#Brazilian Vinyls

[ballerinarina]

call me so we can kiss between your gal costa and maria bethânia records 🍂

[soulfulinvention]

[mamoods]

Verde que te Quero Rosa, 2023

Allan Machado

[ghostieking]

pile of LPs I scored for free today plus some highlights

[mywifeleftme]

253: Gilberto Gil // Gilberto Gil [1968]

Gilberto Gil Gilberto Gil 1968, Philips

Robert Christgau and I find ourselves in the same boat when it comes to understanding tropicália. Here’s the first line of the Dean’s capsule review of Gilberto Gil’s Soy Loco Por Ti America (1988): “Milton Nascimento and Caetano Veloso are aesthetes like, to be kind, Joni Mitchell; Gil is a pop adept like Stevie Wonder, which I'd probably think was kind to Stevie if I understood Gil's lyrics.” Like Christgau, I’m stuck on the wrong side of Portuguese but gravitate more toward the exuberant weirdness of a Gil or a Tom Zé than I ever have to the comparatively restrained Veloso (though I like some of Nascimento a lot). Language barrier or no, Gilberto Gil’s first self-titled record from 1968 (sometimes called Frevo Rasgado after its first track) is among the most colourful LPs of the first psychedelic era, and on pure sonics I’d make the case for it as the equal of anything that emerged from the Anglo-American axis during the period.

As with other tropicália touchstones, while Gil borrows many of the aesthetics of psych pop (its vivid, lysergic pomp and tasty electric guitar textures principally), his compositions are still founded in samba and bossa jazz, which means these songs are much nimbler and more rhythmically complex than those of his counterparts in the Northern Hemisphere. For every track that plunges directly into acid rock (a la the swaggering blues of “Coragem pra suportar”), there are three that ecstatically cartwheel from zanily-orchestrated hook to hook; on wildly gesticulating songs like “Marginalia II” and “Frevo Rasgado” I can see what Christgau’s getting at when he says Gil writes showtunes. Gil’s lyrics survive translation better than most, and they’re a lot bleaker than you’d expect, chafing under the military dictatorship that would imprison and then exile him and his friend Veloso in 1969. Yet there’s also something about his vocalizations that you just kinda get. Perhaps inspired by his youthful collaborators, the irrepressible Dadaist weirdos Os Mutantes, Gil gibbers, scats, and raves his way through the LP: at the record’s hottest, like “Pega a voga, cabeludo,” it feels like a maniac conga line winding its way through your home.

Prices on recent reissues of Gil, Veloso, Gal Costa, etc. amount to highway robbery, though I was able to get my copy of Gilberto Gil for quite cheap as it’s an unauthorized (but quite good) Russian pressing. However you get your hands on it, the album earns its reputation as a classic of Brazilian and world music that I think every pop music lover should hear.

253/365

[leodarno]

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

🎛️

Não temos culpa de nascer no terceiro mundo!

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

FILE UNDER: VETERANS DAY, ANTI-WAR, GRAPHIC ART, SLEEVE ART, '80s HARDCORE PUNK, BRAZILIAN HARDCORE PUNK, ETC...

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on the "Botas, Fuzis, Capacetes" 7 inch EP by Brazilian hardcore punk band OLHO SECO, released by the Punk Rock Discos label in their native Brazil in 1983.

REVIEW: "More great thrash from OLHO SECO. The high end of the mix is less piercing here than on the "Grito Suburbano" album; the guitar on “Muito Obrigado” suffers a bit for it, but the other two tracks blast along like a speeding bullet train. Hot!"

-- MAXIMUM ROCKNROLL, c. summer 1983

REVIEWER: Jeff Bale

LABEL: Punk Rock Discos

ISSUE: MRR #7 • July/August 1983

Sources: www.picuki.com/media/3472258916383835378, Maximum Rocknroll (official), various, etc...

[niharsavala]

Listen/purchase: Acute Fun Monopoly by Nihar

Recorded, Produced & Mixed at Mastosho Studios

Mastered by John McCaig, panicStudios

Artwork by Avalokitaa

[dilemmaontwolegs]

What a Mess || CL16

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!reader Summary: After the disastrous start to the Brazilian GP, Charles needs an outlet Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, smut, oral, rough sex, choking WC: 1.3k

Charles didn’t say a word as he navigated his way through the garage to you. His team patted his back and offered words of consolation but he didn’t feel them, he didn’t hear them. All Charles needed was an outlet for the blood pulsing through his body with all the rage of an inferno.

You were on your feet as soon as you saw him round the corner and though you couldn’t see his eyes through the visor of his helmet you knew that they would have darkened with the storm of emotions ravaging him. He didn’t stop as he reached you, merely reaching out after ripping the glove off his hand and grasping your upper arm to tow you along with him.

“Charles, I’m so sor-”

“Don’t,” he spat, the tone clipped and acerbic. “Don’t say another word.”

