Music that connects us beyond words

Portuguese fado is reaching global audiences, largely through a singer called Mariza. She talks to Arminta Wallace

As an art form, fado is still a bit of an unknown quantity: Google the word and you find yourself connected to a sort of online Irish pub. So let's get it clear - we haven't just forgotten the fada. What we're talking about is not fadó but fado, with the accent firmly on the first syllable. Known in some quarters as "the heart of the Portuguese soul", fado is attracting ever bigger audiences in Europe and America thanks to the woman who has made it accessible to a global audience. Mariza's debut album, Fado em Mim (Fado in Me), went triple platinum in Portugal and won her the BBC radio 3 award for Best European Music Artist. Her second, Fado Curvo (Curved Fado), shot to number six on the Billboard world music chart.

Now, as she embarks on a lengthy international tour to promote her third release, Transparente (Transparent), she finds herself in the "international superstar" category. It sounds, I remark, as if she has conquered the world. "Oh, no," comes the reply, the English lightly American-accented. "That makes me sound like Jacques Cousteau or something." The era when Portugal conquered the world is gone, she adds. "That belongs to the 16th century. We don't conquer the world any more."

The beginnings of the fado tradition are also lost in the mists of time. It may have come to Portugal from Africa, or developed out of the sea shanties of homesick sailors and fishermen. Whatever its origins, its themes remain constant: destiny (the word itself is derived from the Latin fatum, fate), betrayal in love, death and despair - "a lament of those who weep . . . about their sadness", as the lyric of one of the songs on Transparente puts it.

Why does Mariza think this Portuguese music appeals to such a broad audience worldwide? "Fado is a very magical music, because it touches the emotions of people - even if they don't speak the same language. And I think those emotions are universal. Music has a great ability to cross frontiers and connect people with political ideas, different religions and different ideologies. Globalisation has meant that people are more open to this kind of connection and are trying to understand the culture of their neighbours - and this music makes them feel they're part of something bigger. I think that's the magic of fado."

Mariza is, naturally, far too modest to mention her own part in the fado phenomenon. A great deal of her success must be attributed to the power and beauty of her voice - and her intimate performing style. Added to this is the punch packed by the lyrics. Even if audiences can't understand the words, Mariza's intense delivery leaves nobody in any doubt as to the general drift. She has, she says, always been keen to seek out songs with meaningful lyrics. On the new album, she has taken this to a new level.

The opening track on Transparente, Há uma Música do Povo (There's a Music of the People) is a setting of a poem by the great Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa. Another track, Há Palavras que nos Beijam (There are Words that Kiss Us), features the line "Naked words that you kiss/When the night loses its face".

Where did the songs come from? "I research the songs by reading poetry," she says. "I don't have that gift that some people have, to write their own poems. So what I try to do is to find poetry which reveals my way of seeing the world. I also like to try to combine the most important poets from the beginning of the 20th century with young contemporary poets. Then I work with composers. With this third album I knew exactly which composers I wanted to work with. Of course they have the freedom of saying, 'Well, we don't like this poem' - and I have the freedom to say 'Well, I didn't like what you did, so let's try again'. That's the way we work."

It's an interesting modus operandi, particularly in view of the fact that for many years, the Portuguese intelligentsia steered well clear of fado, which had somewhat unsavoury political connotations.

Mariza was born in Mozambique and moved to the working-class district of Mouraria in Lisbon, a hotbed of fado, when she was very young. She began to sing in her parents' restaurant; but in her late teens and early 20s, preferred to sing a funkier kind of music altogether. Does she agree that fado has had a troubled past - and did this make her reluctant, initially, to sing the music?

"Well, for 40 years we had the Salazar regime in Portugal," she says. "And fado was used by the regime to control people. We had the story of the three Fs: fado, football and Fatima. When the regime fell in 1974, educated people didn't want to be connected with fado. So for many years fado was relegated to the traditional working-class neighbourhoods. But, you know, I didn't have that image in my head. The regime was gone when I was two, or something - so I don't remember those days, although my parents do, of course. For me, fado is a very, very rich music and part of the culture of my people."

Fair enough. But we Irish aren't going to relinquish our grip on the word without a fight. Has Mariza heard of the Irish word fadó? "Oh, yes. When I sang in Cork, a lady came and said to me, 'You know, we use the same word to mean a long time ago. When we start a story for our children, instead of saying once upon a time, we say, fado, fado.' And maybe," she adds after a moment's thought, "in some ways, it's the same thing."

Improvised Music Company presents Mariza at Vicar St on Nov 13. Transparente is on EMI