A guide to São Paulo, the Brazilian city defined by its creative subcultures

I’m still two blocks away when I hear the samba beat, subverted by a deep, assertive bass. At the far end of a pedestrian lane paved in white tiles, a Beaux Arts villa called Casa de Francisca glows red and purple from within. Its tall second-storey windows are flung open to reveal hundreds of party-goers. Behind the villa, there’s São Paulo’s historic centre, the silhouetted at night.

Once home to a musical instrument shop, then a radio broadcaster, before becoming an empty shell, the building now has more people inside than it’s ever hosted before. When I enter, it feels as though they’re testing the structural integrity of its Corinthian pillars. A fusion of black, white, mixed, Indigenous, macho and gender-fluid people, the crowd bounce and shout out lyrics, white shirts billowing, trilbies toppling. Their eyes are on the DJ booth where Angola-born writer-musician Kalaf Epalanga is spinning kizomba — a sweeping genre embracing Afrobeats, Portuguese pop, fervent hip-hop and plaintive soul. When Kalaf eases into a slower tempo, couples pair off in sweaty synchronicity, or make out under the tiered chandelier. Two tall mirrors on the stage reflect the scene back to me.

Emerging from Angolan clubs in southwestern Africa during the war-torn 1980s, kizomba culture has rippled through the Afro-Portuguese diaspora like waves across the Atlantic. It’s difficult to define because it’s considered an attitude — a matrix of Latin rhythms, new wave synthesisers and early techno, but also fashion bravado and survival spirit that’s found a footing in São Paulo. The Afro-pop Cape Verdean crooner Djodje is kizomba; so, too, is the Rio-based Afrobeats DJ Joss Dee. The literal meaning of kizomba in the Kimbundu language, one of several spoken in Angola, is ‘party’.

In this city of around 12 million — the world’s largest Portuguese-speaking centre and Brazil’s most populated city by a country mile — Kalaf has a huge fanbase. And this celebration of kizomba, held in partnership with Kalaf’s fellow artist, friend and countryman Nástio Mosquito, is their way of testing the waters for a permanent Kizomba Design Museum in the city, with Casa de Francisca one possible home for it. The pair are clearly on to something.

After his set, we sit down together and Kalaf puts it to me like this: “The African diaspora in the Western world take whatever jobs are available from the bottom of the pyramid,” he drawls. “They’re immigrants, invisible all week long. No one knows their story. But come Friday they’ll get their best outfits from the dry cleaner, call the barber, take pride in their presentation. That’s why we call it kizomba design.” Nástio, his afro wilder than Kalaf’s and prematurely grey, says it’s quite the opposite to fado, a Portuguese music genre of melancholic songs and rhythms that originated in the 19th century. “Fado was all longing and pain. Kizomba celebrates. It shows there’s a different way to live under stress. It says: ‘We have today, so let’s dance, let’s drink, let’s f**k.’”

The following morning I see them both about 20 minutes away at Megafauna, a sunlit bookshop where they’re hosting a standing-room-only kizomba symposium. The books stacked to the ceiling represent a diverse range of authors that reflect São Paulo’s true mosaic. From the 16th century until 1888 — horrifyingly late for abolition — Brazil took in more enslaved people from Africa than any New World country. And, since the postwar industrial boom, many of their descendants have ended up in São Paulo. More than half of all Brazilians are Black or mixed race. Yet, they still largely live on the margins. “A lot of Brazilians are disconnected to their roots,” Nástio tells me, “but they’re gaining agency.” 

Megafauna sits on the ground floor of the rambling Edificio Copan, a 38-storey S-shaped tower built in striking ribbed concrete by the late, great Brazilian architect Oscar Niemeyer in the 1960s. There’s an art gallery upstairs, a cafe next door chiselled out of a raw concrete shell, a vintage boutique and 1,160 apartments in the floors above. The artists have chosen this landmark to lure their audience from the four corners of town. “It’s important that our culture can access places like this,” says Nástio. 

This quarter of the historic centre has suffered its share of neglect. Though São Paulo’s crime rate is lower than that of more touristy Rio de Janeiro, Kalaf admits “this is not a city to play with”. He tells me to be vigilant, and to hide my phone in the streets from thieves on bikes. Still, he loves the kizomba vibe around Edificio Copan. “São Paulo doesn’t have the beautiful nature of Rio. It’s rough around the edges, so people only have each other and the culture to embrace.” Kalaf isn’t just referring to Africans like himself but the whole spectrum of people taking over the pavement outside Edificio Copan. “The immigrant influence defines the fabric of the city. It quickly gives you a glimpse of what Brazil represents,” he says. “I have the same feeling in New York — this big Babylon with people from all over the world.”

