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In their signature approach to Carnaval, this year’s theme—the Dogon of Mali—wove Olodum’s profound sense of Afro-Brazilian identity into the much broader pan-African movement that has been the center of the group’s existence from the beginning.

Salvador’s carnival is defined by its participatory nature. Each bloco has a dedicated set of loyal fans—Baianos and foreigners alike—all wearing matching t-shirts or costumes, giving them direct access to the group.

A product of the reAfricanization movement that was centered in Northeast Brazil in the 1960s and 1970s, Olodum blends the sounds and rhythms of samba together with the laid back grooves of Reggae. The result was a new style of samba that flows with many of the same instruments, but a wildly different feel. Instead of frantically burning by at more than 120 beats per minute (more than two beats per second), samba-reggae takes it slow, generally clocking in at just over half the tempo of its frenetic root. The lyrical messages of samba-reggae have been, since its inception, racially conscious and socially motivated. Olodum’s classic “Faraó” [Pharaoh] mixes Egyptian mythology with a strong sense of Bahian negritude, likening the emergence of Olodum from the slums of Salvador to the pharaohs’ rise to power among the pyramids of ancient Egypt:

Despertai-vos para cultura egípcia no Brasil
Em vez de cabelos trançados, veremos turbantes de tucamóm

E Nas Cabeças
Enchei-se De Liberdade
O Povo Negro Pede Igualdade
Deixando De Lado As Separações


Wake up the Egyptian culture of Brazil!
Instead of braids, we’ll see the turbans of [the Egyptian Pharaoh] Tutankhamen.
And in those heads,
Now full of liberty,
The Black population asks for equality,
Casting aside separations.

This year, armed with nearly 300 drummers, 50 dancers, and a fully equipped Trio Elêtrico (a customized semi-truck complete with a self-contained P.A. system fit for a Rolling Stones concert and a stage on top), the bloco emerged from the Escola Olodum—the center of the group’s education outreach program—and took their jams to the streets. Nearly 20 years after appearing on Paul Simon’s multi-platinum album Rhythm of the Saints and 15 years after cutting the music video for Michael Jackson’s controversial “They Don’t Care About Us” (directed by Spike Lee), Olodum proved that its vitality in Salvador’s local musical culture has not waned. At one stop in the march Olodum’s drummers filled the streets as a crowd of VIPs, including João Jorge, president of the bloco, Jacques Wagner, governor of the state of Bahia, the Queen of Carnaval, journalists, Olodum alumni, and many others, watched, listened, and grooved from the balconies above.

And where Rio de Janeiro’s carnival is famous for the all-too-familiar images of shapely women in little more than bikinis—and oftentimes much less—gyrating atop parade floats gliding through the city surrounded by hundreds of thousands of spectators—each one paying up to US$500 to be in the crowd on any given night, Salvador’s carnival is defined by its participatory nature. Each bloco has a dedicated set of loyal fans—Baianos and foreigners alike—all wearing matching t-shirts or costumes, giving them direct access to the group. Olodum is no different, and the traditional separation in live music between them, the musicians, and us, the audience, disintegrates. As the night wears on and the parade winds its way through the city, moving from one neighborhood to the next, the physical line between the drummers, dancers, and the rest of us fades away. The spectacle is in the whole experience: the experience of being completely surrounded by surdos, of not being able to hear your own voice over the commanding cadence of repeniques and caixas, of passing a beer among audience members, musicians, and dancers, of being smack dab in the middle of hundreds of drummers in full costume, thousands of supporters all in matching colors, and literally millions of on-lookers.

In the months leading up to Carnaval and the weeks since, I have had many conversations with fans, followers, and musicians, both from right here in Bahia and from all over the globe. The common sentiment was that Olodum’s power—that is, the musical force of drums and rhythm, melodies, harmonies, and songs, emerging from a context of struggles for social, racial, and economic equality of which Olodum is one of many musical and cultural manifestations—evokes a set of emotions beyond the realm of words. Over and over, people told me that they couldn’t describe the feeling of experiencing Olodum, and most often resorted to single-word utterances to try to express these emotions.

In their words, Olodum is: Ecstasy. Power, sheer power. History. Passion. Euphoria. Rhythm.

That is Carnaval. That is Olodum.

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