what can only be described as a rainbow full of sound.
How, you might ask, did a literal boatload of American music fanatics end up on the Douro river? Well, the world has Matt Butler to thank for that. Matt’s project Everyone Orchestra has been leading musicians through improvisational concerts for twenty three years. He is in effect and appearance a conductor. He dresses the part in beautifully hand painted and embroidered jackets with sweeping tails and hat calling to mind something between the leader of a second line parade in New Orleans and the conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra. Each performance has a unique lineup–intentionally assembled with musicians who do not regularly play together. Matt guides his ensemble by writing musical keys and phrases on a tablet such as, “G Major” or “Crescendo!” The visual cues are paired with wild but deliberate hand gestures and often times shows end with a series of high energy jumps more akin to an athlete than a musician.
Though this was the inaugural Musical Sojourns event it was certainly not Matt Butlers first foray into international waters with a boat load of musicians. Matt’s been an integral part of Jam Cruise for years and has led trips with other outfits in Venice, Barcelona and Lisbon–where we first met. The lineup for the event in Porto featured twenty American and twenty Portuguese musicians. Representing our home country as ambassadors of sound were members of Fruition, Trey Anastasio Band, Greensky Bluegrass, Railroad Earth and more. The local sound ranged from an acapella choir rooted in the preservation of traditional shepherd songs to one of Portugal’s top modern jazz trios. These musicians integrate and share the stage with their American counterparts yielding actual once-in-a-lifetime performances. Condense
Lastly, before getting into the literal and figurative meat and potatoes of the week there’s one final bit of important context to give for this event. Hotel Mouco, our home base for the week, is deliberately designed to host music retreats. Each room is outfitted with a record player with access to an extensive international vinyl library. You can call in instruments to be delivered by room service. Above, there’s a rooftop pool overlooking the garden and patio. Below there’s a full-fledged private nightclub next to its restaurant. This fills the wishlist for a music lover, on a musical adventure, to the last detail.
Stepping out of Francisco Sá Carneiro Airport into the temperate October climate of northern Portugal was a relief well earned by a day of travel. Neither hot nor cold, just a comfortable 75o with light breeze. The flight my life partner, Hilary, and I took was un-delayed but did require a short layover in Paris – just enough time for oysters and macarons. Our good pal Cody from Philadelphia greeted us with, “Ohmigado,! Guys, let’s get the party started!” A humorous riff on his most confident Portuguese phrase, obrigado–meaning thank you. On our first trip together to Portugal that became his multi-meaning catch phrase representing a myriad of emotions by whatever South Philly flared tone it was spoken with.
Fortunately, Porto’s metro system connects with the airport yielding an easy transport into the city. After a brief assessment of our routes, I suggested taking the train presently in front of us. Hilary confidently volleyed back saying, “I know this isn’t the right train, we should wait.” My excitement to get into town overrode the perennial good idea of taking Hilary’s counsel. Like most airport-to-city-center lines in the world, this provided an excellent opportunity to observe a blurred slideshow of Portuguese suburban life. There’s kids playing football (soccer) in the streets, colorful arrays of laundry hung from balconies backed by patterned tiles and an overall picture of life unobstructed by the trinket shops and tourist-subsidized restaurants of the city center.
The final stop of our journey set us in the middle of our home neighborhood for the week, Bonfim. On our short walk of several blocks to Hotel Mouco we passed cafe service windows adorned with hanging presunto (Portuguese dry cured ham), queijo (cheese), our noses filled with that yeasty, almost sour, smell of fresh bread. White puffs of cloud drifted in a bright blue sky. Beautiful people with dark hair and olive skin were drinking tall and narrow mugs of crystal clear beer, garnet colored wine and even smaller glasses of port.
Upon check in at Hotel Mouco we were greeted by more old friends and a massive wall of vinyl records to peruse. I set on it like a bookworm in a foreign library finally selecting Miles Davis, Kind of Blue and Ali Farka Toure, Savane.
