(from the self-titled full-length on Rough Trade)

Little Joy got permission to borrow the name of the now-shuttered bar and used it for an album of bedroom soul arranged with inspiration from Os Mutantes’ tropicalista maximalism. While Fab Moretti drives and Binki Shapiro rides, multi-instrumentalist Rodrigo Amarante talks about how lucky he feels. This interview by Chris Ziegler.

What are you reading in the van?
Rodrigo Amarante: I’m reading this book about Victor Hugo—a biography of his days in exile on the Jersey Islands. It’s really interesting—Victor Hugo’s Conversations with the Spirit World. Devendra gave it to me. I’m quite interested in the way—how can I say?—death operates. And whatever is outside of our perception. I share that interest with Devendra, so we keep sharing books on that subject. Old science, the occult—alchemy? It’s fun to me. This book is when Hugo went in exile—there was this fever happening for about a decade in Europe and especially in France with the tapping tables and communications with spirits. Hugo was not really into that until he went to the Jersey Islands and there was a group there that was doing that. He was so amazed. He and his family started documenting those fashions. There was a book edited in the 19th century that was the transcription of that. This book goes beyond that, giving historical backgrounds to this evolution of what became spiritualism, as this French guy Allan Kardec called it. Before that, there was magnetism and mesmerism. It doesn’t only give you descriptions of the séances; it gives you what Hugo was writing then and reflections of it in his writing. It’s like biography with perspective on these conversations. And it’s a pretty objective approach to such a subjective matter. It’s really interesting. Brazil is the biggest spiritualistic nation there is—we’re known as the biggest Catholic nation, but that’s just because if you do a poll, people are gonna say they’re Catholic. But in fact—the cross between the African religions, which are quite spiritualistic but in a different way, and the writings of Allan Kardec—the whole thing merged and it’s all over the country. Most people go to either an African Umbanda or Candomble, which are the straight African religions, or they go to what they call their kardecismo, coming from Kardec, right? Or a spiritualist—called a white-table spiritualist—which is not strictly following Kardec’s writing but just investigating this communication. It’s interesting to see where it came from—coming from America. The Fox sisters were from America, right? And it was more a fever in Europe back then and then it came back to America as a backdraft. It’s pretty amazing to me, all this stuff. When I was in L.A., I was trying to find where to go to look for serious spiritualistic centers or people who are studying—I never really had time to do that or find anyone who knew.
What kind of personal experiences have you had with spiritualism?
I had a bunch—but not to get personal in this. If we were talking as friends, I’d tell a bunch of different stories, but this doesn’t feel very comfortable for it. I can tell you in Brazil it is pretty common. For instance, we have a word for a person who receives a spirit and the spirit will talk through that person. And the word is cavallo, meaning horse. And there are many centers. Most are really small, but there are centers for cure—where ordinary people would be doctors and stuff like that. And it’s common for people to receive advice through an older spirit—someone who is already dead.
Have you had your future told?
I’ve been in contact enough to know that it’s not about knowing the future, you know? It’s about reading the present. And from that understanding, the tendencies to the future. Just like astrology. Astrology won’t tell you the future—it will tell you the tendencies, and then you work with them. It’s like a map. It doesn’t tell you which road you’re gonna take. It just shows you possibilities. The influences.
How does the spiritualist movement connect to music in Brazil?
A way that comes to my mind—maybe a very raw way—is that music is related to medicine in the old sciences. A shaman would bang a drum to cure you. And if you go further than that, the political force of art is making people emotional—touching their heart. If you touch someone’s heart, that’s good enough. That’s changing someone’s perspective. Making the fluids in the body run smoother—wetting their soul instead of drying it. That has a political force. When you’re playing music, I think you’re not only curing yourself but whoever is listening to it and enjoying it. That has a lot to do with the unseen—the forces of the spirit and the mind. I’m perceiving it as a medicine right now. You can say having a good laugh is medicine. And any form of art could humor you. The word ‘humor’ comes from ‘humid,’ from water—and water is the strongest conductor for energy. I don’t know. Maybe I went in a crazy spiral to nowhere? Maybe the connection to being psychedelic is just my syntaxes on that explanation!
What do you listen to when you’re sick?
Joyous music. To be honest, I don’t know. Maybe I go back to the music that brings me back home. Music that I relate to a certain place that I would like to go when I’m sick. When I was a kid and I used to have my family around.
Did you grow up with musicians?
My dad is a musician—not a professional one, but he always played piano and guitar. My family has a few people who write music and get together to play. Since my grandfather’s generation, music has been a constant thing in my family.
How did you get to the point where you can run out on the stage of the Hollywood Bowl and play a song with Gilberto Gil?
I feel very fortunate—to be honest, I don’t really understand. I must have done something nice before coming to this because I feel very lucky! I have met my idols from childhood. And some of them really respect me. Like Caetano Veloso invited me to go to the studio when he was writing his new album. I went to his house and he wanted to play me a song before he recorded it. He played it to me on his guitar at home! Stuff like that. To me, it’s just—I feel very lucky to have that. I feel like, ‘Wow, I have to give something back—I gotta be honest! Be honest when I make music!’ The hardest thing to do is try and fool people. When I give it a thought, I think, ‘If you make music to get something from people, I don’t think you’re gonna get there.’ And what I mean by ‘get there’ is basically to have someone tell you, ‘Oh, this song is about my life.’ That’s the greatest success. All I try to do to pay back this great joy is to try to give people something, you know? I’m not saying I’m great or anything! But if I have something to give, I’ll try and give it back—a melody or some group of words or a silly dance on stage! If I can do that, that’s my goal!
You’ve been in some high-profile bands—have you learned more about what you want to do with your music or what you don’t want to do?
That’s a good question. It requires a good answer! I feel like I’m pretty young. But at the same time, I feel I have lived a little bit, too. When I say—I’ll go back and tie the other question to this one. About being lucky. I feel like I haven’t asked for anything. I have been carried by the wind a little here and there. When I got in my first band in Brazil—Los Hermanos—I was invited because me and Marcelo [Campelo], we went to the university together, and we used to play guitar between classes. And sometimes during classes.
What class was the best to play in?
