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FUNK CARIOCA-"baile funk Music

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Hydrogen Peroxide could you do me favor and put a link in MP3 format of the

"Montagem Sou da Rocinha" on here..My computer only open MP3 no .wav format songs..


you can use






I love Funk and play everyday this music..I am organize right now a HUGE funk party in Atlanta Georgia on Dec 13th at the LOFT..1374 West Peachtree..so all you FUNKEIROS need to be there. The party will have many things, Samba Dancer, Fashion Show, Capoeira demonstration, Art show and of course two Dj's include myslef Playing FUNK CARIOCA. The party is to raise money to help my favela of Rocinha, the school of Two Brothers Foundation.



check it out..

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i dont know how to convert wma to mp3, sorry rocinhajj


here's an article on baile funk that i found on google:




Coke. Guns. Booty. Beats.



In the slums of Rio De Janeiro, drug lords armed with submachine guns have joined forces with djs armed with massive sound systems and rude, raunchy singles. Welcome to the most exciting—and dangerous—underground club scene in the world.


By Alex Bellos


Blender, June 2005


Five A.M.: In the sultry depths of Rio de Janeiro’s Nova Holanda shantytown—or favela (pronounced fuh-VELL-luh)—more than 1,000 people are dancing in a narrow street. A wall of speakers stacked 15 feet high and 60 feet wide sends a dirty electro beat shuddering through the ground. On a tiny stage, MCs Juca and Paulinho* shout out the lyrics of their hit “24 Hours”: “Bullets into the Terceiro,” they say in chorus. “Shoot the snitch!” Suddenly the crackle of gunfire cuts through the bass: From the middle of the swaying crowd, someone is shooting into the air.


A sea of hands goes up: The men point their index fingers and cock their thumbs, waving imaginary guns over their heads. Other hands form into C and V shapes—the Rio gang sign of the Comando Vermelho, the “Red Command” drug faction that runs this favela. On the stage beside Juca and Paulhino stands a young man in his early 20s; he has a pencil moustache, wears an expensive blue T-shirt with a picture of a surfer on the front and is holding a sub-machine gun. He smiles with approval at the show.


An hour later, as the two MCs leave, the party is still going strong; Juca and Paulinho pass two teenage boys who are dancing together, waving their pistols in the air. Back in their car, Juca shrugs off the gunplay. Anyone brought up in the favela is used to the sound of guns, he says. “And anyway, if the guy shoots in the air, it means he likes the song.”


Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, is the glamorous city of Carnival, the statue of Christ the Redeemer and Copacabana beach. But the poorest fifth of its residents—about a million people, many of them black—live in the favelas, the claustrophobic brick shantytowns that cover the hills and sprawl chaotically out for miles into its outskirts. In the favelas, the city police have effectively relinquished control to armed drugs factions, who run their territory according to their own strict codes. Estimates put the number of young men involved in drug trafficking at between 20,000 and 100,000. It’s just like the movie City of God—only much more violent.


The music of choice in the favelas is “Rio funk.” A hard-edged dance style of screeching raps and booty-shaking beats, it’s the bastard child of Miami bass music (think “Whoomp! (There It Is)”), which arrived here in the mid-1980s and went native. “The heavy bass sounded really good and started to influence us,” says 42-year-old DJ Marlboro, who recorded the first Rio funk album in 1989. Dance music has run through the favelas since the ’70s, when Rio’s first outdoor mega-parties began, playing American soul, disco and funk. These baile [pronounced BYE-lee] funk balls became an established part of Rio’s nightlife, and when DJs like Marlboro started to put out their own records, bailes became the platform for the new sound. Now there are at least a dozen DJ crews with enormous speaker systems putting on more than 100 bailes every weekend. With these parties attracting an estimated 100,000 people per week, funk is the largest youth movement in the country.


Baile funk customizes raw, guttural Miami rhythms with percussive loops of samba drums and a lively and unrelenting Brazilian rapping style. It’s music designed to be played as loud as possible throughout the sweltering tropical night. Recently, however, it has also been finding success in colder climes.


