I am a Fado Singer

Amalia’s flesh and bones do not belong to my time, obviously. I slipped and fell into the new-mythology that arises from a confident and blushed Lisbon. Therefore I was obliged to undergo the first layer, turistic, in order to find myself in the searched destination. The pitorestic carrossel of the foreigners, who get drunk by taking sips of the portuguese melancholy and also of the despair of surviving with dignity over the portuguese sidewalks. So I try the eyes of the moon and of the lisboetas, who wait in harmony (and in vain) for someone that never came and never will be there, not even disguised as a poet nor a saint. We are left with the verses, written with gold, to convince and let fall in love those who land from another country to witness advertised sadness. The broken promise of the verses written on the sly, lyrics for fadistas, who shout their false moans in the shadows of the portuguese stone-filled hills. I build my visual identity from the compromised immersion of the métier who chose me and received me, this time fado, to which I gave myself completely to help paint a bigger picture.