No, we’d run out of the class to play the guitar. That’s the problem! I used to do harmonies and he thought that was nice, so he started this band and invited me to sing harmonies and maybe play the flute. So I got in the band and I wasn’t supposed to write songs or play guitar or bass or piano or do anything that I did afterwards—it wasn’t expected! But I just felt inspired. ‘I’m in a band! I’m gonna write a song!’ And two years after we started the band, we did the first album and there were two songs of mine. And then I started playing guitar and playing the bass and the piano and I wrote some arrangements for brass, and the third one I directed a video and did the cover—again, I felt lucky! Even though I’m not really supposed to do any of this, I’m not gonna let it pass! So what Little Joy did to me—what changed in me—is before this, I used to be by myself, even though I had a band and mates to write music with. I was basically writing my songs and arrangements by myself, and then getting together with the band and proposing that. The conception was already there. I always thought I wasn’t able to write with other people. I had written with other people but it was always like, ‘Here’s half of a song. You finish it.’ But this thing was completely different. It was writing together all the time. Even though some of the songs started with Fab’s old songs that were almost finished, or Binki had written a song and then we would make it better somehow—it was always very open. Fab would write a verse or lyrics and present it to us expecting us to criticize it. That showed me this is possible. And it’s beautiful. It takes—like Fab says, it takes guts to have fun. Meaning—if it’s hard for you to present something and be ready to be criticized, it’s harder to criticize your friend who’s presenting something he thought was good. It’s letting the ego aside—‘This is OUR song.’ Forget who did what and just try and make it the best we can. That’s what changed. And what I learned—yes, I can work—I am open to write and be criticized and write a beautiful song. I never wrote lyrics with anyone else except on this record—but then again, it’s the first English record I do. I am not secure enough yet to not need help. I don’t think I could not write a song in English—it’s just that—I learned what I can do with this. And what I don’t wanna do anymore—not meaning that I have—is not have fun. It’s all about pleasure. It’s all about humor.
Is it fun to have guts?
Yes, definitely! It makes everything easier.
What are you most likely listening to when you’re all together?
There are quite a few things. The beginning of the Wailers when they were still a vocal group. ‘Where’s My Mother’ or something. Or Elvis Presley’s ‘Surrender.’ Sam Cooke of course—Sam Cooke definitely. Beach Boys. The Fleetwoods—the vocal Fleetwoods, not Fleetwood Mac, though we would hear Fleetwood Mac, too. And the Brazilian stuff. Os Mutantes.
Have you ever crossed paths with them?
Oh yeah. I know them. I’m not kidding! The first one I met was Arnaldo. He came to one of Los Hermanos’ shows and I almost had a heart attack because I walked offstage and went to the dressing room and there was him! Sitting there like, ‘It was great!’ And then I met Sergio later. First time I met him was at the first Mutantes show in London. I was invited to sing on that festival. You know the record Tropicalia was never played live? Until that day. So they got this band together with different musicians from Brazil plus people from England—the string section—and Rogerio Duprat himself let us borrow the original arrangements so that record could be played live for the first time. And I was lucky enough to be singing! So I was there and Mutantes played the day after, and that was where I met Devendra, too.
How did it feel to step into that record? Like to have a spot saved for you?
It’s crazy! I don’t even know, man! I have a band with Moreno—Caetano’s son. And in that band there are many bands. This band that got formed to do the Tropicalia was a few of us plus other musicians and right before we went on stage, Moreno was like, ‘They asked us to say something about Tropicalia before we play—so you’re gonna do that!’ ‘Are you fucking kidding?’
So you were the spokesperson for Tropicalia?
For a second. For that moment—yeah. And I came out in this big theatre with all these people—a bunch of journalists and people from all over Europe expecting something, and I hadn’t thought of anything. So I went back to—the word—the concept of ‘tropicalism’ came from the 1920s. From the poet Oswald Andrade. And his idea was tropicalism is about killing hierarchy in art. Like Brazilian stew. I’m trying to explain from his perspective but not using his ideas—but the idea is in Brazil we eat everything on the same plate. Salad and rice and beans and meat and if we could put dessert on it, we would. So like all different books should be mixed on the same shelf. Everything should be horizontal.
Everything is possible?
Yes. And attached to the idea of cannibalism in art. Like you eat conceptually everything on the same plate and you digest it—it being an organic process of what you get in touch with. Other than being a rational approach. You just eat it and process it. So I was trying to fucking explain that in front of an audience—and it goes beyond that. It just reflects what goes on in Brazil because of the mix of races and cultures. It got really mixed up. Which is good. And it expands to anywhere. The concept of not forcing yourself to be from anywhere. Just enjoying whatever you do enjoy. Pick up on whatever you want.
What did you think the first time you come to L.A.?
At first I came to record with Devendra. But that was Topanga Canyon. The second time I came to write the songs with Fab. I was supposed to stay for two weeks and I stayed for fucking six months! I started to see the other side—how open people are in L.A., you know? They have less preconcept on other people and they are very open. People who make very different kinds of music will get together and play together. And people like around Silverlake and Echo Park—people will say hello to you, not knowing you in the streets. I didn’t expect that! We used to live most of the time in Echo Park—then we moved to Silverlake, and right under our house was a cheese shop and a coffeeshop.. On top of Intelligentsia. I went home for a while and when I came back—Chris from the cheese shop remembered my name! And the guys from Intelligentsia were giving me free coffee! ‘Oh, you’re back, Rodrigo!’ They knew my name! That’s so cool—it felt like a small town. And I realized L.A. is kind of like a small town. It has a good side of it. So I started to understand and really like it.
What did you think the first time you went to Little Joy?
I thought it was pretty nice! The most unpretentious space, and it seemed very mixed. A very democratic space. Where people from different environments would meet. Like hipster kids and older men—I remember seeing people from different ethnics and places and who seemed to like different kinds of music. But the music there was always good and it was a nice democratic atmosphere. Just any kind of people.
Did you get permission for the name?
Fab went to the owner and said, ‘Excuse me, I’m Fabrizio, and we are starting this band and we want to call it after your bar.’ And it was funny because he said, ‘Well, just don’t sue me!’ Which is exactly the opposite of what we expected! So he was pretty cool.
Are you going to do an acoustic set on the pool table?
We don’t plan on it but I would.
Are you the best surfer out of Megapuss, Little Joy and Entrance?
Yes, that is true. I think Greg is second best. I haven’t seen Guy surfing.
What’s it like playing in a band with Aziz Ansari? What does he bring?
Humor. But as good as he is, Fab is a much better comedian.
Are you just saying that because he’s sitting next to you?
No. He’s not even listening to me.
Do you value realness?
No, we don’t. I wouldn’t choose that word. We value friendship. Love. That’s what makes the musical experience possible. When I say it takes guts to have fun—when Fab said that—you can substitute guts for love. Meaning that if you don’t have love, you’re not gonna be able to feel good and criticize your friend when he presents you a melody or something—not criticizing him but the melody he put on the table. Or to be criticized by the other. Meaning—if there’s no love, there’s no humor. You just can’t do it in a communal sense. We value love. That’s what we value.
Does it take guts to have love?
It takes love to have guts. What?