You kept your lips closed and nodded as you let him guide you out of the sight of his team. The garage wasn’t as permanent as some of the other tracks, with temporary walls erected from thin materials, so silence was needed when he shut the door to his driver room. You watched as Charles grabbed a chair and shoved the metal back up under the door handle before testing its durability. 

Your fingers were already reaching for the zipper at the side of your dress as he tugged his helmet off his head and let it fall to the concrete floor with a crack. He tugged his balaclava off next and dumped it next to your dress at your feet as you reached for him. For a moment he closed his eyes and let you cradle his face, the lack of crease lines on his cheeks showing just how little he spent wearing the protective gear. You would do anything to see Charles race again - really race, like he did last year. 

Somehow he still had hope for next year.

But what he needed now, well, Ferrari couldn’t give that to him. Only you could give him what he needed. An escape.

“Turn around,” he whispered as he caught your hands and pulled them away from his face. “Bend over.”

You complied in an instant, eager for the pleasure he promised and the high he was chasing. Your hands spread across his massage table as you pressed your front down onto the cold black vinyl and heard the velcro snap of his collar before the zipper was dragged down his race suit.

“Don’t make a sound,” he breathed across your skin and you shivered with delight as dropped to his knees behind you. “Fuck, you’re already so wet for me.”

His palms grasped your ass, roughly massaging them as he watched you squirm on the table impatiently. Next came his teeth, a chuckle following the bite to the sensitive skin at the back of your thigh as your back stiffened with the sounds you barely suppressed. His strong hands pushed your stance wider and his breath was heavy at the sight before him.

Finally. Finally, he buried his head between your legs and dragged his tongue along your slit. You couldn’t hear his moan when he tasted you but you could feel the vibrations on your core and your nails nearly pierced the vinyl at the sensation.

Charles worked you into a frenzy with his lips, his teeth, his tongue. He wasn’t happy until your legs could barely hold you without buckling and your silence was broken with a muffled cry. One orgasm rolled into the next and you lost yourself in the heady feeling, your mind empty save for the man who rose to his feet behind you.

“You’re a mess,” he whispered in your ear as he draped his body over yours, pride thick in his tone. You relished the weight that pinned you in place and the warmth of his skin on yours, barely being able to remember when he had stripped his fireproofs off. Charles’ hand fisted your hair and turned your head to crane back enough to see his green eyes jaded. “You’re a mess, just like me.”

Whatever argument you might have put up was swallowed by his kiss and it was just as messy with teeth and tongue. You melted at the growl he gave as he won the fight for dominance as he always did and a hand slipped between your bodies as he lined himself up with your entrance. 

“Putain,” he swore as he reverted back to his native tongue. Your neck was still strained and the ability to talk or even swallow was almost impossible but still a strangled sound escaped as he snapped his hips and filled your cunt with one hard thrust. “Shhh, ma chat.”

You tried, you really tried, but your brain was no longer connected to your body as he fucked you into a mindless state. Your eyes rolled back into your head with each long stroke and your ability to breathe was lost when he bent his knees and somehow found a deeper angle. 

There was no hope of keeping quiet when he found the sweet spot deep inside you and whatever he saw on your face had his hand curling around your throat. The sound that was building deep in your chest was choked with his tightening fingers and your heartbeat began to throb in your ears. 

Your head spun and your body reacted, your hips bucking and your core tightening. Just when you thought you were going to have to reach for his hand, his fingers loosened and your lungs gasped for fresh air before it was stolen again. He knew what you could handle, and you knew you could trust him. He needed this as much as you did. He needed to be in control of something when it seemed everything was out of his reach. You were more than willing to let him control you. 

This time when your orgasm came your cunt clenched tight around his cock and he trembled at the feeling. He called you his vice, in every sense of the word, and he relinquished the control he had yearned for as he lost himself in his own blissful release. 

For a few moments he just lay there, draped across your body like a comforting blanket but all too soon the noise of the world around returned to your drumming ears and reality drew him from you. 

“Why the fuck am I so unlucky?” he asked as he swiped his clothes from the floor, but you weren’t sure if he was asking the universe, himself or you.

“There’s no such thing as luck, Charles,” you answered anyway. His eyes flicked to you and watched your skin disappear beneath the dress you pulled back on. “Ferrari is unreliable. If you want to change your ‘luck’, start with changing your team.”

“You know I can’t do that,” he sighed. He kicked the chair aside that blocked the door before opening it and brushing his sweaty hair back into place. “I’ll see you tonight?”

He shouldn’t have had to ask and his insecurities only made you sad as you stepped closer to him. You caught his chin between your thumb and forefinger, tipping his head down so you could see your reflection in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

His smile almost chased away the shadows on his face before he kissed you, soft and gentle this time. “I should go.”

“You smell like sex.”

He froze and realised he hadn’t even been thinking clearly enough to wash his face and after running his tongue over his lips he could still taste you. A real smile grew on his face and his head fell forward to touch yours with a laugh. “Oh my god, I told you I am a mess.”

