Revisiting A&M Records No. 26
Tamba 4: ‘We and the Sea’ (November ’67)
Now this is serious shit. Makes Sérgio Mendes seem exactly like the lightweight he was — highly capable, yes, and plenty enjoyable, just nowhere near the heavyweight class that this prodigious quartet was punching at by the time sunset fell on the Summer of Love.
I’d advise you to savor every second of leadoff suite ‘O Morro (The Hill)’ to fully grasp this group’s daring hybridization, but frankly you should only need the first minute (of eight) to spot all the threads being woven: delicately seductive samba and plush bossa nova, among other Brazilian delights; hard-bop jazz so untethered to rules and conventions that it’s almost a fresh form of post-bop; then add early 20th century classical innovations, heavy on the Gershwin, please, with hefty sides of Debussy and Rachmaninoff.
All of that doesn’t appear in every track. They were smart to use matching multifaceted epics (‘Consolacao’ is the other) as bookends cradling shorter pieces with less grand ambition, more sustained moods. Yet even within those digestible bits these cats are doing incredible things, flexing fills and filigree that flash like firecrackers without ever shattering the subtlety.
Jobim was the master composer of this movement, but he never let loose with off-the-charts musicianship like this.
This Creed Taylor production, one of CTI’s earliest (and still best) titles, is by far the most gobsmackingly great album I’ve yet unearthed from this A&M excavation. Gives me the same excited buzz and thrill of discovery I got from hearing Buena Vista Social Club for the first time.
No surprise, then, that this flawless jewel failed commercially, like so many buried masterpieces before and after it.
Tamba 4 was initially Tamba Trio, led by the extraordinarily nimble pianist Luiz Eça and bassist Bebeto (just Bebeto) and anchored by original drummer Helcio Melito, with all three players contributing remarkable close-harmony vocals. They scored a big hit in Brazil with ‘O Barquinho’ in ’62, then followed that with a version of Jorge Ben’s ‘Mas Que Nada’ far more swingin’ than Mendes’s more popular rendition, though that still garnered them international attention. (And would again in ’98 when Nike used that tune in a World Cup commercial.)
But in ’67 Eça and Bebeto reinvented the group, adding second bassist Dorio Ferreira (so Bebeto could play more flute) and the incredible batucada Ohana. Vocals were dramatically reduced; apart from Bebeto’s lead on ‘Moca Flor (Flower Girl)’ most singing inserts are of the lilting, wordless ba-ba-ba variety. Instead the focus shifted toward a stronger jazz sensibility — hence CTI’s interest — and expansive forms of Brazilian music, played with wild dexterity uncommon to a style for which exacting delicacy had been the norm.
That’s not an easy thing for audiences to have connected with, even in the progressive ‘60s. So it’s little wonder Tamba 4’s two records for A&M (plus a third that went unreleased until a few years ago) have remained under-appreciated, principally beloved by aficionados, and often hard-to-find, at least at reasonable prices.
I did manage to procure an original gatefold copy for under $20, but its sleeve has seen better days and the vinyl crackles more than I prefer for music with so many quieter passages.
So imagine my eye-popping surprise to find this recent reissue sitting in the just-released rack at Boo Boo Records in San Luis Obispo. Straight away it didn’t look like a proper UMe (Universal) repress, but there are so many boutique labels resurrecting all corners of catalogs these days that I didn’t give it a second thought; no chance was I leaving that behind.
Turns out it’s a European bootleg on a label dubbed Endless Happiness. The Russian writing near the (surely not adhered to) copyright information is a better clue of its country of origin. For the sake of a static-free spin, not to mention the shiny white cover, I’m happy to have it. But I can’t imagine parting ways with the original.
Sharper-looking and -sounding first pressings sell for $50-$75 and up. Thankfully, if you’re curious, this is streaming on Spotify and elsewhere.