It was like that in 80s

After a long period which, depending on different perspectives, could be seen as one of semi-lethargy or deep sleep, Portuguese rock (whatever that may be) was officially granted existence in the early years of the 1980s. The wave of euphoria generated more quantity than quality, but at least — and it deserves credit for this — it laid the groundwork for the existence of a national rock circuit.

The exciting golden years of Portuguese rock caught the masses off guard, as they instinctively embraced the phenomenon and let themselves be carried away by the cheerful song of new stars designed for national consumption. When the bubble burst, Portuguese rock deflated, revealed its true capabilities, and had to learn how to manage a hangover that, according to the skeptics, has lasted until today. Once the euphoria had passed, there followed a prolonged period of implicit or explicit disillusionment, only broken by the efforts of a small core of individuals, projects, and proposals that stubbornly insist on giving meaning to urban music made in Portugal.

This very same Portuguese urban music, as we know it today, still bears deep scars from its childhood years. The rebellious youths of ’81 became ex-musicians (in most cases) or professionals who can’t help but smile when thinking back to the tribulations of eleven years ago. Zica (from NZZN) was right when, back in August of ’81, he predicted the future of Portuguese rock: “If we don’t lose the support of the crowd, in ten years’ time it’s quite possible we’ll be doing things seriously.” Ten years were enough to eliminate the pure amateurism of the national music industry, replacing it with a determined but not always consistent professionalism. The “machine” is gradually standardizing processes and, little by little, generating a more effective and solution-rich way of operating. And, what’s more, one that is more demanding and resilient: if the lack of discernment from ten years ago won’t happen again, neither will the euphoria brought about by a novelty that will never be new again.

In the 1980s and beyond, rock (or roque, as it was also commonly called) included in its catalogue everything from repurposed dance bands to die-hard avant-gardists, disguised national crooners, and genuine potential rockers.

The dance bands (which eventually survived the “death” of roque) quickly adapted to the emerging needs of a market segment they thought was close to theirs. From the proper dance band to the CTT (Conjunto Típico Torreense), a countless number of proposals lacking emotion and inventiveness paraded through. The group “Grupo de Baile” shocked the more sensitive souls with “Patchouly,” a tacky little song with Dexy’s in mind. They never recorded anything else, although they did present a hypothetical but never realized second single on one of the Saturday Morning Fevers, hosted by Júlio Isidro — godfather of roque and the main promoter of the term “malta da pesada” (heavy crowd). TNT, formed in December 1980 in Barreiro, also fit this style, although adopting a heavier stance (influences from Uncle Julião?) and drawing more on the industrial marks of their hometown.

Among the staunch avant-gardists we can include bands like Street Kids and GNR, which served as breeding grounds for some of the most memorable experiments in Portuguese pop. Street Kids sowed seeds for the future of modern Portuguese music (the dispersion of its members would later benefit projects like Mler Ife Dada, Lobo Meigo, and Rádio Macau, not to mention solo careers such as those of Nuno Rebelo and Nuno Canavarro) and prepared the ground for some of the most interesting modern proposals that would follow. They left behind records like Trauma and messages like Propaganda. They deserved more attention than they got.

GNR, after the initial enchantment wore off and things were seen in a clearer light, came to be considered the first great national band. After two charming warm-up singles (Portugal na CEE and Sê Um GNR), they exploded aesthetically with Hardcore and the LP Independança. What might have seemed like just another rock band was, in fact, much more than that. Portugal na CEE/Espelho Meu was also the first worthwhile rock single with a strong A and B side. A notable quote, in direct speech: “Velvet Underground? Never heard of them?” (Alexandre Soares, 1981).

There were also potential rockers — starting, of course, with UHF and Rui Veloso. UHF did little more than replicate the idealized formula of the pure, gritty rocker — a kind of modern-day “lonesome cowboy,” armed with guitar and poetry. So attached were they to the past that they stayed stuck in it until reaching the point of artistic freezing. Today, UHF are little more than an anachronistic remnant of their former glory days.

Rui Veloso reinvented himself, with the “father of rock” giving way to the darling boy of the nation’s ears. Chico Fininho was the detonating fuse for all the Saturday morning fevers — the magic song that made every owner of a musical instrument feel like a potential rocker. Meanwhile, Xutos & Pontapés were living in basements, with no idea they’d one day become the biggest stars of Portuguese music. Roxigénio, for lack of anything better, sang their own praises and released insignificant records. Iodo leaned into the synths, wore plastic suits to reflect the “plastic age” of society, and found in the asylum the most effective metaphor for the surrounding social reality. Frodo and Tantra gradually sank under the weight of their inability to successfully realise whatever ideas may have passed through their minds.

In Porto, Táxi earned their fifteen minutes of fame with Chiclete, and Trabalhadores do Comércio had some fun with Chamem a Polícia, the high point of a career lacking in other notable achievements. Jafumega made clear the reasons why they were considered one of the top Portuguese bands of the time — their second, self-titled album is still a great record to this day.

As for the rest, only the names remain — many of them now forgotten and unknown, mere shadows and memories erased by time. They left no nostalgia in their wake: Banda do Segundo Canal, Seilasié, Opinião Pública, Cheque Mate, Rock & Várius.

From the days of that delicious debate over whether Portuguese rock truly existed or not, little remains — except perhaps the roots of the oft-mentioned crisis that has persistently shaken its foundations ever since. Is the new Portuguese music in crisis? No matter: we’re used to living with it. As long as there’s music. New music, preferably…

Miguel Cunha / Blitz 425

Article published in the newspaper Blitz on December 22, 1992