“Yes, you are,” you agreed with a laugh as you closed the door again. “But this is a mess that I can help with. Come on, take a seat, it’s my turn to boss you around.”

[fadeintoyou1993]

was literally just dreaming about this w my brother and we went to check and literally over +R$500 in the conversion to reais LMFAOOO yeah im never having this vinyl girl

im sorry for moaning like that

[brightgoat]

was naming the stand dimesion 'the flipside' a fnaf reference? i asked on twitter but im brazilian so even if you answered i cant see it now

Nope, it's named the flipside as a reference to the 'flipped side' of a vinyl record.

[mywifeleftme]

150: Luiz Carlos Vinhas // O som psicodélico de L.C.V.

O som psicodélico de L.C.V. Luiz Carlos Vinhas 1968, CBS (Bandcamp)

This album is so fucking good, ay ay ay. Pianist Luiz Carlos Vinhas was a founding member of the bossa nova movement who played with the instrumental trio Bossa Três; as a sideman for Jorge Ben and many others; and released a handful of solo records, of which his ’64 debut Novas Estruturas (New Structures) is the most acclaimed—though it’s sadly as desperately rare as the rest of his catalogue. A fine album in its own right, Novas Estruturas is laid back bossa jazz that will class up any joint lucky enough for it to be played in, but 1968’s O som psicodélico de L.C.V. (The Psychedelic Sound of L.C.V.) is on a different level. In the four years since his debut, Vinhas has clearly drawn influence from the burgeoning Tropicália movement. If L.C.V.’s not quite as deliciously off-meds as Gilberto Gil or Tom Zé’s releases from the same year, it’s at least their equal in colour and pure festive pleasure.

The trio of Vinhas originals on the A-side testify to the album’s carnivalesque range: on “Tanganica” (possibly named for a province in the Congo) simulated birdcalls scream around a twanging electric guitar, samba percussion, and a series of stirring trumpet solos; on the militant “Yê-Melê” (which Sérgio Mendes would cover the following year), the music switches between pounding Afro-Cuban piano and strafing organ runs, while a chorus of female vocalists and a group of trumpeters take turns riling up the audience; “Zize-Baio” (Google Translate shrugs its shoulders at me) is pure pop, with a rising instrumental hook that continues to build pleasure until the song cuts just over two minutes in and you feel a little ruffled it’s over so soon. But life goes on, and Vinhas’s band throw everything at you: a stunning rendition of Horace Silver’s “Song to My Father,” a trio of inventive medleys on the B-side that find time for Ary Barroso and “Chatanooga Choo-Choo” alike, the attack of pure mania that is the motormouthed “O Dialogo” (another Vinhas original), and on and on.

Only reissued for the first time in 2020 by Mad About Records, my copy is a weird bootleg that appears to be from ’68 and is identical to the hyper-rare original release, aside from differently coloured labels on the disc itself. Considering the price of bossa nova original pressings, I feel lucky to have it, and though I’m no expert in the genre, it’s hard to imagine this ever falling from its high perch among my favourites.

150/365

[leodarno]

[cognitivejustice]

Luis Cassiano is the founder of Teto Verde Favela, a nonprofit that teaches favela residents how to build their own green roofs as a way to beat the heat without overloading electrical grids or spending money on fans and air conditioners. He came across the concept over a decade ago while researching how to make his own home bearable during a particularly scorching summer in Rio.

Over the next 10 years, his nonprofit was born and green roofs started popping up around the Parque Arará community, on everything from homes and day care centers, to bus stops and food trucks.

Summer heat has been known to melt water tanks during the summer in Rio, which runs from December to March. Pictured is the water tank at Luis Cassiano's house. He covered the tank with bidim, a lightweight material conducive for plantings that will keep things cool.

Luis Cassiano outside his green-roofed home in Rio de Janeiro.

"When the elite build, they plan," says Cassiano. "They already consider putting green roofs on new buildings, and old buildings are built to code. But not in the favela. Everything here is old and goes up any way it can."

Without the oversight of engineers or architects, and made with everything from wood scraps and daub, to bricks and cinder blocks, construction in favelas can't necessarily bear the weight of all the layers of a conventional green roof.

That's where the bidim comes in. Lightweight and conducive to plant growth — the roofs are hydroponic, so no soil is needed — it was the perfect material to make green roofs possible in Parque Arará. (Cassiano reiterates that safety comes first with any green roof he helps build. An engineer or architect is always consulted before Teto Verde Favela starts a project.)

And it was cheap. Because of the bidim and the vinyl sheets used as waterproof screening (as opposed to the traditional asphalt blanket), Cassiano's green roofs cost just 5 Brazilian reais, or $1, per square foot. A conventional green roof can cost as much as 53 Brazilian reais, or $11, for the same amount of space.

"It's about making something that has such important health and social benefits possible for everyone," says Ananda Stroke, an environmental engineering student at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro who volunteers with Teto Verde Favela. "Everyone deserves to have access to green roofs, especially people who live in heat islands. They're the ones who need them the most."