Artist.......: Ana Moura
Album........: Aconteceu
Label........: World Village
Genre........: Ethnic
Catnr........: 468053
source.......: CDDA
rip.date.....: Aug-05-2007
str.date.....: Oct-10-2006
quality......: VBR/44,1Hz/Joint-Stereo
Url..........: www.anamoura.com
track title time
01. Por Um Dia 03:36
02. Ao Poeta Perguntei 02:07
03. O Que Foi Que Aconteceu 03:39
04. Ouvi Dizer Que Me Esqueceste 03:27
05. Fado de Pessoa 03:44
06. Amor de Uma Noite 03:13
07. Quero 03:03
08. Bailinho a Portuguesa 02:41
09. Creio 02:01
10. Atraves Do Meu Coracao 02:43
11. Como o Tempo Corre 03:00
12. Hoje Tudo Me Entristece 03:11
13. Passos Na Rua 03:01
14. Mouraria 02:18
15. Fado Menor 03:38
16. Dentro Da Tempestade 03:01
17. Cumplicidade 02:16
18. OMeu Amigo Joao 02:22
19. Venho Falar Dos Meus Medos 03:01
20. Nada Que Devas Saber 03:12
Runtime 59:14 min
Size 67,10 MB
Release Notes:
Ana Moura was a rock singer in her native Portugal
before succumbing the lure of fado, a folk-music
tradition related to American blues, Argentinean
tango, Greek rembetika, and even more closely to
Brazilian choro and Cape Verdean morna. Like its
aforementioned cousins, fado originated on the
wrong side of town. Black-clad shady ladies sang of
romantic disappointments and life on the wild side.
Although it is a poetry of despair, it is
nonetheless sensuously melodic, as well as
touchingly stoic, proud, and very adult. The slings
of fortune are not met with cringing, but rather a
sexy shrug. It has long since become somewhat
gentrified but fado has retained all of its
bittersweet passion and ability to break hearts,
especially when interpreted by a vocalist of Ms.
Moura's stature. Like the illustrious Amalia
Rodrigues, her band is graced by the talents of
composer-producer-arranger-guitarist Jorge
Fernando, whose taste and elegance have fashioned a
lush, string-driven acoustic setting for her
luscious cafΘ-au-lait alto. Her soaring trills of
ancient Moorish vintage rise above subterranean
depths of grief and angst, seeming to pierce the
very heavens with roundelays of indignant
resignation. --Christina Roden