Topical & tropical

I see what he means over lunch at Z Deli, a leather-booth diner in a mid-century building near Edificio Copan. Z is run by one of the 20,000 Jewish families who sought asylum in São Paulo over the 20th century. A 10-minute walk away is the Jewish Museum, a former Byzantine-style synagogue opened in 2021 to exhibit Brazilian-Jewish artefacts. Similiarly, Z’s menu showcases a distinct hybrid flavour that straddles continents. I order what I think is a pastrami sandwich. What I get is shredded meat and spring onions on a bed of fries with a dollop of mayo, a jar of hot sauce and a local Guaraná-brand ginger soda. Brazilian and Jewish cultures would seem to have little in common besides fate.

And yet, simmering in São Paulo, they come together with fascinating synergy. Just east of downtown, past an awkwardly placed motorway, is Liberdade, spiritual home to hundreds of thousands of Japanese Paulistanos — the largest community off Japanese soil. I head there with Fernando Filet, a tall, tanned tour guide who leads me beneath red lampposts shaped like paper lanterns. Liberdade’s tight knot of streets can’t contain the crush of pedestrians buying Hello Kitty-themed pasteles (dumplings) and Amazonian-fish yakitori, so vendors spill out onto a viaduct. 

Looking down at the traffic below, Fernando shares a description from the late Anthony Bourdain, who visited while filming his shows No Reservations and The Layover. “He said, ‘São Paulo feels like LA threw up on New York’.” Fernando quotes this to all his clients because Bourdain — who loved the city — had a point. You don’t tend to hear bossa nova paeans about the criss-crossing highways and graffiti-scrawled streets sprawling out from Liberdade. They’re functional but fun, smelling of Italian trattorias and Lebanese falafel huts. Then, as we approach broad, busy Avenida Paulista, they smarten up. Flanked by audaciously designed brutalist towers, Avenida Paulista has a retro character and unconventional beauty that appeals to me. Fernando points out a cool 1970s building by starchitect Paulo Mendes de la Rocha, which flares out over the pavement like a bellbottom. 

But I prefer the street’s São Paulo Museum of Art, or MASP, a giant glass box hoisted in the air by stout concrete legs painted a shouty shade of red. When its architect Lina Bo Bardi immigrated to Brazil from Italy in the late 1940s, she imported Italian modernism and the notion of public gathering spaces. “She was a woman of the people,” says Fernando. On the piazza, framed by MASP’s red legs, the community spirit is palpable, filled with skateboarders toting boom boxes and families on promenade. Fernando urges me up to the vast glass gallery overhead, where paintings by globally renowned artists such as Modigliani and Picasso sit alongside emerging Brazilian ones, their works encased in glass and planted in concrete foundations. From here we can peer out of the glass walls and watch the late-afternoon sun meet the skyline. 

I could spend a week basking in grand-gesture museums like MASP, but I’ve promised my new kizomba mates I’d check out the scene in Barra Funda, north of downtown. On a sunny morning I meander among its charming painted stucco terraces. There’s an antique shop under a deep awning and a bakery festooned with azulejo tiles selling Portuguese custard tarts. An electric-green maritaca parrot wolf-whistles from the shoulder of an old man as I duck into HOA Galeria. 

Brazil’s first Black-owned art gallery, HOA is hell-bent on shifting the narrative of Latin American art from the colonial to the personal, experiential and revolutionary. Inside, it’s somehow brighter than outside, all blazing brushstrokes and thrumming video. The same goes for Mendes Wood around the corner — a gallery where endless vaulted rooms grab you and keep you rapt with installations exploring Blackness and otherness, by brilliant artists finally getting a platform. In fact, there’s a gallery every 500 metres — and judging by the cocktail of languages I overhear, visitors have come from everywhere to appreciate them. 

Covid had an unexpected positive impact on this neighbourhood, once known for Korean immigrants and industry. Home life pivoted to the pavements and when the city opened up again, restaurants, bars and galleries moved into the area’s once-empty warehouses. People took notice. Just off Rua Barra Funda, I watch the young, beautiful and tattooed file into Mescla, a cafe with communal tables and a Bolivian chef experimenting with Cuban, Andean and Mediterranean cooking. In an area spoiled for wine bars, everyone lines their stomachs here. 

That evening it’s back to Casa de Francisca to watch rapper Dino D’Santiago, a Portuguese artist of Cape Verdean descent, fire up the crowd into absolute, arm-swinging rapture. I can’t help but get up out of my vintage cinema seat. “We’re rocking the place,” Nástio says, when I can hear again. The crowd snaps into perfect sync for the Electric Slide line dance. They know every move, every word. Kalaf says that’s not surprising. “All these people have the same cultural touchstones, and they don’t experience their stars playing in town.”

I ask him about those two big mirrors flanking the stage. He tells me that self reflection is part of the design emblematic of kizomba. “This culture is fragile,” he says. “Our traditions are ephemeral, oral. Our story is nowhere, but when we look at ourselves and we look at each other, we can see it.”