Optimo

In 1993 Kurt Cobain tried to convince Os Mutantes to reform for a one-off reunion show. They declined. It therefore came as a shock to see, scanning through the gig listings, that Os Mutantes were going to be playing together in London, just minutes walk from my home - this, a band who last released an album in their original line-up at the tail end of the '60s. It's not like I’ve spent endless time listening to Os Mutantes - I was familiar with the 1968 compilation Tropicalia: Ou Panis et Circenses, and I had been absorbed by the self-titled debut album of the same year too - but it was music I was listening to with a perspective of it being The Past, with it being a document of a movement that was exciting and influential and brilliantly, joyously vibrant, but as final in its ending as the Beatles or the Kinks. However, the Troca Brahma festival has brought them right here to London, for a night of British and Brazilian crossover - and, oh my, am I glad about it.

The night begins with a car-crash of guilty fun, dirty rhymes and baile funk. Radioclit kick off proceedings on the decks, centre stage, whisking together bhangra and samba and Euro-pop and crunching grimy basslines, walking the tightrope of ridiculous versus brilliant, and of dirty versus all out sleazy. Bonde Do Role (pictured) bound onto the stage, mount the tight rope and pull the whole affair into the festering pit of sleaze - and just for now, despite all my English ways, it's wonderful. The Brazilian trio are slamming hips backwards and forwards whilst bashing out spitter-spatters of slang, taunting rhythmically. They make us note half way through that this collaboration is a new live experience - but rather than closing up with nerves they are happy to shout and dance and laugh at mistakes as they fit their words around the DJ's records. The Radioclit 'Gasolina' remix that they play together is twice as explicit as the original - I'm surprised to look around and_ not _see people fucking on the dancefloor. Amanda Blank also takes to the stage - a tiny frame that ejects words with surprising rate and force. A seriously good collaborative set, but the Forum is quite the hothouse, and a rest from all the unavoidable twitching is welcome.

Os Mutantes arrive to a solid wall of cheering. The audience are now in a festival mindset – loose-limbed, loose-jawed, loosened of morality, and understandably excited about seeing old legends reunited after nearly 40 years. To the Brazilian contingent especially this must be the equivalent of seeing the aforementioned Beatles or Kinks reform - still alive, and even more remarkably still musically adept. This was a band that played every week on Brazilian TV during 1965 and 1966; the underground championing that’s happened for them actually occurred when they were rediscovered by key indie types in the early ‘90s. However, unlike British ‘60s pop, listening to Os Mutantes now, with ears that have absorbed a scattershot history of the last 50 years of pop music, they still sound quite timeless.

Their roots are in psychedelia, guitars and chanted choral vocals combined with samba rhythms and a brass section, but the interest comes from ever mutating melodies and ever evolving song structures. Zelia Duncan's voice is beautiful, and she parades back and forth across the expanse of the stage with the airs of a lady who knows full well that she is filling this old cavern with rainbow-bright sound. The guitarist, Sergio Baptista, may be looking a little less smooth-skinned than in years past, but he still drops onto his knees to play guitar solos, like he's playing with Bon Jovi - but fuck it, we can allow him to, as he deserves to show the fuck off. The set is freewheeling and so full of pleasure for audience and band alike - it's like we're having the secrets of eternal youth spritzed into the air and the atmosphere and painted in big letters across the stage - the most incredibly powerful advertisement for sunshine and eternal summer and positivity. Perhaps even Kurt would have smiled if he had been able to see this.

The night isn't quite over - Diplo is to round off the evening mixing up his and our favourite records. He is a fairly ultimate party DJ - having previously kept me moving for a two-and-a-half hour set that started at 5am in Barcelona, I am all too aware of this fact. The crucial problem with British culture versus European or South American culture: come two am, just after an enthusiastic, twirling and spinning, twinning and swirling rendition of 'Jailhouse Rock', the music cuts out. The party is over, and we're kicked out onto the streets with no other event worth the entrance fee for miles around. If only Troca Brahma could have brought with it some Brazilian all-night culture as well as the music and atmosphere, which just all ended a little too soon.