Porto, I should state, is a beautiful city. It has an even mix of long boulevards, cosy winding side streets and vistas overlooking the Douro from either side. The river splits the city in half and as you get closer to it, the older the architecture gets. Its colors are mostly muted with the exception of the brilliant white and blue tile mosaics that are endemic to Porto. Those muted colors are indicative of the earthen hues that surround it in the Douro Valley and its Atlantic coast. After two days of exploring its hills, coastal neighborhoods and successfully finding a home base for quick bites and late night sustenance the rest of our group of merrymakers started to file in.
Our first evening with the group together as a whole started with a three hour garden party fueled with small batch wines unavailable in the U.S. Mostly known for Port, Portugal makes some of the best wine in the world. Less than 10% of it leaves the country. While only the size of Indiana, there’s great regional diversity in terroir here. Portuguese wine is generally exceptional and drinks way above its price tag.
To accompany this lovely wine, local accordionist Patricia Pereira serenaded us with both the sweet and the savory sides of Portuguese song, playing a mix of cheerful folk tunes and fado. Fado is to Portugal as the blues is to America–a style of music born from the yearning for those sailors lost at sea. While listening I agitated a lavender bush with my hands and breathed it in deeply. Dinner was provided by the hotel restaurant and aimed to introduce the uninitiated to the wide variety of food Portugal has to offer. Having had it’s empire stretch across the Atlantic to Brazil, around both coasts of Africa, India and then further east with trading posts in what is now Indonesia, Vietnam, Macau and even Nagasaki there is no shortage of culinary influence.
After dinner we descended into Hotel Mouco’s caverns for a multi-cultural night of dancing and merriment led by Portuguese Indi-folk stars Retimbrar. Their young front woman commanded attention with a powerful gaze similar to Frida Kahlo’s. The girls on stage requested a volunteer to assist in teaching us Portuguese folk dance and Cody was sacrificed to the stage. They led us through movements reminiscent of the square dances called in barns throughout Appalachia. We stepped forward and back, holding hands in line to the beat of a big drum. As concentric circles formed the crowd alternated in direction, drawing in and out like a great lung. There were so many movements most of us lost count and derived to fits of laughter and breathlessness. Sometime after midnight our good pal Tuck Ryan took to the keys and turned the hotel lobby into a New Orleans style house party. Musicians stopped in to listen and a good handful jumped on the bench with him to duet a tune or two.
Tuesday morning was a dream. We woke up slowly, cracking our porch door to hear Tikyra Jackson’s velveteen voice percolate through greenery and flowers, finally landing in our ears like a feather blown in on the breeze. This simultaneously made it impossible to get out of bed, and necessary to do so. Fortunately, we only needed walk up a flight of stairs to the pool. From our watery perch above the courtyard we could see several neighborhood residents listening from their own balconies–what a beautiful treat that must have been.
That afternoon we flaneured a little further into the heart of Porto, eventually heading to it’s grandest social club, the Ateneu Comercial. This gold gilded bastion of high society showcased the Portuguese’ long lasting affinity for entertaining. The face of the building resembles many others on it’s street, humble un-ornate stonework. Upon ascending the main staircase it divides into two curling wings, sweeping you upward towards its banquet hall. The maintenance on the plaster moulding must in itself be a full time job. In front of blood red velvet curtains and ringed in gold, fado master Bernardo Couto played his Portuguese guitar (resembling a lire) while Hilary and I perused the society’s art collection under the influence of white port and tonic. Members of Greensky Bluegrass, Fruition and Holly Bowling closed out the night recalling all of us wanderers back to the beautiful main hall.
Wednesday morning Hilary and I strolled down hill to Tasquinha Rebelo, our favorite neighborhood haunt for bifanas. The bifana is one of Portugals many treasured offerings to the gods of meat and bread. Inspired by the peppery flavors of Mozambique’s piri piri, it’s suspected Portuguese soldiers brought the concept back after being stationed there in it’s colonial days. A warm roll, soft on the inside but with a crisp crust is stuffed with pepper-stewed thinly sliced pork–au jus. Laura, our patient hostess, entrepreneur and neighborhood mother serves this good stuff six days a week in a cosy space just big enough for ten guests. Like many tasuinhas there is also a bar outside mounted to the wall to eat on the fly. I recommend washing this delicacy down with a cold Super Bock, the official beer of the north.
