Simone de Oliveira

She said what she wanted, without fear. She spoke. She loved who she had to love. In public, in secret. She defied convention. She sang without censorship. She created her democracy at a time when the country was sleeping in the gloom of dictatorship. She lost her voice. She was reborn, without the high notes that made her a singer, but with firm, crystal-clear low notes. She faced the unpredictability of two breast cancers. She survived. She sang without stopping until she felt it was time to say goodbye to the stage, which had been her home for 65 years. Today, proud of the wrinkles that chart the various lives she has lived, Simone de Oliveira feeds on a «cleansed nostalgia», with her eyes set on the future and free of regrets. With expressive green eyes, Old-Hollywood-style hair, practised gestures and the right words on the tip of her tongue, the artist talks to us about the unravelling of 85 years of existence. We'll be giving her a standing ovation today and always. 

When you were young, you sang Fado da Carta, by Fernanda Baptista, and Marco do Correio, by Alberto Ribeiro, for your mother, but you never dreamed of being an artist. What were you planning for your life at the time?
I have no idea, like any girl at that time. I don't know. I thought I'd study languages, get married without any dramas, something like that... I was never one to imagine too many things. I was very happy with my father, my mother and my sister.  

You ended up attending the National Broadcaster’s Artist Training Centre, the first place you came across a microphone for the first time. At what point did you realise you were going to make a life out of music?
I joined the Artist Training Centre shortly after the end of a disastrous marriage in which I suffered a great deal of beatings. At the time, I ran away and moved in with my parents. As a matter of conscience, my father ended up taking me to the Training Centre, not with the intention of making me a singer, but so that I could be busy for three hours a day. I confess that my head was almost spinning, but then I started going to those programmes on the National Broadcaster on Fridays, where Maria do Espírito Santo and Alice Amaro would sing, and I began to fit in with that little group. In the same year, RTP came looking for singers at the Artist Training Centre. The first programme I did was on television, wearing a horrible dress. From then on, it was a string of jobs. I started singing here and there, but it wasn't until I did Sol de Inverno in 1965 and went to represent Portugal in Naples that I realised that music would make my life.  

You took to the stage at the Portuguese ‘Song for Europe’ contest in 1969 to sing Desfolhada Portuguesa. How did the public react? 
Let me tell you that the first song from the song contest to be broadcast was mine, and Maria da Fé, a great fado singer who sang Vento do Norte, sung in 12th place. When I heard her song, I immediately thought «that’s a winner», but in the meantime Desfolhada’s vote went up significantly and it took first place. I must confess I wasn’t expecting to win the contest at all. 
The public gave Desfolhada Portuguesa a rousing reception. Some 54 years have passed and I’m still trying to understand why. At the time, I was coming back from Madrid by train and the train started to stop when I got to Lisbon. I wondered what was the matter. I realised a short while later that there were 23,000 people standing on the train tracks to see me. I remember seeing my father outside and him hugging me. I cried a lot. I still had to go up to the second floor of the station, to climb onto a stool on a table and sing Desfolhada, with a megaphone and the window open. The amazing thing was that people knew the song off by heart. How could they have memorised it in two days? I also remember an old man, at the time I was getting on the train, taking off his cap and saying: «Madam, what have you done to our country! ». The reality is that it was a problem of the country, a problem of anger, a problem of the lyric «quem faz um filho, fá-lo por gosto», meaning «whoever has a child, does it for pleasure». It basically comes from that phrase, which nobody would ever have said at the time.  

In interviews, you reveal that your father never complimented you on the potential of your voice and that you can count on your fingers the number of times you came to one of your shows. Do you now understand why?
That's a good question. I have no idea. I have an idea that seeing me become an artist was the last thing on his mind. "This girl is completely crazy," I used to hear him say to my mum. As a matter of fact, I did have attitudes that nobody dared to have at the time. People got married, got beaten up and stayed at home and kept quiet. I got married, got beat up and ran away. If being married meant that, I didn't want it. Fortunately, I had a mum and dad who accepted me, and I went to their house and told them: " You might not want me to stay here with you, but even if I have to sleep on the street, I'm not going back there". And they realised that I wasn't going back, and I never did.  

While the country slept in the gloom of censorship, you sang at the top of your lungs: Whoever has a child / does it for pleasure. Were you ever afraid of the consequences that could come from such a non-conformist and interventionist spirit?
I'm a woman who has no fear. It never occurred to me that I would be harmed for singing the truth. 
One day I remember singing Sol de Inverno and then holding a press conference. During the session, an Italian journalist picked up on the words bandeira vencida / rasgada no chão, (defeated flag / torn on the floor) and asked me if that represented the lost struggle against Salazar. At that moment, the Portuguese delegation was staring at me, until I replied: «Look, you have got it all wrong. This is a music conference, I think you should go to a political conference, which might be in the same street, three doors down.» To this day I don’t know how I had the nerve to say that.

«Life has given me everything»

You lost your voice at a complicated time in your life. Eventually, you were invited to join a newspaper, and the theatre came your way. «Sometimes God works in strange ways»?
I think so. At the time, my name was always at the top of the bill, so I had to sing. I sang so much that when I went to give a concert in a hotel in Póvoa de Varzim, I lost my voice. I immediately left the hotel, got in the car and drove home with my parents. I recall that my father locked himself in the study with me, put my records on and told me not to cry, because you can also live from nostalgia. Losing that voice was actually the best thing that could have happened to me in life, not least because it wouldn't have lasted very long. The "new" voice was followed by hoarseness, from a case of pharyngitis due to overwork and a badly placed voice. 

