Trucks, buses and cars rumbled overhead, drowning out Marcus Azevedo’s voice. In the distance, sirens blared and exhaust pipes backfired. From under a highway overpass, Mr. Azevedo, a dance teacher, shouted over the noise, “Five, six, seven, eight!”
He hit play on his phone, and the first song started blasting from a pair of crackling speakers. Six rows of dancers began shuffling, twisting and popping their hips in unison. The playlist? All R&B classics, from Donell Jones and JoJo to Destiny’s Child and TLC.
The dance routine wouldn’t have been out of place in New York City or Atlanta or Los Angeles. But we were on the decaying fringes of Rio de Janeiro, a metropolis better known for samba. And this dance is called charme, a style born here in the 1970s as an ode to American soul, funk and, later, R&B.
This spot, in the working-class suburb of Madureira, has become a temple for lovers of charme over the decades. By day, it’s where many hone their moves. Once mastered, the steps are flaunted at nighttime parties known as “baile charme.”
“This is a magical place,” said Mr. Azevedo, 46, who began dancing charme — Portuguese for charm — when he was 11 and now leads a dance company focused on the style. “There is something spiritual, an energy that can only be found here.”
But the old-school R&B tracks shouldn’t fool anyone into thinking that this is a nostalgic crowd yearning for a throwback. This hotbed of charme is attracting an increasingly younger crop of dancers, who are keeping the scene alive — and transforming it in surprising ways.
On a recent muggy Saturday morning, a few dozen people — from restless children and lanky teenagers to men and women in their 50s and 60s — flocked to the shady overpass. They were there for a class led by Mr. Azevedo and three other instructors, all part of a program meant to introduce charme to more people.
A small group practiced steps before class started. “It’s not hard — a little step here, a little step there,” said Juliana Bittencourt, 30, an administrative assistant, showing a fellow student how it’s done. “Charme is medicine, it has the power to cure anything.”
Geovana Cruz, 20, a bank teller who had come from São Paulo by bus that morning, excitedly stepped into the front row of dancers.
“It’s addictive,” said Ms. Cruz, who comes nearly every week and whose charme dance routines on TikTok draw thousands of likes. “The more you dance, the more you want to keep dancing.”
When the first song blasted from the speakers, shoulders and hips began to shift as if by reflex.
“Charme is not just music,” said Larissa Rodrigues Martins, 25, a schoolteacher. “It’s a place where we share and learn from each other — not just about steps, but also about life.”
On that Saturday morning, the class was already warming up with a simple two-step when Joel Medeiros, 54, a gym teacher, arrived on a bicycle, still wearing spandex shorts from a race that morning. “I came straight here, so I wouldn’t miss a minute,” he said.
The birth of charme is rooted in the influx of Black music and culture from the United States in the 1970s and 1980s.
At a time when Rio’s far-flung, impoverished outskirts offered young people few sources of pride or identity, the rhythm and style of American artists like James Brown and Stevie Wonder emerged as an inspiration.
One night in 1980, a D.J. named Corello was working at a club and decided to mix in some Marvin Gaye. “Now it’s time for a little charme, slow your body down,” he called out. The term stuck and came to define the homegrown urban dance movement.
After many Black social clubs went out of business in the 1990s, charme lovers moved the party to the nearby Madureira overpass, where they could dance undisturbed.
But the party shut down when the coronavirus pandemic ravaged Brazil. Now, charme is making a comeback.
The movements that define the dance are at once familiar to urban street dancers yet uniquely “Carioca,” as anyone or anything from Rio de Janeiro is known. The swings carry a hint of bossa nova’s sway; the two-steps have a distinct samba flavor; and the bold hip bounces channel Brazilian funk.
“I guarantee you,” Mr. Azevedo said with a smirk, “that there is no place in the world that dances like we do.”
In the middle of the routine, the dance students waved to curious passengers on a city bus stuck in heavy traffic. When a delivery truck snaked through the columns of the overpass, leaving a trail of smoke, the dancers covered their mouths.
The pace of the steps sped up when another teacher, Lucas Leiroz, took over. He walked the students through a complicated routine set to a catchy, fast-paced urban pop song, his body bending and twisting as if controlled by strings.
The first run-through was a mess; almost nobody managed to follow along. Mr. Leiroz, 28, laughing, stopped the music and started over.
“These faster songs are tough for me,” said Marcia de Lima Moura, 63, a retired secretary who started dancing charme in her teens. “But I try to keep up.”
This new, more dynamic form of charme may throw some off, but it’s at the heart of its revival, Mr. Leiroz said. “The songs that are played today are the same songs that were played 30 years ago,” he said, but “if we don’t innovate and bring something new, you start to lose people.”
It took eight attempts, but the group was finally dancing in perfect sync. When the song ended, the dancers, drenched but smiling, burst into cheers and snapped a group photo.
When night fell, the underpass transformed into an open-air nightclub. Strobe lights pulsed through the darkness, and early birds settled into plastic chairs with frosty beers. By midnight, the dance floor was packed.
The crowd was a mix of old-timers and newcomers. Many were clad in stylish sneakers and sported neat braids. Some wore basketball jerseys and gold chains. Both Ms. Martins and Ms. Cruz were there, ready to show off the steps they had learned earlier that day.
The flashiest dancers led an improvised routine. In pairs and groups, others followed, mirroring their moves. The crowd stepped to the right, moved into a cross-step, leaned a shoulder forward and swirled into a turn.
For many younger people, the charme scene under the overpass has increasingly become a symbol of Black identity and culture that is unique to Rio’s working-class neighborhoods.
“This is our ancestry,” Ms. Martins said. “The previous generation showed us this space where we can express ourselves.”
During the nighttime partying, older revelers mostly hung back. They swayed, stepped and turned with more subtle, sensual movements. “We learn from the new kids, and they learn from us,” said Bruno Oliveira, 44, a clothes salesman wearing a bejeweled cap. “It’s love, it’s peace.”
Michel Jacob Pessoa, better known as D.J. Michell, took the stage around 1 a.m. and spun a medley of crowd-pleasers like “Hotel” by Cassidy and “He Wasn’t Man Enough” by Toni Braxton.
Yet, lately, he has been mixing in more local talent like Os Garotin, or “the boys,” a trio with a contemporary R&B vibe that has become an instant hit in Brazil.
“We’re not going to stop playing these songs we love,” Mr. Pessoa said. “But, today, charme is more Brazilian. And this is part of our evolution.”
Around 3 a.m., the crowd started thinning out, but Ms. Cruz was still on the dance floor. Her bus back to São Paulo, a seven-hour journey, wasn’t scheduled to leave for several hours.
“My legs are hurting so bad,” she said. “I’ll stay just a little longer.”
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