After ordering three more bifanas to go (because, I really didn’t want to go more than an hour without eating one) we realized we needed to make haste to the river. Ultimately deciding it was faster to walk than catch a cab, our lunch crew rushed down the hill towards the Freixo Pier. There is something inherently mysterious about large bodies of water–wether they be rivers, lakes or oceans. The air smelt of brackish water and the early decay of autumn. The Douro river is as wide as the Mississippi at it’s mouth, but flanked by steep hills decorated in buildings older than our nation. It’s a big river, with a huge historical significance. It was at this very mouth that Portugal’s post-golden age economy flourished. This was the stage for a trade relationship with England that at a number of times, funded Portugal’s sustained independence from their bravados neighbor, Spain. If hills could talk, these ones would have a lot to say.
This was the event I was most looking forward to, both because of setting and sound. I worked in the wine industry for a stint in my early twenties and still very much love the history of good juice. Moving up river under one of Porto’s six bridges I gleefully returned waves and smiles to the pedestrians above. This bridge, Ponte Luiz I, being the only with a lower level open to foot traffic, enabled it’s passerby’s to hear our jubilee on approach. We were now passing by Porto’s iconic port houses on the northern bank of the river. Seeing the traditional rabelo (small barges) transporting barrels of the good stuff to it’s urban home while being under the influence of that same ruby nectar was a wondrous connection. Experiencing that moment set with a real-life soundtrack provided by some of my favorite musicians was sublime.
Thursday was spent on the Foz do Douro promenade meandering our way from grilled octopus, to spritz, to ice cream and back again. The section of coast north of the Douro’s mouth is home to a five mile paved walking path lined almost in its entirety with restaurants and bars specializing in tapas style seafood. There are great wide sandy beaches reminiscent of southern California and granite boulders hiding slivers of sand you would expect to find in Sicily. I recommend Praia Homem do Leme for grilled prawns with garlic and a glass of vino verde.
Tonight was the night to bust out the finery and shine up our shoes. Our crew reunited at the neoclassical Palácio da Bolsa for a soirée in it’s crown jewel–the Arabian room. Palácio da Bolsa began construction in 1842 at the site of the former stock exchange. This venue I will argue over all others that photo’s just don’t do it justice. Though much smaller, the level of detail rivals that of the palace of Versailles. Guests enter through an absolutely enormous hall the size of Union Station in D.C.. The mosaic floor in the main hall is centered around an eight point star aligned under a massive conservatory style glass ceiling–framed by frescoes.
Though the great hall would be a show stopping space for a concert there is another room, smaller but more precious. Up a most magnificent marble and granite staircase awaits the Arabian room. Born out of the late 19th century revival of Moorish architecture this room was built with the intention of showing off Portugal’s importance and richness to foreign investors. Imagine an ode to Babylon–I have never seen so much gold leaf in my life. What is not adorned in gold is painted with blues, greens and rich reds that echo a palette lost to the annals of time. Every inch of surface is a fractal masterpiece begging you to examine it closer, seducing the inspector with it’s endless worth. Our resident pianist extraordinaire Holly Bowling started off the night on the grand piano with her solo arrangements of classic Grateful Dead songs. These renditions, without their vocal accompaniment are arguably more powerful in their reach. She leaves the story to be filled in by the listener. Appropriately, Holly’s final piece played solo was Brokedown Palace–a song about the sweet relief of crossing that “final river”. As the song was ending I looked around to see just about everyone reaching for a tissue, or the inside of a friends shirt to dry their eyes. Later in the evening all the female performers gathered to provide us with their collective sirens call under the name Damas Nocturnas–encoring the evening with TLC’s Waterfalls.