In boutique record stores, adventuresome radio stations and hipster clubs across America, baile funk has become the dance import du jour, an underground equivalent to Jamaican dancehall’s mainstream invasion. For music fans in constant search of exotic kicks, it’s I Heart the ’80s gone gangsta: a retro-minded hedonism borne of violence, drugs and poverty. Dance artists from Sri Lankan darling M.I.A. to British DJ Fatboy Slim have tapped the genre in their own music. “It’s totally undiluted folk music,” says Diplo, one-half of the celebrated Philadelphia DJ crew Hollertronix. A frequent visitor to Rio, Diplo released the excellent Favela on Blast: Rio Baile Funk ’04 mix tape. “The only concern for these artists is, ‘What’s gonna make the girls dance, throw their clothes onto the stage and wanna have sex?’”


A few days after the party in Nova Holanda, Juca invites Blender to his favela, which lies on a hill about 15 miles from downtown Rio. He doesn’t want the details of where he lives to be revealed, and has to ask permission from the local boss of the Red Command to speak to a journalist; as we talk, a small group of armed men perch in the darkness 25 yards away, eyeing the interview. “They’re not evil people,” Juca explains. “They just get into crime because of the lack of other options.”


Juca—24, and married with two children—sits in the small square where during the day he makes his living hosing down cars. He’s just starting out as a funk MC, on the back of “24 Hours,” which he wrote together with Paulinho, his 19-year-old brother. The track has recently become an anthem in areas controlled by the Red Command. Now the duo are in demand every weekend to play at bailes, where they earn $50 a gig—as much as Juca earns in a week at the carwash.


In some favelas, the drug factions process an estimated $1 million a month, mostly from cocaine trafficking. They bankroll the bailes as a way of showing that they’re investing in their communities. But Juca is more cynical: “Bailes are profit-making exercises,” he says. “They attract customers to the favela to buy their drugs.”


Even so, Juca knows that he owes his success to the factions. “The best way to get a break is to sing something that pleases the traffickers. It’s sad. I’d prefer to sing about poverty or protest, but no one’s interested.” In Juca’s case, the Red Command liked “24 Hours” so much that they paid to have it recorded, and distributed 1,000 copies of the CD. The lyrics are a tribute to jailed faction leaders Marcinho and Elias Maluco; Maluco is accused of ordering the 2002 murder of an undercover TV reporter who was investigating baile funks. The story goes that he was sliced into pieces with a Samurai sword.


Funk songs used to pay homage to those who had died, but now it is fashionable to name-check those still alive. Juca is often asked by drug soldiers to write lyrics that include their names. “They like it because being in a song raises your profile. The better you’re known, the more girls you’ll attract. It’s crazy the amount of girls you get if you’re in the faction.”


Throughout the ’80s, the funk scene was largely ignored by the mainstream media—because it was happening in the favelas, out of the public eye. There is a snobbery against popular culture in Brazil, the result of the cavernous gap in wealth between the mostly white rich and the mostly black poor. Funk, however, got noticed at the end of the 1990s with the emergence at some balls of the “corridor of death.” At certain bailes, groups of men began to divide themselves into two sides and face each other across the dance floor. After taunting each other by swaying and shadow-boxing in a syncopated way, each side would then start to trade kicks and punches across the “corridor” that separated them. Security guards stood by, and when the fighting got out of control they would use whips and sticks to restore order.


Media outrage at the violence of the corridors—which were blamed for several deaths—caused politicians to clamp down on funk. In 2000, the Rio state assembly passed a law setting strict conditions under which bailes could take place, such as obligatory metal detectors and military police presence. “They are demands that are not made for parties with any other type of music,” says Orlando Zaccone, head of the Rio police’s 19th Precinct. “And of course, the law demanded the impossible.”


The repression of funk meant that bailes, rather than not taking place at all, instead took place deeper inside the favelas, where police exerted even less control. The corridors disappeared at a price, as funk was embraced by the drug factions with open arms. “It was like handing over the treasure to the criminals,” says Zaccone. Just as gangsta rap was closely aligned with L.A.’s gang culture, Rio funk has become the soundtrack of organized crime.


Later, Juca introduces Blender to his friend Johnny, who lives in a tiny two-room apartment in a concrete building opposite the carwash. At the top of a narrow, pitch-black staircase, Johnny has built his own studio: a secondhand computer, a microphone and an old speaker. Most baile funk records are initially recorded in places like this. Johnny has taught himself to make crude cut-and-pastes samples using basic pirated software: Songs are constructed like a sequence of jingles, with shouted lyrics above the heavy samba drum sound of the tamborzão. Even in DJ Marlboro’s studio, which is the best-equipped, the songs have an underproduced, disposable quality. For Marlboro, they’d have to: In 16 years, he’s recorded almost 3,000 songs.


