Since its inception in 2019, MIXTO Festival has curated contemporary experiences with opportunities to further strengthen cultural bonds with Toronto’s community of artists, creators, and vendors. The festival’s approach to music and culture ultimately breaks the mould of isolated cultural expressions reflected in events that go against the city’s multicultural fabric.
By spotlighting the city’s Latino, African, and Caribbean communities, MIXTO continues to be an exceptional and singular platform. This year’s edition, held at Trillium Park, was free to attend.
While MIXTO has hosted a slew of musical acts from various corners of the world, it also boasts a particular lineage of artists who are among some of the best that contemporary Brazilian music has to offer – including this year’s headliners Gilsons, a trio brimming with talent that is practically rooted in Brazilian music royalty. This group shares a larger connection with last year’s headlining act, Luedji Luna, as both artists hail from Bahia, a region rife with notable contributions to the history of Brazilian music, both past and present.
Following her enthralling performance on the final evening of last year’s festival, I spoke with Luna about motherhood, Solange, and Bahia itself. Here’s what the Tiny Desk alumni and Latin Grammy nominee had to say.
Writer’s note: The Portuguese term “escrevivência” is used in this interview. It is a portmanteau of the words “escrever (to write)” and “vivencia (experience)”, and signifies the authorship of the Black female narrative in Brazil. Because this word is intrinsic to Black Brazilian rhetoric, it has no English translation.
What was the main difference between this Mixto Festival for you and the very first MIXTO festival that you performed at?
The first one was at Lula Lounge, which was a small venue. It was for my first album, and I was very shy since it was also my first international tour. But now I’m more secure in myself, and the audience this time was bigger than the first time. It was an outdoor concert full of Brazilians. So I think as a singer, I improved a lot.
I think it really showed on stage. Has anyone inspired you recently?
Yes. I’m very obsessed with Solange Knowles’s work. For me, she’s very unique and amazing; not only as a singer, but the whole concept of her job is amazing. You see that there is hard work behind the conception of her aesthetics as well.
Absolutely. It shows even in her installations. She has a ballet too.
Yeah, goodness. What an artist.
I got to know more about your artistic approach from a Vanity Fair interview by Tarisai Ngangura. And in that interview, she asked about the complications you experienced trying to love as a Black woman. It reminded me of when you mentioned Conceicao Evaristo, and how she terms the Black female narrative as an act of escrevivência.
So now that you have been a mother for some time, what is one of the biggest complications you’ve experienced when trying to create escrevivência as a mother?
Actually, I just have one song about motherhood, and about the craziness that comes with being a mother. And I made it during the pandemic, so I’m still learning how to handle being a singer, a wife, and a mother at the same time. I’m still learning how to do that.
Perhaps the next album will be about this experience of so many Luedjis, but right now, I just have one song that is about escrevivência, and the experience of being a mother. But the album, “Bom Mesmo Debaixo D’Água,” even the deluxe version is not about motherhood. It’s about love.
For the amount of Afro-Brazilian music that I’ve listened to over the past few years, I have to admit that I didn’t know a lot about Candomblé back then. But I came to realize that much like popular music in North America, these inherently Black beliefs are often codified by white artists to be made palatable to the masses. I still think that this is relevant considering how sporadic evangelism’s influence truly is. I see it in the commercial industry of sertanejo, and I see it in the dominant makeup of the Selecao.
With that being said, what actions do you believe need to be taken in order for Candomblé to survive or be practiced safely within marginalized environments?
Those who believe in Candomblé have this technology of resilience, since Candomblé was actually forbidden in Brazil. By law, it was forbidden and even when we were threatened with violence, we resisted, and we were still praying to our African goddesses.
So even with all the systemic structures that exist in Brazil, we have learned how to survive from our ancestors. That’s why we still exist, you know. So there is magic and intelligence in the syncretism of substituting Orixas with Catholic saints. There’s magic in the power of Orixas. They want to live, they want to be on earth, so the invisible power is stronger than the violence or the growth of individualism, or some law. You know what I mean?
From what I understand, the transcendence of Candomblé defies law. It is above what the Earth establishes or what the Earth takes authority of.
