Rio de Janeiro is a landmark city for forró. Home to Luiz Gonzaga for almost 20 years, it also sheltered Jackson do Pandeiro, Marinês, Dominguinhos, and with them was the stage for the golden years of Northeastern rhythms. In 2024, Rio keeps the flame of forró alive, and I discovered it can still grow much bigger.
The first forró I went to after moving in 2019 was at a bar in Botafogo. The space was small, air-conditioned, and surprised me with its crowd: the same young, bohemian, alternative audience from Rio’s South Zone. Aside from the zabumba player, who turned out to be a fellow Paraíban, the whole band was from the Southeast.
A few months passed and the desire to discover more about that world grew. But I first needed to fix a factory defect: I didn’t know how to dance forró. Even after listening on loop to Mastruz com Leite’s live DVD as a kid; after learning and playing accordion as a teenager; I didn’t know the minimum to lead someone in a dance.
The first step, then, was looking for forró classes. With a few Instagram searches I found some dance schools and chose one to start. I was well received, with the classic admiration after saying where I’m from, and in a few classes I was already dancing something. But I was also discovering something outside my radar.
Even in beginner classes, the teaching couple — cariocas — did some more “advanced” performances to energize and keep the class engaged. Still, that didn’t feel much like forró to me. With more steps and walks than a June-festival quadrilha performance at the Pyramid in Parque do Povo, that was Forró Roots — a mix of forró, tango, samba de gafieira, and questionable intentions.
An analysis of Roots (which doesn’t try to call itself “raiz”/roots, but rather honor forró festivals like Rootstock) is more complex than I can deliver today, but the first big difference I felt between the Northeastern and carioca scenes was that dance schools strongly influence what forró is in the city**.**
When I took some Northeastern friends to a baile (a term widely used by dancers), I heard more than once: “Wow, so many spins.” There is a certain implicit agreement that dancing well means doing many different steps on the floor, which leaves some people uncomfortable starting to dance.
I appreciate refinement and the study of technique, but philosophically I prefer to dance and spread the forró of plastered living rooms, held close, where spins and steps are present but don’t overshadow the simplicity of a dance born to bring people together and bring joy. Independently, I recognize the work of the schools and hope to see it prosper even more.
At one of the first bailes I went to, I ran into another striking difference. During a set change, the singer said: “I know you don’t like it, but let’s play a little xote now,” and was promptly met by some shouts of “No, please” from the crowd. And of course I was confused, because if there’s one thing I never imagined would divide opinions, it was the xote rhythm.
“Forró” has two main meanings: the cultural event/movement and the musical rhythm. The 3 main rhythms of forró are: xote, forró, and baião.
It wasn’t hard to understand why. Because of the same agreement that dancing well means doing ornamental steps, xote, being slower, makes those steps unviable. I note that this resistance isn’t that strong, and varies by venue, but it was interesting to discover this was a concern. In Paraíba, people would hardly think about that.
To situate non-Northeasterners: I grew up in Campina Grande, PB — home of the World’s Biggest São João. Outside the ~3 months in the middle of the year, little is said about forró; little forró is played; and very little forró is danced. Even though most of my fellow locals, if asked, would speak of their admiration for Northeastern music, forró isn’t part of the city’s day-to-day. At least not until now.
And this was my first big realization: In Rio, forró is taken seriously. People have opinions about it, identify as forrozeiros, and take part in a pulsing nightlife scene. In Rio, there’s forró every day, evidenced by the aggregator forronorio, which posts the calendar of bailes daily.
There are forrós for every taste, and over the last months I went to visit each of them. There’s a spectrum of audiences involving age, class, and tolerance for the smell of weed. Democráticos, a club over 100 years old in Lapa, hosts couples and experienced forró dancers every Friday. Havana 59, also in Lapa, attracts a younger crowd with its stage open to new bands and a mix of styles.
Like many things in Rio, the bailes start late. 10 p.m. is when the main band kicks off, and the time before is filled by DJs who bring a vast repertoire, also played between sets. The show ends between 1 and 2 a.m., except for the classic Forró da Glória, which only ends when the subway opens the next day.
An interesting movement I discovered is forró circles. Just like in a samba circle, the sound is led by a table of musicians who don’t bring a fixed repertoire and welcome new artists who enrich the show. The Forró de Rabeca circle happens every Wednesday at Armazém do Campo and welcomes talented instrumentalists who play from Hermeto Pascoal to Buena Vista Social Club.
And, without a doubt, what surprised me most positively on this journey was the reverence and admiration for Northeastern artists and composers. From the first dance class, I discovered that the playlists are full of Luiz Gonzaga, Ary Lobo, Marinês, Trio Nordestino, and many other artists who went unnoticed when I was growing up. I was lucky enough to discover beautiful songs, like Desabafo sung by Júlia Vargas.
Talking with musicians and cultural producers, many speak nostalgically of the time when “forró was booming” and consider the movement smaller today. As in any state, the situation isn’t easy for local artists — who work hard. But little by little, new projects start and more people consume forró.
One of the new groups that stands out is Forró de Pife, which puts Zabé da Loca’s same fife as the lead instrument and brings a repertoire that goes from Os 3 do Nordeste to Júlia Mestre, passing through original songs by singer Alulu Paranhos. Combating harassment on the dance floor is one of the band’s agendas, along with creating a welcoming environment for those who don’t know how to dance.
Other projects like Baile da Lua, which joins Sivuca’s instrumentals with Argentine music, and Piseiro Debochado (self-explanatory), reinforce how Rio de Janeiro continues to be a creative cradle for Brazilian forró. The audience, mostly carioca, reflects the traits of those on stage and is welcoming and warm — unlike other spaces in the city.
It was worthwhile going through this journey and discovering so much good work being done. At the same time, recognition goes more to the persistence of artists and producers than to the cultural environment itself. In the future, when forró exploded in Rio, there is structured public support to incentivize culture; climate-controlled venues with greater audience capacity; collectives and associations of artists make it easier for newcomers; and companies collaborate with the forró movement that lights up and sways the nights of the Marvelous City.
