A country was affected by her voice.
According to Spotify, she was the most heard singer in Brazil in 2019 and 2020, despite being 26 and on stage for five years. In addition, with 278 million views on YouTube, his video for the song "Graveto" was the most-watched music video of 2020.
When we were all at home during the epidemic, it was Marilia's voice that soothed us into a 3.3 million-view live YouTube broadcast.
However, they are only snippets of Marilia's significance. Marilia came, transformed, dominated, and heard throughout Brazil in a musical section dominated by men. In Marilia, the "sertanejo", with male duos and verses about women, is a landmark. The "feminejo", which Marilia debuts, turns women into protagonists of their own stories rather than muses.
Marilia's prosperous career as a composer - with over 200 songs - gave voice to women who freely discuss sex, drink, terminate relationships because they value themselves more than the other, are lovers by choice, live deeply, and suffer. Marilia visited Fortaleza in 2017 and gave a short interview.
She discussed how her songs sparked identification wherever she went and how what she accomplished was "conquer a place that was earned" for her and other women.
The end is hastened by success but, unfortunately, with so much movement in small planes, there's a lot of danger.
Nobody thought it was true.
In her stories, Marlia Mendonça is still alive.
From "Infiel" to "Eu sei de cor," we find a "lyrical self" that is no longer satisfied with crumbs. I'd rather be alone myself than in horrible company. Self-loyalty is preferable to pretended loyalty in terms of avoiding hypocrisy and relying on appearances.
The girl from Goiás who was seen extending her shining hair over her face and laughing "back on top" in the church choir, which she created since 12, is no longer with us. It's impossible to become accustomed to your departure.
The Queen of Suffering has left us in pain. There is no way to get rid of her.
Marilia will never grow old, and neither will our affection for her.
Today, we gaze to the sky and ask, "What's the rush?"
And lament, unsteady, without the basis of your voice. Why are you in such a rush, Marilia? What's the rush?
You still had a lot of history to live and listen to and then tell us in verses a lot of singing to offer.
What's the rush? Why are you moving so quickly?
What passages would you use to explain this situation? How does this music conclude, with the rumbling of quiet interrupting it? What is this off-key and out-of-tune song in which sympathy is just suffering?
A song, like any other tale, has a beginning, middle, and finish. And it's been stated that every piece begins with a search for a method to get to the finish. Yet, your life's music appears to have been halted before reaching the medium. It's so weird that it ends before it even begins.
They removed the blossom, yet its rich scent lingered to console a bereaved garden.
Now, Marilia, your verses have quieted down, motionless, like a mother's hand, soft, over a boy's head, resting on our memory, you who spoke of the fleeting things of life, those of love and pain, meetings and farewells, you who released words, letting little birds fly to comfort us and for us to welcome them into the nest of our solitudes.
"Never again, Marilia?" we ask now.
And, with a gentler than sorrowful grin, you tell us that no, it's not "never again." "It's Forever," she exclaims as she strums the guitar and composes a song for the angels.
© 2021 Michelle Medeiros