LITTLE JOY WITH WITH DEAD TREES AND RED CORTEZ ON SUN., DEC. 7, AT THE TROUBADOUR, 9081 SANTA MONICA BLVD., WEST HOLLYWOOD. 8:30 PM / $15 / ALL AGES. LITTLE JOY’S SELF-TITLED ALBUM IS OUT NOW ON ROUGH TRADE. VISIT LITTLE JOY AT MYSPACE.COM/LITTLEJOYMUSIC.

(from Prayer of Death out now on Tee Pee)

Download: Little Joy “No One’s Better Sake”

From ZCONTROLS:

One of my favorite L.A. bands (used to be Long Beach, too—bassist Paz lived right downtown) playing one of their too-rare local shows at Troubadour tonight with Devendra’s new-ish band Megapuss and Strokes’ drummer Fab’s new band Little Joy, named after exactly what you think it’s named after. Entrance had a gloriously combustive streak in 2006 where they were probably one of the best bands in the city: power-trio like Hendrix led (and singer/guitarist Guy plays upside down, too) with every player top-notch and every song distended past expectation. The recorded “Grim Reaper” above just does not do justice to the live version. Guy got really good at teasing out that little intro and people would just be shivering and salivating in place until he let the band kick in. They have been lying pretty low for a long time so I wouldn’t miss shows. Good news is they’re posting tons of homemades on their myspace for purchase. One of my favorite L.A. RECORD interviews was with Entrance, too.