Text by: Felipe Machado, guitarist of Viper
The rest is silence.
Andre died.
There are many situations in which words fail us. Scenarios that provoke a hazy silence where we cannot verbalize what we think or even demonstrate the feelings that afflict our hearts.
Andre's death is certainly not one of them.
Andre died, but there's nothing silent about it. On the contrary. There's an avalanche of thoughts invading my head in a disordered, non-chronological, chaotic way. Here, words don't escape me; what escapes my control is my ability to choose the most appropriate words to describe who he was. Not just for me, but for many people of my generation, and of other generations. His death within a context.
I still remember Andre as a child, when I met him, as if it were yesterday. It was 1983, I think. Nando, Pit, Yves, and I lived in the same building on Rua Dr. Veiga Filho, in Higienópolis. From a very young age, we were a group of kids interested in music, and we even played in a pretend band called Rock Migration. That's when a quiet, well-behaved boy moved into the building next door, hiding his shyness behind thick-lensed glasses.
The first person to become his friend was Yves, who immediately invited him to play soccer with us. Playing soccer is the best way to bring a new kid into an already established group, I think. In the beginning, Andre was the 'outsider', the boy from the building next door who wanted to join the group at all costs. But we soon discovered that, besides soccer, we shared another love: music.
Andre played the piano very well, but he still didn't sing. Gradually, the neighborhood group gained other boys who were also interested in music, and several bands formed around the main core, which was already VIPER. When we discovered that we wanted to be Iron Maiden, around the end of 1984, we decided that Pit should only play bass and that the band should have a lead vocalist. Andre was already showing signs that he wanted to sing, as he used to go with his father to downtown São Paulo to buy part of his "new look": bracelets, band shirts, studded belts, leather pants.
On January 3, 1985, at the birthday party of another neighbor, guitarist Marcos Kleine, we invited Andre Matos to become the vocalist for VIPER. He accepted immediately. We celebrated his joining by getting drunk on Guaraná and enjoying a feast of chicken croquettes served by Dona Vilma, Marquinhos' mother.
What came next happened so fast that sometimes I forget I'm 48 years old and that it all started 34 years ago. At our first show, at Lira Paulistana, we were a band of kids with ages 'in a staggered order': Andre was 13; me, 14; Yves, 15; Pit, 16. If someone invited me today to see a show by kids that age, I'd think it was some kind of joke. And, as strange as it may seem, we were a band that took ourselves seriously… We sang in English because we wanted to play all over the world – what a silly idea. Five teenagers singing heavy metal in English in Brazil, what are the chances of that getting us anywhere?
But it worked. VIPER conquered stages across Brazil and became an international band. Then Andre left, formed other bands, and became a global icon. One of the best vocalists in history. There are so many stories that it's hard to choose which ones to tell.
Andre died.
The mere recollection of some of these memories brings a contradictory expression to my face, a mixture of tears and laughter at the same time. A face wasn't made to express conflicting feelings, perhaps that's why it hurts so much. Or it could be a greater lesson, a class that life teaches us: that the greatest absences are those that force our faces to smile, even when our hearts insist on crying.
That's what happens when I remember the countless times Andre tripped over our guitar cables on stage because he couldn't see an inch in front of his nose when he took off his glasses. Or when I remember him calling me 'Pip' to ridicule me (rightfully so) ever since I wrote my name in English on the back cover of 'Soldiers of Sunrise' ("Philip Machado"). Or when I remember a bizarre story from our first show, when he gave a political speech (at age 13) and dedicated a Venom song ('Countess Bathory') to the death of Tancredo Neves. The problem is that we had misunderstood the lyrics, thinking they were about "world leaders," when in fact the lyrics were about a countess bathing in the blood of virgins.
One of the best-known episodes is the one about the "torch." I remember Andre almost setting fire to the places we played because he insisted on going on stage with a flaming torch to the sound of the song 'The Whipper.' Supposedly, the torch was meant to be an epic special effect, but in reality it was nothing more than a crude broom handle with a rag soaked in kerosene tied to it. But what's the problem? Nothing more normal for a thirteen-year-old boy than going on a school stage carrying a torch made of a rag and kerosene.
I want to take this opportunity to share one of my favorite stories, one I don't think I've ever told anyone. More out of embarrassment than because of the story's importance. When I was fourteen, I had a girlfriend in school. When we celebrated two months of dating, I decided to honor her with graffiti. Yes, back then there was no graffiti art; we'd grab a spray can and write something on the wall. Andre had a spray can, and we went together in the middle of the night to tag the school wall. I was extremely nervous; it was something totally illegal and "wrong." When we got there, I wrote the message: "Happy 2 weeks of dating – Felipe."
Yes, I was naive enough to sign graffiti on the wall of my own school. We ran out and got home. Then Andre asked: “It’s good that everything turned out alright. But I thought you were celebrating two months of dating, not two weeks.” What? I wrote it wrong! It was supposed to be 2 months, but I was so nervous that I wrote '2 weeks'.