It is after midnight, and Juca says it’s time to go to the neighborhood’s regular Sunday night baile. The baile is at the top of the hill, where a bend in the street has created a large space between ramshackle homes. There’s a gigantic wall of speakers and, again, more than 1,000 young people dancing, flirting and hanging out. Cocaine use is not overt, although maybe a fifth of the crowd are snorting it. Most of the songs glorify the Red Command, and many list the names of its leaders. It’s against Brazilian law to promote crime in song lyrics, which makes most of these funk tracks illegal. This is outlaw music—proibidão [pro-EE-BEE-daow], or “totally forbidden”—and singing or playing it is a crime that carries a penalty of up to six months in jail.


Juca admits that he is breaking the law when he performs “24 Hours,” since it urges the shooting of rival faction leaders. But since police rarely raid a baile, he’s unlikely to be caught in the act of singing the song. The only way he’d really be at risk of arrest is if he records a “light” version. Most hit proibidão tracks are re-recorded with acceptable lyrics so they can be marketed on compilation CDs and played on the radio. Light versions are funded by above-board studios like Marlboro’s. “That’s the way to get caught,” Juca insists. “The police will be able to trace me to the banned version. This happened to a friend of mine, and he is now in hiding upstate.” For the time being Juca is happy just singing the illegal stuff.


Not all Rio funk tracks are about violence; many are about sex. Out in Acari, on the outskirts of Rio, Valeska, the bleached-blonde lead singer of Gaiola das Popozudas—The Birdcage of Big-butted Babes—is teasing the crowd with their hit “Se Marcar”: “If you check me out, I'll make out with you,” she sings. Behind her, three girls in skintight outfits grind out a dance routine. Halfway through their 20-minute set, Valeska invites a member of the audience onstage. She and each of the dancers take turns rubbing their bodies against him. “Show us your butt,” she shouts, and he bends over. Suddenly, a dwarf dressed as Trinity from The Matrix and holding a giant inflatable penis jumps out of the crowd onto the stage.


Birdcage are one of a new genre of bawdy female groups who sing in a style called, euphemistically, “sensual funk.” Valeska is a charismatic MC, especially when the subject is adultery. “Who’d be a loyal wife? You clean his clothes, cook him food and stay at home while he’s out at the baile,” she shouts, to whoops of applause, before launching into a song about casual sex with married men. “You think your husband is yours,” runs the refrain. “Well, his cock belongs to me.”


In fact, Valeska is a loyal wife. Her husband, Pardal, is the band’s manager and songwriter. The dwarf was his idea—“I found her at the circus”—as is the endlessly repeated theme of anal sex. “Brazilians are only interested in the butthole,” he asserts professorially. “They are not bothered about the pussy at all.”


Even though sensual funk isn’t illegal, its obscene lyrics make it unsuitable for radio airplay and distribution on official CDs. So—like the songs promoting the factions—the most popular sensual songs are re-recorded with sanitized lyrics. But everyone knows the real words. “To be big in funk these days, you need first of all to be big in the favelas,” says Pardal. “And the favelas prefer violence and smut.”


Juca and Paulinho’s “24 Hours” is one of the most successful baile funk songs of the year. But because it’s forbidden, you can’t buy a copy legally anywhere in Rio. To get one, you have to pay a visit to Rio’s Camelodromo, a chaotic bazaar in the downtown business district that sells everything from cheap clothes to car parts. At a stall selling pirate CDs, Blender asks the owner if he has any proibidão. He looks at us slightly longer than normal and then fetches a small black plastic bag. He takes out an unmarked CD and, making sure that no one’s looking, slips it into a Discman. “It just came in today,” he says conspiratorially. “I’ve almost sold out. Its what everyone wants.” The CD has 33 tracks; they are full of gun noises, violent threats and obscenities. One song, about the favela Arvore Seca, uses a Dire Straits sample from Brothers in Arms, mashed up over a heavy beat, with the lyrics “We’re just like Colombia … the bullets will eat right through you.”


Over the past 12 months, DJs in the northern hemisphere have been drawn to baile funk’s punk energy and its rough patina of ghetto cool. Marlboro says that when Afrika Bambaataa came to Rio on tour last year, the hip-hop pioneer was so excited by the music that he told him, “This is the real funk.”


