The Life Aquatic Studio Sessions Featuring Seu Jorge
Seu Jorge; "Team Zissou"; from Mississippi Records
As I’ve written before, there’s something about a soundtrack that embeds it in memory differently than a regular collection of songs—probably that mixed-modality pairing of visual cue and sound, where the image is something that you witness but isn't clearly your experience. The greatest directors are highly skilled at that kind of emotional manipulation and trickery.
Wes Anderson’s films are celebrated for their meticulous style and impeccable music choices. Like many, I first fell into his world with The Royal Tenenbaums, with The Rolling Stones and The Kinks deep cuts. But the quirky, melancholic charm of the fictional oceanographer Steve Zissou—partJacques Cousteau parody, part Bill Murray deadpan—paired with Seu Jorge’s performances, felt surreal and somehow more intimate than the dysfunctional family in Tenenbaums. In Aquatic, Seu Jorge plays a crewmember who occasionally strums a guitar and sings, seemingly just part of the ship's oddball vibe. But as I later learned, those performances weren’t just a bit—Mr. Jorge is a serious musician, and those covers were thoughtfully crafted tributes. I was delighted to hear that all of these performances (and others) were compiled onto a tribute album, a series of David Bowie covers sung in Portuguese by the Brazilian musician, and one original.
Around the same time of this discovery, I was exploring other corners of my musical tastes. I’d gotten into Beck, especially his albums The Information and Guero, which mashed up indie rock and hip-hop. In an interview I read, Beck mentioned that he once spent a year listening exclusively to Brazilian music. That idea stunned me. The notion of limiting myself to just one cultural lane sounded monastic… and weirdly compelling.
I tried it for a few months.
With my barely-legal Scandinavian mp3 site as my guide, I dove into Brazil’s musical past: the swirling psychedelia of Os Mutantes, the haunting grace of Gal Costa, the ebullience of Caetano Veloso, the sophistication of Jobim, antecedent of Bossa nova. What I discovered wasn’t just music-—it was full-scale history. These artists were reacting to authoritarianism, making art that pushed against repression and conformity. Even if I didn’t always understand the lyrics, I could hear the resistance in their melodies.
That immersion made Seu Jorge’s Life Aquatic covers land even more deeply. There was a warmth and precision in his simple arrangements. Bowie’s songs—already theatrical—sounded dreamier and more estranged when translated into Portuguese and played on classical guitar. It didn’t feel like imitation; it felt like reinterpretation.
Which brings me to the idea of “the cover.” In American music history, the term has heavy baggage. White musicians once re-recorded songs by Black artists and literally had their records placed over the originals in stores to block sales. The cover was a form of erasure. Learning that history gave me pause. But what Seu Jorge did felt different, a playful inversion since Bowie (and so many other rock musicians patently ripped off Black musicians of the same era). Jorge's homage reminded me of how Nina Simone would take a well-known song and transform it entirely, making it hers while still honoring the source.
In that way, Jorge’s Life Aquatic work shows how a cover can be an act of love. And it made me realize how much context and intention matter when it comes to music. These songs are bridges between between languages and cultures, cast adrift on a quirky cinematic sea.
Verdict: Keep
What’s next for Team Zissou?