We ran back to school to try to correct the mistake. That's when Andre had a brilliant idea: he took the '2' and turned it into an '8' with the spray can. “There, now you're celebrating eight weeks, that is, two months.” He saved me. How can you not love a guy like that?
Andre died.
Death is irreversible. Something so obvious that we forget how absolutely true it is. Andre was one of those guys who shouldn't die, they could simply live forever. In fact, he will live forever in the songs he wrote and sang, but unfortunately, those will remain confined to the fateful date of June 8, 2019.
I delayed writing about his death not out of laziness or procrastination, but simply because I wasn't in a state to think rationally about the matter. It was too much emotion – and still is. But I think I owed it to him, at least to try to understand why his death shook his family, friends, and fans so much. In my case, as with the other bands he played in and shone in, there's something more. But what?
It's a common analogy to hear that a band is like a family, but I think it's very different. A family, for example, isn't something you choose. You're simply born into a group of people and that's it: they're your family. You love most of them. But even among people of the same blood, there are those we love more than others.
A band is an entity formed by people who chose each other. Among all the friends around you, the band members chose those people to walk the same path. You trust that that group is the best in the world, the most talented, the one that will help you succeed. You want to spend your whole life with those guys, traveling, playing, having fun. And when you form that group as a child, I believe there's an even greater force, especially because the bonds of character and personality are being built together. The trust we had and always maintained in each other was never shaken, because that would be the same as shaking our belief in ourselves. It was as if you could choose your siblings.
Even though Andre was part of other bands, for me he will always be a member of VIPER. It's not because VIPER was better than the others, far from it. But it's because whenever I think of him, I bring our entire past with me, all our stories, victories and defeats. Our fights, arguments, but also the looks we exchanged when everything was going well and nothing needed to be said.
Therefore, losing a band member under these circumstances creates an imbalance in the universe, as if a satellite that had been in a certain orbit for millennia simply changed course without explanation. Andre no longer being with us doesn't make sense; it's simply a wrong truth. We are fragments of the same band, so losing one of its members is like losing a part of life itself. It's as if a part of us died, a body that lost an arm. Can we move on? Yes. But something that was part of us is left behind.
Andre died.
The fans… and the fans? What incredible fans he had – and still has! What good people, so much affection and respect… He deserved all the success he had in life. I can only imagine the pain each of his fans is feeling right now. In a way, losing an idol is also a way of becoming orphaned. Because we lose a life reference, a light we look to when we don't quite know where we are or where we're going. For many people, Andre was a beacon.
I became more aware of the love that fans had for Andre during VIPER's comeback tour, from 2012 to 2014. People wanted to see and hear him at the show, yes, but they also wanted to meet him in person. To get to know him, take a picture next to him, an image that would be shared on the internet or proudly displayed to all their friends in the following days.
Fans were truly thrilled to meet Andre, and he reciprocated by treating everyone with the utmost naturalness. He was such a normal guy that it even disconcerted others, making them feel as if it were wrong to treat him in such an exaggerated way. I think, deep down, he wasn't very comfortable being famous; perhaps he thought fame was a side effect of his art. What a shame, my God.
Andre died.
Needless to say, his voice was incredible. His charisma on stage was amazing. His talent at the piano was truly remarkable. He was simply a great artist, even more so in this era where idols are hollow and talents are disposable. Andre was a true artist, someone for whom life and art were two inseparable elements. It's funny that I would look at him during the show and think that the guy next to me was "just Andre, my childhood friend." But little by little I understood that he was more than that. When I understood, I began to respect him even more.
We talked like childhood friends, but deep down he was already something else. He was already Andre Matos, even when the person in front of me was just Andre. Can you understand that? I think he became even bigger than his image in the mirror. It must be difficult for anyone to understand that dynamic. It was for him too, I'm sure. Being Andre and Andre Matos at the same time must have been extremely complex, hard, and exhausting.
Andre died.
The stories would be endless because the intrinsic power of memory is infinite. But reflecting on his life is a way to make him live a little longer, at least a tiny bit longer. Even if it's just the finite time of a piano chord.
Every story has a beginning, a middle, and an end, even when the end seems to have arrived before the story is over. In the song 'Moonlight', a version of Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata', Andre wrote the phrase: “I am alive / Just by the light of your eyes”. If I had a single wish at this moment, it would be for the whole world to open its eyes so that Andre could live again.
Shortly after the announcement of his death, a friend wrote to me: “Don’t think about his death, think about his story and his legacy. Most people leave nothing behind. He did.”
And how he left it.
Go ahead, maestro. You may no longer be with us as a musical genius, but you've earned a well-deserved place in the pantheon of rock legends. That's no small feat. In the future, generations will look back and discover who Andre Matos was. And I will look back and remember with pride that, more than a gigantic artist, he was my great friend.
The rest is silence.