Artist.......: Ana Moura Album........: Aconteceu Label........: World Village Genre........: Ethnic Catnr........: 468053 source.......: CDDA rip.date.....: Aug-05-2007 str.date.....: Oct-10-2006 quality......: VBR/44,1Hz/Joint-Stereo Url..........: www.anamoura.com track title time 01. Por Um Dia 03:36 02. Ao Poeta Perguntei 02:07 03. O Que Foi Que Aconteceu 03:39 04. Ouvi Dizer Que Me Esqueceste 03:27 05. Fado de Pessoa 03:44 06. Amor de Uma Noite 03:13 07. Quero 03:03 08. Bailinho a Portuguesa 02:41 09. Creio 02:01 10. Atraves Do Meu Coracao 02:43 11. Como o Tempo Corre 03:00 12. Hoje Tudo Me Entristece 03:11 13. Passos Na Rua 03:01 14. Mouraria 02:18 15. Fado Menor 03:38 16. Dentro Da Tempestade 03:01 17. Cumplicidade 02:16 18. OMeu Amigo Joao 02:22 19. Venho Falar Dos Meus Medos 03:01 20. Nada Que Devas Saber 03:12 Runtime 59:14 min Size 67,10 MB Release Notes: Ana Moura was a rock singer in her native Portugal before succumbing the lure of fado, a folk-music tradition related to American blues, Argentinean tango, Greek rembetika, and even more closely to Brazilian choro and Cape Verdean morna. Like its aforementioned cousins, fado originated on the wrong side of town. Black-clad shady ladies sang of romantic disappointments and life on the wild side. Although it is a poetry of despair, it is nonetheless sensuously melodic, as well as touchingly stoic, proud, and very adult. The slings of fortune are not met with cringing, but rather a sexy shrug. It has long since become somewhat gentrified but fado has retained all of its bittersweet passion and ability to break hearts, especially when interpreted by a vocalist of Ms. Moura's stature. Like the illustrious Amalia Rodrigues, her band is graced by the talents of composer-producer-arranger-guitarist Jorge Fernando, whose taste and elegance have fashioned a lush, string-driven acoustic setting for her luscious cafΘ-au-lait alto. Her soaring trills of ancient Moorish vintage rise above subterranean depths of grief and angst, seeming to pierce the very heavens with roundelays of indignant resignation. --Christina Roden