169. Seu George
Royal Albert Hall
30 May 2017
Every now and then, a gig comes along that feels like it shouldn’t work on paper but surprises you. A Brazilian samba singer in a red beanie performing acoustic David Bowie covers in Portuguese in the Royal Albert Hall, sounds like the sort of fever dream you’d have after too much caipirinhas. But that’s exactly what Seu Jorge delivered, and it was kind of interesting.
Let’s set the scene. The Royal Albert Hall, Britain’s most opulent echo chamber, a venue that usually plays host to string quartets, BBC Proms, and the occasional middle-aged comeback tour, was transformed into a warm, glowing cocoon of candlelight, nostalgia, and saudade. Seu Jorge, the charismatic Brazilian troubadour best known for his acoustic Bowie covers from Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic, strode onto the stage, red watch cap, simple chair, acoustic guitar and nothing else. No band. No pyrotechnics. Just one man and a spotlight.
From the first strum of “Rebel Rebel”, reimagined as a lilting samba lament, the crowd was brought on side. It shouldn’t have worked and yet it did. His voice, warm and rich as aged rum, transformed these songs from cosmic anthems into intimate campfire prayers.
Midway through the set, Jorge paused to tell stories about his time filming The Life Aquatic with Bowie fanboy-in-chief, Wes Anderson. In his charmingly unhurried way, he spoke about how Bowie’s music had changed his life, how these songs, once foreign to him, became his own form of conversation with the man himself. “He told me, ‘Keep singing them,’” Jorge said softly.
It’s rare to see the Albert Hall this hushed. Every familiar chord hit differently: “Life on Mars” turned wistful, “Changes” became fragile and human, “Starman” glowed like a benediction. The language shift only added to the emotion; somehow, the Portuguese gave the songs a new melancholy, like Bowie reborn as a romantic poet from Rio.
Between songs, Jorge cracked jokes, flashed that grin, and gently reminded us that grief and joy are often the same thing sung in different keys. By the time he reached “Rock’n’Roll Suicide”, the entire Hall was on its feet, smiling, clapping, and holding on to that last note as if it might float away forever.
This was a love letter from one artist to another, translated across continents and language, performed with warmth, wit, and infinite charm. Neither my friend and I were completely sold on the idea, but I had to admit that I had been carried away by the sheer charm of this singer and, of course, those great songs.