Saying that I simply play it would imply mastery, belonging—maybe even a certain presumption of stepping into a place that isn’t mine. To approach it, on the other hand, is an act of listening. It means acknowledging the distance—geographical, cultural, historical—and still choosing to move toward it.
I’m a foreign interpreter of an American tradition. And that’s not a limitation; it’s the starting point. I don’t try to erase my accent, and I don’t pretend to come from somewhere I don’t. What interests me instead is the meeting point—the moment when two different experiences cross and create something unique.
American rural music carries very specific landscapes, stories, and lived realities. Railroads, churches, dust, solitude (among many other details)—all of it comes from a context that isn’t mine. And maybe that’s exactly why I approach it with care. Not as someone trying to reproduce it, but as someone observing, learning, and responding.
For a Brazilian, it’s impossible to play like an American. And the reverse is just as true. But maybe the beauty isn’t in trying to recreate it perfectly—it’s in the attempt itself, imperfect and conscious, to understand. There’s a fertile space in that “in-between”: not here, not there, but in constant dialogue.
There’s also something that runs through all of this: the simple pleasure of listening, of recognizing something, of letting yourself be carried by it. Brazil has always been deeply receptive to American music across many genres—from folk to blues, from country to rock. These sounds, even though they were born far away, have found here an open, curious, and sensitive audience. Maybe because, in the end, music doesn’t belong to a fixed place. It travels. And when it arrives, it finds new ways to exist.
That’s where my work is grounded as well. Because beyond any aesthetic or cultural reflection, there’s something very simple and essential: to entertain. To create a moment. To offer an atmosphere. To let someone, even if just for a few minutes, step out of where they are and connect with another landscape—real or imagined.
So what I do is have a conversation with a tradition—and also share that conversation. Every note carries that intention. Not to say “this is mine,” but to say “I’m listening”—and at the same time, “come listen with me.”
Maybe that’s what gives meaning to the gesture: not possession, but proximity. Not certainty, but respect. And alongside that, a genuine desire to create something that surrounds, accompanies, and lingers, even briefly, in the life of the listener.
It’s not about playing American music. It’s about being, in some way, in relationship with it—and turning that relationship into experience, into listening, into entertainment.
