A song often says more about the spirit of a country and its people than guidebooks, hefty volumes, or itineraries that ambitiously promise an “authentic experience.” That’s why, in the “Musical Postcards” series, I bring together a selection of five songs from different countries – without rigid methodology or grand criteria. Whatever I happen to catch along the way, whatever slips easily into the ear, carries the atmosphere of a place and tells a good story, earns its own postcard.
1) Samba de Raiz: “Conselho” (2002)
“Leave bad energy behind, lift your head and face hardship / Every experience carries a lesson / Why complain, when life can bring you someone who will truly love you – and the pain will fade / You have to fight, not lose heart, and surrender yourself only to the one who deserves you / My advice is simple: be happy…”
We begin with a more familiar song and scene. On Brazilian streets, music breathes from the first light of morning to the evening sweat on your skin. Men dance in the middle of the pavement, hugging each other with cold beer in their hands, while singing street vendors call you over through the smell of fried food, inviting you to join them. Just as the houses in the favelas are painted in impossible colours – turquoise, lemon yellow, faded pink – samba becomes a bright wash over the cracks of life. If we cannot be rich, we will be inventive; we will find a way to decorate living itself.
And somewhere around here, we Westerners – forever hunting for meaning – make a mistake. We too easily romanticise joy and attach it to poverty, repeating the lazy sentence: “They have nothing, but they are happy.” The truth is less comfortable, yet far more courageous: people are not happy because of poverty, but in spite of it. We choose, their philosophy says, to be grateful and joyful. Pain and problems exist – no one denies them – but instead of letting them pin us down, we look for a rhythm that helps us endure. I control what I can and accept what I cannot. And like a friend from the neighbourhood, the chorus keeps returning with the same message: tem que lutar – you have to fight, keep moving, keep circling.
It is no coincidence that samba and capoeira were born in communities on the periphery, from bodies that never stop swaying and pulsing. Movement is salvation. As long as you are moving, you are still in the game.
2) Raul Seixas: “Metamorfose Ambulante” (1973)
“I would rather be a walking transformation than hold on to old opinions about everything / Today I may say the opposite of what I said before / About love – about the fact that I don’t even know who I am / If I am a star today, tomorrow I may already be burned out / If I hate you today, tomorrow I may love you / It is boring to reach the finish line all at once / I want to live inside this constant, walking metamorphosis…”
This, too, is a song about movement – but an inner one. Gentle and melancholic, it feels made for that slow, sun-drenched moment after lunch, when the world briefly pauses, and a sense of calm and reflection settles in.
But calm is not the same as stillness, the poet reminds us. Life keeps flowing, slipping through our fingers, changing shape even as we try to hold on to it – and its beauty lies precisely in that instability. I find peace not in certainty, but in uncertainty. In the restless not-knowing, even about who I am. A stable self may be nothing more than an illusion we tell ourselves so we can feel safer while the scenery around us constantly shifts. Sometimes the idea of one day turning to stone – becoming a fossilised version of myself – frightens me so much that I deliberately change my mind, just to prove the story is not finished yet.
I remember this song from the soundtrack of City of God (Cidade de Deus), one of the most powerful Brazilian films ever made. Brazil is a society of immense contrasts and collisions. Amid political upheaval, social inequality, and cultural hybridity, rigid beliefs can only become chains around your ankles. The ones who survive are those who know how to change.
Singer Raul Seixas created during the hippie-era 1970s, at times collaborating with writer Paulo Coelho. Inspired by the controversial occultist Aleister Crowley, he dreamed of founding an anarchist community in Brazil’s Minas Gerais region. But Brazil was under military dictatorship at the time, and instead of a commune, he and Coelho ended up facing imprisonment, torture, and later exile.
3) Clara Nunes: “Canto das Três Raças” (1977)
“No one ever heard the cry of pain inside Brazil’s song / A mournful lament has always echoed / Since the Indigenous warrior was taken into slavery and sang from there / The Black man sang a song of rebellion into the air / It echoes day and night, deafening in its force / Ah, what agony / The worker’s song, which should be a song of joy / Sounds only like a cry of sorrow / From war to peace, from peace back to war / The people of this land, whenever they sing, sing of pain…”
“Song of the Three Races” is the collective trauma of a nation set to music. It was performed by Brazil’s so-called “Queen of Samba,” Clara Nunes – a symbol of mixed Brazil and a voice for the marginalised at a time when, under military dictatorship, social criticism often had to slip through metaphor.
