As a Y2K teenager, Taya would cross Rio de Janeiro’s streets on an hour-long bus ride just because of music. Her final stop was at the Garage in downtown, a mainstay venue for the city’s rock bands. After a couple of hours of headbanging, she would listen to the oontz and thumps of baile funk parties in her neighborhood. “The Baixada, my ‘hood, was at the outskirts of Rio, with several favelas, so I listened to baile funk. But there was rock too,” says Taya, a Black Brazilian rapper who’s not ashamed to claim out loud, “I’m a rocker.”
Rock’n’roll hit the heart and soul of the Brazilian youth in the ‘60s, hailing from the inoffensive Jovem Guarda — both a TV show and a group that performed cover versions of the U.S.’ rock frenzy of the ‘50s — and blooming into the psychedelic, iconoclast Tropicália movement. Following a growth in the ’80s and ’90s with bands like Sepultura and Nação Zumbi dominating the scene, rock in Brazil seemingly lost momentum in the late 2000s, derailing into watered-down pop groups or even a conservative agenda. Now, a new generation of Brazilian artists wants to put overdriven riffs back on track, and they want to do so by reclaiming rock as Black and favela music.
These are the likes of Taya, crossing rap and rock, and bands such as Mateus Fazeno Rock, whose motto is “favela rock,” Crypta, led by Black singer and guttural vocal master Fernanda Lira, and Black Pantera, a power-trio from Minas Gerais that nods to the Black Panthers party not only with a name. “Often we read comments on social media like, ‘You should stick with music instead of talking politics,’ and I’m like, ‘Our existence both as Black people and a band is political,’” says Chaene Gama, Black Pantera’s bassist. “Brazilian rock is Black, combative, and it will gain ground if it depends on us.”
The crossover thrash band started in 2015, and one year later, they were lined up for Afropunk France. Touring Europe in a Black-oriented festival fueled the existing anti-racist sparkle within the band. From the Black Lives Matter movement to Bolsonaro’s presidency, context pushed the trio to rise as an anti-racist living manifesto. “The extreme right is getting stronger, especially in rock music, and this is a worrisome scenario,” says Chaene. “We’re going on the other way, gathering more fans, but also more haters.”
Black Pantera’s last album, Perpétuo, deepens this conversation connecting Brazil and the world via Afro-Latine roads. The album’s opening track “Provérbios” is a groovy, powerful song that melds together Miles Morales and Che Guevara: “Soy la revolución (…) Os povos originários não são clandestinos [I am the revolution (…) The indigenous people are not clandestine].” “Brazilian people often think they’re set apart from the continent,” the bassist adds. “But our ancestors also built this place. Their roots are also in this land.”
The rap-rock verve on Black Pantera’s lines is not by chance. A quintessential trait of nu metal, crossing hip-hop and rock is nothing but common for this generation of Brazilian rockers. “When I was a kid, I used to listen to Linkin Park, Korn, Slipknot,” recalls Taya. “Now, especially because of TikTok, there’s a new generation of Brazilian kids listening to these bands, and there are kids from underprivileged neighborhoods amongst these new fans.”
Hailing from rap, Taya has ultimately found in rock music a new platform to pass on her ideas on what it means to be a Black Brazilian woman. In “Branca de Neve (Rap das Sinhás)“, she sings along with rappers KING Saints and Monna Brutal over distorted guitar riffs: “When the sun rises, we’re the ones who suffer because we’re not white as snow.”
“I want to be a Black woman representation in Brazilian rock today,” affirms Taya. “If we think of female rockers in Brazil, we think of Rita Lee and Pitty, but where are the Black women? I consider Elza Soares the first Black rocker in Brazil, and I want to be a role model to the next generation of Black girls.”
Brazilian rock is Black, combative, and it will gain ground if it depends on us.
If revamping the nonconformist rock discourse brings in a wide range of aesthetic elements, the other way around has also a place among the new wave of Black favela rockers. Taya found in baile funk music a tool for experimentation. “Thirty years ago, nu metal was blending rock and rap,” says the artist. “Today, the Brazilian nu metal blends baile funk and trap music with rock.”
Other artists, like baile funk DJ Wizard, see rock drum rolls and power chords as tools. “I love rock instrumentation, it’s something that makes my heart pump,” he says. Born and raised in the outskirts of São Paulo in Diadema, Wizard is among the most compelling acts of the city’s own strain of baile funk, the mandelão. “There’s the bruxaria, a way of making this kind of baile funk that brings rock samples, heavy instrumentations, bold basslines,” he explains. One of his most famous tracks, a collab with DJs Léo da 17, Noguera, and MC BN, “Só Rock” opens with a gruesome overdriven guitar intro, flaring chords and thunderous kicks chopped up into baile funk rhythmics. “Raise up your hand with the rock’n’roll sign,” sings the MC.
Wizard believes baile funk is helping rock regain momentum amongst Black and favela kids in Brazil. “Not everyone in favelas likes baile funk, there are a lot of people who enjoy rock like me,” says the DJ, who’s also a fan of bands like System of a Down and Slipknot — hence the mask he wears while performing.
“Maybe the old heads are stuck in an era of bands like Oasis, Nirvana. But kids today like rock and baile funk because both share a powerful, upbeat energy,” says Wizard.
Taya, who wants to bridge two generations and two different sides of Brazil with her music, reminisces: “We’re the generation making the favela rock.”
