I recently visited Lisbon and came back with ten seconds of video and a memory. They lived rent-free in my head—until I wrote this.
The men take their places, picking up a Spanish guitar, a steel-stringed Portuguese guitar, and a double bass. She turns to face us, leans against the thick stone pillar behind her as if drawing strength from it, and offers a nervous smile. As the guitars begin their delicate, melodic introduction, she closes her eyes.
I raise my phone to capture my first live fado performance after years of listening to this unique music. But within seconds, I set it down, overwhelmed by the ethereal beauty of her voice. The room falls silent, cutlery stills, conversations cease. All eyes turn toward her. We are transfixed by her soft vibrato and the raw emotion of her opening lines.
Though few of us understand the words, we are drawn immediately into her world. We feel her melancholy, her “saudade,” that uniquely Portuguese sense of longing for something or someone lost.
Ten or fifteen minutes later, after just four songs, the lights come up, and she is gone. We don’t know which bar or fado club she came from, or where she disappears to now.
I’m left with my own “saudade” at her leaving. I have just ten seconds of video and the memory of a voice I may never hear again.
I don’t even know her name.