Published in Ryan Air Magazine, October 2008. 

“Obrigado senhor,” I say in my best Portuguese accent to the wrinkled old gentleman making way for me on the precarious stairwell that leads to the basement entrance of Mal Cozinhado.

One of the well known Fado houses in Porto, it’s the first stop on my search for the best fado the town has to offer. 

The gut-wrenching music, famous for its laments of loneliness, heartbreak and unrequited love, and known to have left even the most stoic of north Europeans weeping into a glass of sweet port wine, has been obsessively on my mind and in my soul for the last fortnight. For it was then, at a music festival back home in Dublin I had sat transfixed, watching and listening to Portuguese guitar maestro Pedro Caldeira Cabral play a selection of intensely emotional fado instrumentals. Post-show I told him I was planning a visit to Porto, and in a few words he had me convinced – there was a whole new world of music to discover in the city’s streets and taverns.

Already I have a feel for the place, enclosed between walls more than five centuries old, where the washed reds and dampened yellows of the buildings form a backdrop to a culture rich in history, symbolism and powerful, moving sound.

Escorted by a gentle mist from the River Douro I walk the web of narrow streets and torturous alleyways lined with worn but opulent facades, en route to Mal Cozinhado. Entering a tavern in Porto nearly always involves some kind of wobbly descent – which is how the old man finds me clinging to the rail.

At the foot of the dark wooden staircase, the room opens into a large stone walled saloon, where low-hanging lanterns and a smouldering, murky atmosphere are perfect for the task at hand. Guitar, viola, and basic acoustics, the classic ingredients in the Fado performance, accompany the restaurant’s regular fadistas Rosinda Maria, Ana Cristina and Gloria Maria.

In the casas Fado has its own strict etiquette and a language peculiar to its genre. Clustered at round tables, the crowd hushes as the lights go down and the room falls deathly still. Knives and forks are laid to rest - even the most beer swilling of tourists seems to know instinctively it’s not just a polite option but a time honoured tradition. The vocals begin gently but don’t stay that way for long, as the music of brothels, taverns and teeming back streets fills the locale. The performers’ faces contort. Amongst the men, shoulder shrugging and thick raised eyebrows take the place of words, while the female fadista clutches her black shawl, eyes closed, hands swaying, her body rigid as a corpse. The stirring melody that follows is at the heart of fado, the essence of the genre. Saudade is the concept of melancholia and longing in its purest form, a kind of poignant and wistful nostalgia.

As the fadista reaches a lamenting crescendo, it’s like the wail of a siren stranded on an imaginary rock as her sailor escapes beyond the horizon. You can hear a feather float when a collective gasp is followed by a blanket ban on breathing. All of a sudden it’s over and her hands, still enmmeshed in the black crocheted shawl, lower to her side. The lamps brighten on cue, the assembly resumes its intake of oxygen, the performers retire and we are left to resume our feast - bacalhau (cod) à moda do Porto and vinho verde served in pristinely polished carafes.

It’s a moving experience. But in pursuit of the next melancholic high, I leave Mal Cozhinado after the main course, eager to hear more. The night is in its infancy (still before midnight which is early by Porto standards), so plenty of time left for casa O Fado, where the music continues until well after three in the morning. In a similarly dim cavity loaded with hazy ambience, more spine chilling tones are on offer. I listen intently to sessions from the singers Leonor Santos, Fernando Joao and Fernanda Moreira. Between sets there’s the chance to devour a posta a mirandeza for dessert, and to chat to staff and clientele who are happy to share their thoughts on fado. Mateus, from the nearby suburb of Matoshinos, tells me critics of the genre claim there’s too much emphasis on suffering.

“But fado is about reality”, he insists, “not just suffering. Life, love, birth and death, good times and bad – these are all the things that go into living, and all the things that come into fado music”.

Nearly everyone I speak to has their own personal picture of the significance of fado – as a song of the soul, a popular poetry, a vehicle of expression that moves with political and social changes in the country. Locals are proud of the fact that both the Lisbon and Coimbra styles of Fado are commonly played in Porto, something that Pedro Caldeira Cabral had told me in Dublin.

At 2.30am, my head swimming with music and theories, I am ready to turn in. Unsure if my drowsiness is a result of sensation overload brought on by extreme emotion, or the effects of the full-bodied Douro red I am drinking, I slink back to the hotel and sink into a deep slumber populated by mysterious silhouettes in dimly lit caverns.

The following day the mist has disappeared from the river and the clouds have dispersed. Traipsing the now sunny streets I am conscious that, despite the auditory pleasures and visual treats of the previous evening, with only one night left I still haven’t found what I’m really after – to hear fado in its younger or more modern state. As the day goes by and twilight hints upon the horizon I make my way to Café Guarany, not amongst the more traditional of casas, but where the latest of the new generation of performers is forging her style and reputation. Joana Costa takes sheer melancholia and unbearable longing to a whole new dimension. At 29 years old, sparkling earrings dangling, hair pulled tightly back, eyebrows pencilled and eyes dramatic, she makes quite an entrance, grasping full swathes of black skirt between red-polished fingernails. Her performance is captivating, capable of moving the normally immovable to great sentimental heights.

At Guarany – bright, airy and reminiscent of ‘the café literaire’ - the owners are eager to showcase new talent. During a break in the music, I ask Joana what it’s like to sing words of such heartfelt suffering to a guidebook wielding, sightseer brigade of tourists, me among them. She’s the epitome of unfeigned charm. “I play the more traditional fados for visitors, so that they can hear the real thing. But I don’t like to play in the casas more than a couple of times a week (she’s a psychologist in her other life). Fado must come from the soul, so it’s exhausting to do it any more than that” Joana says.

I ask her if there is competition amongst performers. “We’re a small community of artists and we all know each other and play together”, she answers.

It seems that neither age nor experience are an issue in fado, for the love of the music eclipses all the smaller details. Artists old and young work together, sharing a genuine passion for what they do. Some believe you are either born a fadista or not. For performers, it appears, fado is a vocation rather than an occupation, and an expression of a collective history.

After seeing Joana sing I feel that maybe I’ve got closer to fado in its natural state. But as she speaks I realise that I am almost as far from it as when I began: “Next time you come I’ll take you to fado vadio”, she promises. Fado Vadio (roughly translated as Street Fado) is the amateur version of the genre, a phenomenon of gritty impromptu sessions in all kinds of casual venues around town.

“It’s like karaoke with real musicians”, Joana says laughing, “If tempers run high it can even end in a punch up”.

Gatherings are informal, where only the musicians are paid professionals and amongst vocalists anyone can volunteer to sing. Locals in the know can tell you where to find a congregation on any night of the week. A tourist is a rare breed on this trail – it’s only the most persevering of foreigners that will sniff out a session. Without doubt fado vadio has to be closer to the original music that once reverberated in the streets and poured from the taverns of nineteenth century Porto.

Leaving Café Guarany in the small hours of the morning it’s clear despite the magic I’ve witnessed I’ve only scratched the surface of the fado scene in Porto. The streets are deserted as I weave my way home by the dark waters of the Douro river, already planning a second trip back to this city of soul and a run-in with some full-on fado vadio sessions.