In Brazil, Funk is synonymous with reform.
High above the bikini-clad tourists of Rio De Janeiro's beach-holiday exterior - past the extortionate strip malls and now empty Olympic stadiums - lies the reality of Brazil's proletariat population. Stare at the mountainside long enough and you might notice stunted antennas piercing the tree line: the only indication of its sprawling Favela megalopolis. If you dare, venturing further into the foothills reveals a labyrinthine network of ramshackle hovels, where stray dogs hunt for leftovers and curious eyes gawk from atop makeshift balconies and from behind tilted blinds. It's the skeleton of a community contaminated to the bone with misery and destitution.
Come dusk, however, and the Favelas adopt a new hue: coated under the moon's ashy rays and studded with few and far between illuminated sanctums, there is an air of apprehension. Suddenly - with an explosion of sound - a throbbing Tamborzão drum beat begins to echo through the alleyways, its pulse causing mini earthquakes in neighboring homes. Framed on the jerry-rigged walls, shadows sway in an inebriated rhythm, flooding the streets with the exulted thrill of dance and defiance. Like a fever dream, the air becomes thick with the smoke of bonfires as hundreds of sweaty bodies blend into a singular roaring beast. In the Favelas, the nocturnal world is disparate to the drabness of the day; having been resurrected with the heartbeat of music and passion, they are now very much alive with hope.
The technical term for this phenomenon is Bailes Funk: the infamous block parties of Brazil's underprivileged that are prone to government scowling. In 2019, a street party in Sao Paulo's 'Paradise City' was subject to a militarized raid in which police maliciously deployed tear gas and rubber bullets in claustrophobic gullies, causing a crowd crush that killed 9 people - the youngest of which was only 14. This is merely one example of the chokehold Brazil's policy-makers have embraced their industrial slaves with, as a wider operation of ruthlessly enforced bans and curfews have riled an already high-strung working class. Under the pretense of facilitating drug trafficking and sexual exploitation, dozens of prominent music artists have been caged for decades, the key thrown away. In a 'democratic' country that ranks 2nd highest in the accumulated income of the top 1% proportionate to GNI, flagrant racism and deliberate violence rule a failed kingdom of fear.
Part of this aristocratic animosity stems from the music genre inseparable from the parties themselves, coined 'Funk Carioca'. No, Funk Carioca is not related to the whimsical blues of Stevie Wonder or Donna Summers: a frequent misconception. In fact, the only similarity would be that both emerged from the African diaspora of the 1960s-1970s. Funk Carioca shares more kinship with Floridian hip-hop subgenres such as Miami Bass - also known as 'booty bass' - and Freestyle, featuring electronic drum beats and sample-based production. The lyrics meddle with drugs, sex, and guns: buzzwords that delight every guileful regime when vetting scapegoats; while there is some merit to an argument linking Funk Carioca with gang violence, it is naïve to metonymize criminal syndicates with the genre as a whole. A more plausible explanation for its notoriety is that Funk Carioca has a proclivity for slandering politicians while calling for mutiny - a surefire way to get a bullet in the head.
Fortunately, federal elites clearly didn't pay attention during history class, as their schadenfreude-fueled campaign has only unified hundreds of millions against a common enemy. Despite hits previously being censored from radio stations, artists such as Anitta and MC Fioti now direct more cultural influence than the president: a dangerous combination.
The insurgent overtones of Funk Carioca are undeniable, and its status as an emblem of socio-economic inequality in Brazil is crucial to understanding its evolution over the past five decades. But Funk Carioca remains largely constrained to Brazil, and even Anitta - with over 20 million monthly listeners on Spotify - hasn't cracked the U.S. market the same way Rosalia has, for example. There's a reason for that: Funk Carioca's luminaries are insipid from a musical standpoint. While I was conducting research for this article, I spent many desperate hours skimming through an inexhaustible supply of commercial, anemic, and inexcusable hype tracks that caused my blood to boil with irritation. Not that I can blame much beyond my own stratospheric standards: I've numbed my ears to anything I consider second-rate, and I don't imagine Funk Carioca's DJs are worried about innovation if it hurts their bottom line. Still, I had to wonder, where were the oddballs and misfits of Funk Carioca?
