Unveiling the Curious World of the Cuíca: An Aural Journey
Imagine being at a party, surrounded by chatter and music. You’re grooving along, and suddenly, a sharp, unfamiliar sound slices through the music like blunt scissors. You turn to your friend and ask, “What’s that noise?” Surprisingly, they guess it’s a duck or maybe even throat singing. But here’s the twist: that sound is no quacking duck; it’s the cuíca, a Brazilian friction drum that can buzz, hum, and even sound like it’s weeping.
Let’s break it down. Cuícas are a type of drum that Brazilian musicians play by reaching inside and manipulating a wooden stick, while pressing on the other side. Think of it as a musical argument with the song—it punches through melodies like it has a bone to pick with how things should sound. This drum is a crucial player in Rio de Janeiro’s samba ensembles during Carnival, giving that distinctive flavor to the rhythm.
As I flashback through memories, I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I encountered the cuíca. Maybe it was in my grandmother’s living room during a festive Christmas Eve, or even back when I was a tiny tot. The where and when matter less than the fact that the cuíca has been a constant companion in my life, weaving through Brazilian tunes like samba and Tropicália. Though I left Brazil as a baby, this instrument’s unique sound has trailed after me across borders.
Now, living in London, I’m still tuned in to sounds that whisper of my roots. However, when I hear the cuíca, it’s not a ticket back to Brazil; it’s a portal to another realm entirely.
I grapple with being in the moment. My attention is like a butterfly—flitting here and there. Quick bursts of stimuli are my jam: fountains, spicy dishes, orange hues, and yes, cuícas. They engulf me for a heartbeat and then set me free. The sensation is like hitting a pothole while driving. Just for a moment, you’re jolted. Your stomach tenses. Time does a little jig. Then, a few beats later, you’re back to reality, but everything seems clearer, louder, and oddly emptier. It’s like you’ve lost something in the musical rollercoaster, but you can’t quite put your finger on what.
Here’s the catch: the cuíca can buzz, hum, squeak, and even weep.
This drum’s mystical ability to whisk us away is what makes it so captivating. When Paul Simon was crafting “Me and Julio” with Brazilian jazz percussionist Airto Moreira, he wanted a noise that could mimic the human voice—a surprise that could animate the song’s characters. The cuíca fit the bill perfectly. Not only did Simon fall for its charms, but the song also climbed the U.S. charts for nine weeks straight in 1972.
This phenomenon leads me to ponder the mechanics of sounds and instruments that travel the globe. Pain and joy mingle in the history of the cuíca. Some historians believe enslaved Africans brought this drum to the Americas, and it took root in Brazil as samba. The cuíca’s role was even more intriguing—it was used to mimic other living beings, perhaps to outfox lions. After all, not every instrument can mimic ducks, laughter, and weeping.
The more I chew on this unique sound, the more I face the intricate history of migration—both coerced and chosen—that weaves its story. It mirrors the feeling of never quite knowing where or what “home” is. Sometimes, it’s in the aroma of bay leaves and beans or in the voices of strangers that rise and fall like waves. The cuíca triggers a reflection on my own migration history and turns the notion of home into a puzzle.
A few moons ago, I was at a bar, engaged in a chat with a friend, when the cuíca came calling again. This time, it was Jorge Ben Jor’s “Taj Mahal.” While my friend spoke, I was entranced by that peculiar noise—was it laughing, gasping, or weeping? As the song wrapped up, I returned to reality, but secretly, I longed to linger in that alternate world a bit longer.
Carolina Abbott Galvão, a London-based writer, dances with the cuíca’s enchanting melodies, navigating through memories and musing on the nuances of a sound that bridges continents and eras.