The song does not celebrate harmony among three races or the myth of their peaceful blending. Instead, it traces the history of each, marked by violence, slavery, and genocide. The emotional soundtrack is a continuous lament, while the recurring “o, o, o” functions like a ritual cry, echoing the tribal roots of music itself. This is not the cheerful Brazil we are used to imagining, but an uncomfortable reminder of the racial and class origins of modern inequalities – and of the fact that history is not finished.
In a similar vein, Clara sings “Tristeza Pé no Chão” (“I made a banner out of my pain / I stained the green of hope on our flag / And set parade day for Wednesday”). I would also recommend her prayer-like song “Embala Eu”, recorded in a duet with the legendary samba singer Clementina de Jesus.
4) Adoniran Barbosa: “Saudosa Maloca” (1951) / “Trem das Onze” (1964)
“If you don’t remember, sir, allow me to tell you / Right here, where this tall building now stands, there used to be an old house / Right here, sir / Me, Mato Grosso and Joca built our shelter – our maloca – with our own hands / But one day – I don’t even like to remember – men arrived with their tools / The owner had ordered it torn down / We gathered our things and stood in the middle of the street watching the demolition / Such sadness I felt / Every plank that fell hurt inside my heart / Nostalgic maloca, beloved maloca / Where we lived the happiest days of our lives…”
Adoniran was a legendary singer of samba and working-class life, especially that of Italian immigrants – a community he himself belonged to. He deliberately sang in “incorrect” Portuguese, a distinct variant shaped by the speech of the Italian working class. He found inspiration in the colmeias – “beehive” rows of improvised housing where poor families lived side by side.
“Saudosa Maloca,” or “Nostalgic Shack,” is the anthem of working-class São Paulo. A maloca is a shelter for the poor, swept away by the arrival of capital and high-rise buildings. Its residents do not rise up in revolution – they lack the strength and the resources – and instead, they surrender to sadness and accept their fate, turning loss into quiet dignity.
Written in a similar spirit is his other famous song, “Trem das Onze” (“The Eleven O’Clock Train”). It tells the story of a man from the city’s outskirts who cannot stay late with the woman he loves because he must catch the last train at eleven and return home to his mother. São Paulo is an industrial city where love bends to infrastructure – this is a song that could never have been born in Rio de Janeiro. Working families live together under one roof, public transport is unreliable, the poor are pushed to the margins, and the poet turns sorrow into song – and into self-ironic humour. He died poor and largely forgotten, disappointed as the São Paulo he loved disappeared under concrete and cars. In his honour, two bridges carry his name – one in Brazil, the other in Italy, the country his parents came from.
“My mother won’t sleep until I return / I’m her only child / There’s a home I must look after / I cannot stay / I’m sorry, my love / I live in Jaçanã, and if I miss that train / I won’t get back until morning…”
5) Olodum: “Deusa do Amor” (1992) / “They Don’t Care About Us” (ft. Michael Jackson, 1995)
“Everything is more beautiful when you are near / Come here, goddess of love / When she walks down the avenue, everyone sings – happy, content with life / Walking side by side, we make a beautiful pair / We are two people in love / It was there, in Afro Olodum / That I found my love…”
The song itself is clearly a love song, but what makes it truly interesting is the group behind it. In fact, it would be misleading to describe Olodum merely as a band – it is an entire cultural and political phenomenon born in the 1970s in the city of Salvador, the heart of Afro-Brazilian life.
Olodum pioneered the samba-reggae genre, known for its powerful drum sections that create a hypnotic, high-energy atmosphere. They were long famous in Brazil, but achieved global recognition in the 1990s when they appeared in Michael Jackson’s iconic music video for “They Don’t Care About Us”. The video was filmed partly in Salvador and partly in a favela in Rio de Janeiro. When Brazilian authorities attempted to stop the production, fearing damage to the city’s image, Jackson’s crew reportedly turned to local drug bosses – the ones who effectively controlled the favelas anyway. The shoot went ahead without incident, and in Salvador, around two hundred Olodum drummers gathered to perform live in the streets.
Over time, Olodum became a symbol of anti-racist activism, opening music schools for children, running educational projects, and promoting peace through culture. In Brazil, you will find countless Olodum souvenirs – usually in green, yellow, red, and black-and-white, often marked with a peace sign, just like the shirt worn in the famous video.