It turns out Funk Carioca's amateur movement is hidden in plain sight: it just requires a local perspective to uncover. The Favelas of Rio possess striking similarity to the acid-infested apartment projects of New York City's urban jungle; it is in these socially inverted environments - where anti-establishment is institutionalized - that true creativity fosters, driven by unmitigated ambition and a pension for the uncharted. In the end, however, few artists will escape the walls of their hometown, making it nigh impossible for foreigners to stumble upon the fruits of their labors. For Funk Carioca, no one exemplifies this phenomenon better than DJ RaMeMes, whose latest album Sem Limites has cemented his local prestige as Funk Carioca's most promising budding producer.
Separated by a mountain range from Rio and far from the luxury of the sea, a dreary municipality in Brazil is best known for its industrial manufacturing - for many years home to the largest steel plant in South America. It is beneath the monotony and the machinery of Volta Redonda - also known as 'Cidade do Aço' [steel city] - that DJ RaMeMes was born and raised. Beginning his DJ career at the age of 17, DJ RaMeMes appraised traditional funk and with boyish mischief tweaked it to be faster... and faster... and faster. While other DJs got flustered experimenting with 150bpm, DJ RaMeMes climbed to 180bpm and higher, adopting the nickname 'O Destruidor do Funk' [the destroyer of funk]. While this moniker was initially used to dismiss DJ RaMeMes as inauthentic, it has since morphed into an expression of admiration for his unregulated approach to Funk Carioca: never frightened to ostracize his fanbase in pursuit of a fresh genre-bending concept.
In Sem Limites, DJ RaMeMes espouses electroclash, pop, and even dubstep to masterful effect. Lyrics are predominantly sexual - reveling in its unseemliness with bawdy delight. Emerging from the belly of Brazil, DJ RaMeMes is a deadly virus to the law and order of the old-money establishment; by substituting political diatribes with lighthearted celebration, DJ RaMeMes fights through pleasure - revitalizing a comatose provincial interior with thunderous drum and bass. Live performances share closer resemblance to raves than that of conventional Bailes, and the conspicuous presence of LGBTQIA+ sends a daring message - to the chagrin of local officials. Despite all of this, DJ RaMeMes never forgets his roots, as every sample is gleaned from cherished Funk Carioca staples and appropriated into exhilarating deconstructed club. The magic of Sem Limites stems from its dexterity - able to gratify audiences across Brazil by catering to its national identity holistically.
DJ RaMeMes's success story is one of optimism, but verges precariously on idealism: the political turmoil of October's presidential election is still smoldering with the embers of violent protests and divisive party-line jousting - mirroring the U.S. in inciting insurrection from a sitting president. Democratic backsliding and power lobbying from the rapacious military prophesize a Venezuela-esque coup d'état that would prove four decades of reparations obsolete. For citizens, it is just as treacherous as ever to denounce the government or advance past antiquated conservative ideals. In the end, it is a zero-sum game for all parties involved: a fallacy likely to be ignored.
Even in the face of this continued adversity, however, Funk Carioca continues to expand, carrying with it a humanistic and unprejudiced identity that will be difficult to repress. Funk Carioca is spearheading Brazil's social war - and it is winning. For myself, learning about Funk Carioca has given me a revelation: Funk Carioca is not designed for the U.S. to colonize. For decades now, the U.S. has embezzled genres into its all-encompassing selfness that were once venerated as symbols of diversity. If Funk Carioca were to fall into a similar plight, it would lose all meaning as a social movement and break the mutually dependent bond between Brazil and its music: if Funk Carioca is capsized, Brazil sinks too. For once - even if I abhor it - I am glad for the vacuous exterior of Funk Carioca's mainstream, as it obfuscates the true revolution playing out amidst Brazil's smokestack arteries. As of now, Funk Carioca remains the anthem of the ordinary: and that's exactly what it needs to be.
Links:
DJ RaMeMes - Sem Limites
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