"There was a record store in the Times Square subway station, and another one on 42nd Street, both of which had big “international sections,” as they called it. It included everything from the rest of the world, all on vinyl, but with no information. You’d look at the cover and go, What’s this like? It was a total crapshoot. But occasionally, I’d hear something that would blow my mind, like a Fela Kuti record; the first one I picked up was called Expensive Shit, and obviously I picked that up because of the title. The covers were the best—like Cambodian pop records with a bunch of people in traditional garb, all holding electric guitars—and you’d look at them for clues. You’d think, What in the world could that be? You’d buy it, and it would be pretty cool. In 1986, I did a fiction film called True Stories. I guess you would call it a musical comedy. We were doing the mixing in San Francisco, so I’d go down to the big Tower Records on North Beach and go to the international section. One day, I came back with a whole bunch of Brazilian records, because I had maybe heard of a couple of the artists, but didn’t really know what their records were like. One was a Caetano Veloso record called Muito, and then there was a Milton Nascimento record, and probably a Gilberto Gil record, and those blew my mind. They had elements that were psychedelic and that had a Brazilian feel. They were really beautiful, but then I dug a little bit more and found out they were also really political. These guys had been exiled, thrown in jail. I was connecting with it, and I realized that my generation didn’t know any of this music. So I asked our record label, “Can we license this music, and can I make a compilation of my favorite cuts?” That one record led to another one: There was a Brazilian series, then a Cuban series, because Cuban music had not been available in the United States for decades. And I started my own label, Luaka Bop."

"I remember when we first got it I could only see the darkness of it. I couldn't get underneath it where all the light is. I was impermeable to it somehow. And one day, you wonder what happens, why did I not get this? One day the door opened and I received all of its beauty. I could not believe that I had not been able to hear it before. In terms of being a composer, for me Milton Nascimento is on the top shelf. There is such a power in the chord changes. He's got to be the king of those, in my world at least. What I like about music is that it's transformative and it's transporting, and I think he's my favourite transporter of all. You go on such journeys with his songs, and this is difficult to do. He obviously has a gift and also works very hard at it. He's very dedicated to his art. But I've rarely been so transported as when listening to this album, and I don't ask much more of music sometimes than just to be transported. I was not really aware of the lyrical content that much. The sleeve tells you a lot, for sure, about people struggling or just being resigned to certain conditions. I've been to Brazil a couple of times and you see quite a lot of poverty, but a lot of poorer people do own a big TV to watch the football on, and I didn't feel like 'oh my god this is about to explode', like I did in America in certain quarters. In some poor quarters of North America there is such tension, but I didn't feel the same tension in Brazil. It's more mellow even among the poorer classes. I know that it's very divided, with a lot of walls and high security buildings for the richer middle classes, but I felt that the poorer people weren't on the verge of rioting: somehow there was more acceptance. I don't know; obviously there are very complex societal issues, but this album captures a sense of joy and beauty and it's amazing to put that into music. We all have joy: it's inbuilt, and music can help us find that joy, that joi d'vivre."