For many artists, collaboration is about finding common ground. For Ricardo Bacelar and Airto Moreira, it seems to be about discovering entirely new terrain.
Their latest project, Maracanós, is an ambitious work that brings together acoustic instrumentation, electronic textures, improvisation, and orchestral arrangements without ever settling comfortably into a single genre. Recorded at Bacelar’s Jasmin Studio in Fortaleza, Brazil, the album emerged from a creative process that was as much about exploration as it was composition. What began alongside the production of a documentary eventually evolved into a musical world of its own—one shaped by experimentation, intuition, and an openness to uncertainty.
That spirit runs throughout the record. Rather than treating jazz, Brazilian music, ambient sound design, and contemporary composition as separate languages, Maracanós allows them to exist in conversation with one another. The result is a work that feels expansive yet intimate, rooted in tradition while remaining firmly focused on possibility.
The album also marks a significant moment in the career of Airto Moreira, whose influence on modern jazz and percussion is difficult to overstate. Having performed alongside figures such as Miles Davis, Chick Corea, Stan Getz, and Weather Report, Moreira’s legacy is already secure. Yet Maracanós is less concerned with looking backward than it is with embracing creative freedom in the present. Joined by legendary vocalist Flora Purim and supported by the Kalimera String Quartet, the project reflects a shared commitment to curiosity, risk-taking, and artistic evolution.
In conversation with AVOLA, Bacelar reflects on the making of Maracanós, working alongside Moreira and Purim, the balance between structure and improvisation, and why some of the most compelling music often exists beyond clear categorization.
Maracanós brings together acoustic performance, electronics, and orchestral elements. When you were building the record, what did you want to keep from traditional composition, and what did you want to break open?
I wanted to preserve the human emotion in music. Melody, interpretative intention, the breathing between musicians, and the idea of musical conversation remain fundamental to me. What I tried to break away from was the obligation to remain tied to predictable formats. In Maracanós, structures can transform during the music itself. Sometimes a composition emerges from a texture, a timbre, an electronic pulse, or even from silence. I wanted to create an environment where the acoustic and the electronic would not compete, but coexist organically.
You’ve described the album as emerging partly out of the documentary process. At what point did it stop being documentation and start becoming composition?
That happened naturally. At first, we were documenting encounters, experiments, and creative moments connected to the film. But at a certain point, we realized the music was creating its own narrative. The documentary process stopped simply observing and started interfering artistically. Conversations, the atmosphere of the studio, the experience of living and creating alongside Airto and Flora, and even the silences began directly influencing the compositions. The album developed a life of its own.
What did working with Airto Moreira teach you about rhythm that you couldn’t have learned from studying his recordings?
Airto understands rhythm as a living and spiritual force. Being beside him in the studio showed me that rhythm is not merely a mathematical division of time. It breathes, moves, communicates, and reacts emotionally to the environment. Many times, he created music through tiny sonic intentions, using simple objects or almost imperceptible nuances. That cannot be learned from recordings alone; it is something you absorb by witnessing the human energy happening in front of you.
Airto has played with some of the most influential figures in jazz history. When you were in the studio with him, did that legacy feel present in the room, or was it irrelevant to the creative process?
The legacy was present, but not as a historical weight. It was present as freedom. Airto naturally carries all of his experiences with Miles Davis, Chick Corea, Weather Report, and so many others, yet in the studio he remains incredibly open to the new. What impressed me most is that someone with such a monumental trajectory still maintains artistic curiosity and a willingness to experiment. That creates a very fertile creative environment.
The album moves between structured writing and improvisation. How do you decide when to let a moment stay loose versus locking it into form?
That decision comes largely through listening. Some ideas ask for architecture; others ask for freedom. In Maracanós, I tried to respect the natural behavior of the music itself. There are moments when improvisation brings a truth that would be impossible to reproduce later. In other situations, composition requires structure so that emotion can be guided more clearly. The balance between these two forces became one of the foundations of the album.
There’s a strong presence of texture and sound design here, especially with modular synthesis and electronic processing. How do you prevent those elements from overwhelming the acoustic core of the music?
Technology must serve emotion. I never used electronics as empty ornamentation. The synthesizers, processing, and textures function as emotional and spatial expansions of the acoustic music. Piano, percussion, strings, and organic instruments remain the human center of the album. Electronics enter to expand depth, atmosphere, and the sense of immersion.
Flora Purim appears on “Voo da Tarde.” What did her voice bring to the track that no instrument or arrangement could replace?
Flora possesses a very rare emotional dimension. Her voice carries memory, transcendence, and humanity simultaneously. On “Voo da Tarde,” she brought something almost spiritual to the music. It was not merely a vocal interpretation; it was artistic presence. There are artists whose voices transcend the idea of singing and become a sonic identity. Flora has that quality.
The title Maracanós feels symbolic but also open-ended. What does it mean to you, and how does it reflect the music?
The name came from Airto and carries a deeply intuitive dimension. It recalls the word “maraca,” evoking Indigenous ancestry and primal percussion, but it also suggests collectivity through the Portuguese word “nós” (“we”). At the same time, it evokes something profoundly Brazilian, almost connected to the idea of cultural encounter. The title represents precisely the spirit of the album: music created in community, in freedom, blending tradition, experimentation, and contemporary Brazilian identity.
A lot of contemporary jazz-adjacent music is heavily polished or genre-defined. Was there a conscious decision to resist that kind of clarity or categorization?
Yes. I am interested in music that remains open. Excessive categorization often limits the artistic experience. Maracanós was never conceived to obey a specific genre. It moves through jazz, Brazilian music, ambient music, orchestral writing, electronics, and free improvisation without asking permission. I believe it is important to preserve zones of mystery in music. Not everything needs to be completely explained or neatly categorized.
Looking back on the sessions now, what moment felt like the true “center” of the album, when everything finally clicked into place?
I believe that happened when we realized the album no longer depended on external references. There was a moment when the music began to sound like its own universe. Perhaps during the freer sessions involving piano, percussion, and electronic textures, when everything started coexisting naturally. At that point, we understood that Maracanós was neither nostalgia nor historical re-creation. It was something alive, contemporary, and emotionally truthful.
Featured Image: Artist Supplied