You’ve already given a great deal to Portuguese culture. What do music and theatre give you?
They’ve given me everything that I am, including honours awarded by three presidents of the republic. Well, I may have done something to deserve them, but something I’ve never done is take someone else's place, even if I was starving, and it would have been so easy to have everything... 

At the age of 84, you bid farewell to the stage after a career spanning more than half a century. After the goodbyes, what remains?
After the goodbyes, you’re left with a life to remember. You're left with the images I don’t have. It’s funny how I don't have any photographs of my performances. Not a single one. And I sang everywhere, even above a well, on top of some boards. At the time I just thought: «If the boards break, there I go... » (she laughs).  

You’ve been honoured with many awards. Any awards you didn't get?
None. Life has given me everything. I have every reason to be a happy woman: two amazing children, an extraordinary husband, four remarkable grandchildren who are already architects and engineers... Mind you, none of them were born to sing (laughs). I’m also the great-grandmother of a little boy called Guy, with the same name as my father, in his memory. 

Now in the 21st century, there are two wars going on. How does music serve as a symbol of hope for these countries in conflict? Not least because, during the Colonial War, you went to sing for the Portuguese troops in combat... 
I think that, at the moment, it’s a problem of humanity, a problem of men, a problem of God. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with music. People kill in the name of a God. I don’t know who he is, but I’d like to sit down and talk to him. 

If you were face to face with God, would you ask him why there is war?
I’d ask him. If God existed, or if the image of truth, lucidity, equality and doing good has his name in it, I’d ask why people are killing in his name, in the name of money, greed, munitions? 
I think Ukraine’s problem is one of independence. If Spain wanted to invade Portugal, I’d go to Avenida da Liberdade with a flag on my chest and sing Desfolhada. I have a homeland called Portugal. I have a language, which is Portuguese. I wouldn’t want to be anything other than Portuguese.

«My mind goes far beyond my body»

What do you think of Portuguese culture today?
It’s a different culture today and, as such, we have to accept its changes. There’s a freedom that certainly didn’t exist in my day, but sometimes there have to be limits. My freedom doesn’t give me the right to be inconvenient to others, but that is what has been happening.

How do you see the role of women in Portugal? 
Women still don0t have what they should have, but they already have a lot of clout. There were times when they had none, and I should know. My children were the children of an unknown mother for ten years. At the time, I was married by the church, my children weren’t from that marriage and there was no divorce. If I revealed that I was their mother, they would be named after a man who was not their biological father. Until one day when a Portuguese minister announced a law that obliged children to bear the names of their father and mother. I remember going to the registry office and having my children’s birth certificates in my pocket, without the names of their parents and grandparents. Instead of giving me new ones, they wanted to add an endorsement, and I didn't want that. Then they asked me for the old certificates and I replied that I had lost them, a lie that at the time resulted in a fine and imprisonment. I’m sure the person who answered me knew I had them, but he looked at me and gave me some new ones. When I got home, I told my dad and he, overjoyed, opened a bottle of champagne and poured it over my kids.  

And what do you think of these new generations of musicians? Will they live up to the legacy left by the giants of Portuguese music?
They’ll be different memories. It’s a different time, a different life, a different century... I have to say that I love Mariza and the artists who are mentors on the television programme The Voice Portugal. I like António Zambujo, Carminho and Camané, but there are others who sell out venues without me realising why.  

Did you share a special connection with Amália?
I have the greatest respect for Amália. I owe her many thanks. I sang in Paris in costumes made at her house because I didn’t have the money to have them made. I remember the two of us in Paris, in her room, talking for hours. I had dinner at her house many times and today I’m incapable of visiting it. Incapable. I’ll never forget the image of her at the top of the stairs, with her cigarette and her high heels. I tell you, the only diva who has ever existed is called Amália Rodrigues.  

Are there second Amálias?
No. 

What about second Simones?
If they don’t sing badly, I’m very happy for them to appear! 


«I don’t want to be anything other than Portuguese»

Are you a technology woman or does it mean nothing to you? 
I have Facebook, Netflix and I watch TV, mainly the Fox Crime channel. I love the film Joker, although I suffer to the end. But if you gave me a tablet, I wouldn’t know how to work it. 

Are you proud of your time-honed features?
Yes. Otherwise, where would be what I’ve cried about, what I’ve laughed about, the applause I didn't get? It's my life that's etched on my face.  

Do you feel that your mind fits your body?
My mind goes far beyond my body. I have trouble walking, which sometimes makes me feel a bit inadequate. My head is in an extraordinary place, but, «it’s the body that pays!».

Have you often cried while hiding from the world?
Many times. I went to do a comedy show on the day my mother died, so I guess that answers the question. 

Who was the most difficult conversation that you’ve ever had?
With my father. I was married and ran away, but I ended up getting pregnant by this gentleman. At the time, my father sat me down and asked me if I wanted to have the child. I told him no, and I didn’t have it. 

Are you still surprised by life?
Life surprises me every day. Something that still amazes me is space, where we see the Earth hanging in nothingness. How did the seas, the countries, the mountains, the people, the buses get there? Who made them, who put them there? 

Are you afraid of being forgotten?
No, because it's inevitable. Does anyone remember King Afonso Henriques carrying that heavy sword? No! (she laughs).

Do you believe there’s more to life after life?
Yes, I do. We are energy and that energy has to go somewhere. I say, all hopeful.

The song that your grandchildren listen to most: Sol de Inverno. 

Best and worst personality trait: the worst trait is believing in people and the best is trying to help those around me. 

Song that best describes your life: Rien de Rien, by Edith Piaf. 

Something you’ve never revealed to the public: the people I’ve loved, without the public knowing. 

What you would change about your life: nothing. 

Portuguese party you would never vote for: Chega.