Yeah, exactly. It’s impossible to realize, or to imagine how we are still there despite everything. That’s why I feel that there’s a human intelligence, a technology of resilience, but also something bigger than that wants to keep Candomblé there. There’s something stronger than any sort of violence threatening the gods who want to keep us here in Brazil.
Another thing I learned about Candomblé was its essence of returning to black people, the notion of family, the reconstruction of identities and the preservation of culture. You have the maximum expression of Candomblé so closely tied to the heart of your music. How has your music returned to your Candomblé’s notion of family?
Family is the foundation of Candomblé. Even if the people you meet at a terreiro are not your relatives, even if you don’t share blood, it’s family. We were once enslaved with no mother, no father, no friends, no relatives that we left in Africa. Candomblé, and being in a terreiro, and belonging to Candomblé gives us back that sense of family. So that’s why we have this conception that inside of the terreiro, we are all family.
I feel that people that listen to me feel that my music belongs to them. They feel that they have some intimacy with me because musically, there’s no boundaries. For Black people specifically, my music has this conception of belonging to me that resonates with them because I might remind them of their sister, or their brother; to them, I remind them of family, or someone they knew.
While you are from a part of the Northeast that is known for axe, and more recently paredao, I’ve noticed that one form of poetry and song that is very influential to the sound, and to the sound of a lot of Brazilian music is the embolada (Northeast Brazilian form of improvised poetry and song).
And the whole purpose of being an embolador is to repeat your voice until you’ve reached the best expression. Looking forward in your life, how do you wish to reach your best expression?
Looking forward…that’s the third album, right? (laughs)
Yes.
I feel that I’m much closer than what I want to become. I want to be much more diasporic. I want my music to connect to the whole diaspora, and the whole world. Even if I’m singing in Portuguese, or maybe when I start to sing in a new language. I already put some English on my album, but there are also artists from the States featured on it, like Mereba and Oddisee.
Both great artists.
Definitely. So I I feel that I’m already in my own path, doing my thing,
I was pleasantly surprised to hear John Key on the Deluxe version of this album, given that he was such an important contributor to Solange’s “When I Get Home,” which explores her personal connection to Houston’s musical identity. So given equally rich sounds that stem from Salvador, how did working with John enhance the importance of home for you?
I think music does everything for me. I suddenly received a DM from him saying that he was impressed with my music, and that he wanted to collaborate. I didn’t even know him, but I knew his work through Solange, and I knew about his productions, but I didn’t think that he was the John Keys from Solange. So when I searched him up, I was very excited, and very surprised.
I think that we attract what we want, because I wasn’t in the mood to do something with North American artists. I was really studying Solange’s work as an inspiration for my own work, so I think I attracted him. It was so easy for me because I already understood his aesthetic and his way of producing. Because I’ve listened to Solange and I’ve listened to Cleo Sol. I studied them, and for me, it was the answer to this desire I had. It was the universe’s way of saying, you’re doing great.
And I hope it attracts Solange too. Solange, I love you. Please make a feature with me.
When I interviewed Xenia Franca at MIXTO in 2022, I mentioned the outsider’s perception of Brazil as this dichotomy of Rio and Sao Paulo, when Bahian artists have continued to be fundamental, physical history and you are one of those artists as well changing that perception of Brazil today. So what does being Bahian mean to you?
Being from Bahia comes with a political capital. I earn many things for being from Bahia, and for being Baiana, because Brazil and the world really respect that. For many many years, we have been exporting the best of the music in Brazil with Gilberto Gil, Caetano Veloso, and so on.
So it’s unlucky, actually, because as an artist, when I say that I’m from Bahia, people already expect good things from me. It’s an honor too because of the many things I write about. Politically, because it’s the Blackest city outside Africa, I feel more empowered and secure about being Baiana.
Finally, where do you think love is? Not what is love, but where?
Love is in all of my choices. All my choices are about love, and through love, and for love. For who I love. Even working hard and going back home. So my choices in life are about love now, in being more healthy, drinking more water, doing what I do now, and being able to sing. Whatever I do, day by day, is for love.