On Friday afternoon, I did my best to re-up my salt content shed the night before with a walking feast of northern Atlantic oysters, shrimp and sea urchin at the Bolhão open air market. The market is in a large limestone courtyard guarded by two stories of restaurants and porticos. Bolhão is filled with hundreds of varieties of olives, fresh oysters, roe, gooseneck barnacles, wine, flowers, charcuterie, you name it. This place is to the Roman Empire as the Whole Foods deli section is to a elementary school student government. It’s a mecca of culinary wonder and a place you should not have a plan when you enter. Just let your eyes and nose guide you.
We were chasing percebes (or Gooseneck Barnacles) all over the city with no luck even though they were in peak season. The little buggers look like an H.R. Giger creation for the set of Alien–think pinky sized sleeves coated in soft lizard like scales tipped with what can only be mistaken for the devils mutated fingernails. Whoever the first brave man or woman was to suck out the innards of such a horrifying creature was rewarded with a salty and slippery sea-treat from Poseidon himself. I place them on the list between oysters and sea urchin. The barnacles we saw in market that day were long and slender, even more ominous than their chunky counterparts we indulged with in 2019. Tuck’s wife Hilary (who we call Hilar-B referring to her maiden name) dove in like an apprehensive contestant on fear factor. Unfortunately, her bravery did not reward her. I had been overhyping these little devil fingers for six months and what we got at market that day did not satisfy. Rather than being plump and tight they were limp and wormy. Note to self: avoid them entirely if pencil thin.
With salt replenished and eyes ready to cry some more we headed to Igreja do Carmo to hear a group of young women engaged in the sacred act of musical preservation. Sopa de Pedra specialize in ancient tonal shepherd music endemic to the north of Portugal. The venue, Igreja do Carmo is a baroque period church rich with all the gory symbolism Christianity has to offer. It also has the most famous azulejo tile mosaic in the city, comprised of a collection of blue and white porcelain. It appears from the outside to be two buildings but, it’s actually three. On the right, Igreja do Carmo is a monastery. On the left, a convent. Between the two is the most narrow building in the country. At 5 feet wide, a buffer building was added for those in administrative positions to live in to prevent illicit interaction between the monks and nuns. The five piece vocal ensemble began their performance using two tuning forks to dial in a beautifully harmonized vocal drone that served as an acoustic foundation for the other three members to build upon in melody. The style of musical arrangement long predates the incorporation of modern song structure. Lending itself to sound somewhere between Tibetan chanting and Celtic ballad. There is probably an influence from both here given Portugal’s lengthy history as a seafaring people venturing north and the Moorish influence that spread as far as the Asian plateau on one side and through north Africa and to the Iberian peninsula on the other.
Our last day was both joyous and melancholy and we reflected on the week’s events, exchanged contact information and the engaged in the making of future plans. Scramble Campbell, the unofficial house artist of Red Rocks Amphitheater fame, who had been present all week doing live paintings of each show, held an auction of his colorful work. A dinner was had, wine was poured and that creeping feeling that the party was almost over started to awaken within. The group of once-were-strangers walked together down the stairs to Hotel Mouco’s club one more time, taking each step a little slower, savoring it before our final collaboration. Matt Butler appeared on stage dressed to the nines with top hat and tails ready to lead us off into the sunset. By Matt’s ever positive words our anticipation of the end was replaced with a sense of joy for the present. Everyone was there. Every musician that had given us their great gift through the week was on the stage or in the wings waiting to hop up. All the fixers and local guides were there too. Many of them not knowing what they were about to participate in.
Again, Everyone Orchestra is just that, an orchestra. So, Matt began casting spells with his magic hands, calling in the strings, then percussion and horns – now the keys! The audience frolicked through the genre bending field of sound – yielding to influences of blues, Afro beats, jazz and folk. We danced and laughed, often spilling a bit of wine in accidental tribute to Dionysus.
Matt took the stage to speak once more to thank all of us, genuinely, for participating in such a remarkable event. In conclusion he said, “When you get home, good luck explaining any of this!”
