Fado in Manhattan

If you want to be my love

Don't speak to me only of love,

But talk to me about fado.

In Portugal, such an injuction in the middle of a love song is as standard as June & moon rhymes in the U.S. Fado (pronounced fah-doo), distantly related to kismet, means fate or destiny, and turns up in general conversation as often as "good luck" does in the U.S.

Best of all, Portugal likes to listen to the fado songs of dark-eyed Amalia Rodrigues. In Lisbon, every taxi driver can point out her house; her appearance in one of the cafes, theaters or casinos is cause for celebration. In the dozen years she has been singing professionally, Europe and Brazil have also savored her fados, but it was not until this season that Amalia was introduced to the U.S. She began what is likely to be a long run at the Manhattan nightclub La Vie en Rose.

Amalia stands quietly, framed by the figures of two men who play deep-toned Portuguese guitars. Sometimes smiling, sometimes with her eyes closed reflectively, she sings about love, jealousy, the sadness of parting--and fate in general. And without understanding more than a word or two, the crowd sits entranced.

Fado singing seems to have started as the bitter balladry of 18th century Portuguese convicts on their way to forced labor and exile in Portugal's African colonies. Amalia's fado is more sentimental. It differs, too, from the singing of other Portuguese fadistas, just as Bessie Smith's blues differ from Pearl Bailey's. Amalia, who is steeped in her country's Moorish musical tradition, alternates a passionate, reedy wail with a tone of warm caress. She thinks that Rosemary Clooney's current song, Half as Much, is the closest thing to U.S. fado.

She is the best-paid performer in Portugal. Her nightly fee, 10,000 to 30,000 escudos ($350 to $1,050), is so high that even the best-heeled impresario cannot afford to put her on the payroll, engages her only for one-night stands. Because she was a poor child she spends the money freely ("I don't know where it all goes"), but there is always enough to support her family.

She will stay in Manhattan as long as people want to hear her, then go to Mexico City. She would love to go to Hollywood--"what performer wouldn't?" But Amalia, who freely admits she can wrap any Portuguese audience around her little finger, is frightened. "I don't think I'm good enough," she says.

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