This international attention, however, belies the reality that funk has never been fully accepted by the Brazilian establishment. Even though the most listened-to radio program in Rio is DJ Marlboro’s funk show, major record companies almost never sign baile funk acts. The funk community says this is because they are unfairly discriminated against. In reality, it is because the majors doubt that young people in favelas would be able to afford $10 for a CD—and because in the favelas, piracy is rife. Without money from record contracts, the main source of income for MCs and DJs comes from playing bailes. Even successful funk artists do not earn enough to leave the favela. Deise, whose track “Injeção” was one of the biggest hits of recent years, still works as a domestic maid.


It has recently become fashionable for middle-class Rio to be curious about the dangerous favela sound, and a few upmarket nightclubs have started to have weekly funk nights. Yet funk remains the music of the urban underclass, and bailes are demonized as hotbeds of crime and delinquence. “We suffer a lot of persecution,” says DJ Marlboro. “At one recent baile, the police came in and shut it down. They said, ‘You like funk. So you like shit—so eat shit.’” And then, Marlboro explains, the cops forced people to do just that. “My sound systems,” he says, “have bullet holes in them from police attacks.”


For Vera Malaguti, of the Rio Criminology Institute, fear of funk shows that Brazil still has the mindset of a slave society. “Mass youth movements are always criminalized by the white minority,” she says. “The U.S. had a revolution and then a black rights movement. We have never had either. For us it is an open wound.”


Malaguti sees nothing wrong in songs that promote violence: “They’re chronicles of daily life by people who live brutal lives.”


A few days after Blender met Juca at the car wash, the Rio police launched an operation against the Red Command in Juca’s favela. During the raid, a police sniper mistook the 20-year-old goalkeeper of a local soccer team for a drug dealer and shot him dead. It’s the kind of thing that often happens in Rio’s shantytowns: In the ongoing civil war between the police and the drug factions, some 1,200 young people are killed every year.


But when, a few weeks later, we meet with Juca one last time, he says it shouldn’t be surprising that young people sing songs that glorify the drugs gangs. Every favela dweller has witnessed scenes of horrific police violence, he says; the factions offer at least the illusion of security. “If a trafficker walks past my house, I know he won’t even look twice. But if the police come by, how do I know they won’t shoot me?”


There are other dangers too. Each drug faction has its own loyal roster of funk artists—only the female MCs and the most famous DJs are allowed access to all areas. When residents of Red Command favelas enter shantytowns under the control of rival gangs, they risk their lives. Enemies are called “Germans,” a slang term that originated from World War II movies. Juca says that the previous week, he left a baile in the early hours of the morning, and the driver of his car took a wrong turn—and ended up in “German” territory. “If anyone had seen us, they would have shot first and asked questions later.”


Juca says that he and his brother have just written another song—commissioned by a local Red Command boss—called “The Return.” Juca says the song is designed to taunt the dealers in a rival favela. With resignation in his voice, he fears the song will prepare the ground for an actual armed incursion into rival territory, but he won’t feel responsible for provoking a battle that will undoubtedly claim more lives. “The war will happen anyway. My singing won’t change anything,” he says.


And since our last meeting, there’s been another development: Juca has changed his mind and decided to record a “light” version of “24 Hours.” He needs the cash—and the fame. He doesn’t see any other path to escape the poverty of the favela. “I’m putting myself at risk, but there is no other way,” he says. “The doorway to recognition is through funk.”


*“Juca” and “Paulinho” are false names, to protect their identities.





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this thread has me excited enough to probably make a quick mix



ehhh im not so excited

what do you say who wants a mix?

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proibidao funk all of it I have over 10.000 songs of funk. I dj too so I need to have the new music too..


At the bailes now..fighting is not encourage by the crowd. No more Lado A x Lado B..too much problems in the fights plus it bring the police to the favela so the traficantes can not sell ther drugs..so the MC's now say to the crowd not to fight.

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hey rocinhajj

im down to trade mp3s

i have tons of miami bass you can use if you give me brand new carioca


i would like to have some stuff from the ghetto

i dont remember what its called but when i was with my boy gustavo and otavio they gave me some out here

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ok in Funk Carioca you have many styles of Funk








which style you like, try explain to me the style you like..most comon most people like is Tamborzao, this is with the heavy drums..

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Equipes d Som

Furacao 200O


Cash Box


these sound teams provde the speakers Dj and someimes MC's for funk shows..


The video you have above is of Furacao 2000, they were very popular to make the partys outside of favelas. But they make some partys inside too.They just make much more if they have the funk partys outside the favela. Inside the favela the drug gangs sponsor the party and hire a sound team..

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