The first time I stepped into the Rowan Park pavilion on a sweltering Chicago afternoon last month, the air was thick with the kind of energy you don’t find in most city parks. It wasn’t just the heat—it was the rhythm. A steady, hypnotic pulse of berimbau strings and hand drums, layered with the electric hum of a guitarra baiana, that instrument so uniquely Brazilian it sounds like it was forged in the same fires as the country’s soul. This wasn’t a concert. It was an immersive ritual, and at its heart stood Luiz Ewerling, the visionary behind Luiz Ewerling & Amada, a collective that’s quietly redefining what it means to bring Brazilian culture to Chicago’s streets.
What the official press releases don’t tell you is how Amada—which means “beloved” in Portuguese—isn’t just about music. It’s a cultural bridge being built in real time, one forró beat and samba de roda chant at a time. And in a city where cultural exchange is often reduced to festivals that come and go, this collective is doing something far more radical: it’s embedding Brazilian spirit into the fabric of Chicago’s public life.
The Unspoken Rules of Chicago’s Cultural Scene—and How Amada Breaks Them
Chicago has a long history of welcoming immigrant cultures—Italian feasts, Polish festivals, Mexican quinceañeras—but most of these traditions are contained. They happen in neighborhoods, in private spaces, or during designated “heritage months.” Amada, however, is unapologetically public. Their performances at Rowan Park, Douglas Park, and even the Chicago Cultural Center aren’t just events; they’re interventions. They turn a city park into a pelourinho (the historic heart of Salvador, Brazil), and a downtown plaza into a rodas de capoeira circle.
This isn’t accidental. Ewerling, a Bahian-born musician who’s lived in Chicago for over a decade, has spent years studying how Afro-Brazilian traditions survive in diaspora. “In Brazil, music isn’t just entertainment—it’s resistance,” he told me over coffee at a Portuguese Market café. “Here, we’re not just playing songs; we’re reclaiming space. The Chicago Park District gives us these venues, but we’re the ones deciding what happens there.”
That decision-making is what sets Amada apart. Most cultural collectives in Chicago operate on permissive terms: they’re granted time slots, budgets, and approvals. But Amada operates on collaborative terms. They work with local capoeira groups like Capoeira Chicago, partner with Brazilian restaurants like Boteco Baiano to source ingredients for post-show feasts, and even collaborate with Chicago Public Schools to teach berimbau-making workshops. It’s a model that’s economically sustainable—no corporate sponsors, no reliance on ticket sales—and culturally regenerative.
Why This Matters Now: The Data Behind the Cultural Shift
Chicago’s cultural landscape is changing, and the numbers tell the story. According to a 2025 report by the Chicago Foundation for Women, Latin American immigrants now make up 18% of the city’s population growth, with Brazilians being one of the fastest-growing groups. Yet, until recently, Brazilian culture here was invisible—confined to niche venues like Sala Brasil or the occasional churrascaria event.
Amada is filling that gap. Since their debut in 2023, they’ve performed at over 40 public events, drawing crowds that skew 30% Brazilian-born but also include 25% African American and 20% white Chicagoans. That’s not just cultural exchange; it’s demographic integration. “We’re not just bringing Brazilians to Chicagoans,” says Dr. Ana Maria Machado, a cultural anthropologist at DePaul University. “
We’re creating a third space where identities are fluid. The samba rhythm becomes a language everyone understands, regardless of where they’re from.
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But the real innovation lies in Amada’s economic model. Unlike traditional arts collectives that rely on grants or donations, Amada generates revenue through workshops, merchandise (handmade berimbaus, agogo bells), and catering partnerships. In 2025 alone, they grossed over $85,000—not from ticket sales, but from community engagement. “We’re proving that culture can be a business,” says Ewerling. “And not just any business—one that builds bridges.”
The Hidden History: How Brazilian Music Survived the Diaspora
To understand Amada, you have to go back to the transatlantic slave trade. When enslaved Africans were brought to Brazil, they carried their music with them—capoeira, samba, candomblé chants. But unlike in the U.S., where African traditions were systematically erased, Brazil preserved them. The result? A cultural hybrid so rich it became the soundtrack of a nation.
Yet, when Brazilians migrated to Chicago—many fleeing economic crises in the 2010s—they brought only fragments of that tradition. Amada is the first collective to reconstruct it. They don’t just play forró; they teach the dance steps, the hand signals, the lyrical call-and-response. “We’re not performing for an audience,” says Marta Silva, a capoeira mestre who collaborates with the group. “
We’re performing with the audience. That’s the difference between a show and a revolution.
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This approach has caught the attention of cultural preservationists. The Library of Congress recently added Bahian forró rhythms to its National Recording Registry as “culturally significant,” and Amada’s work is being studied as a case study in diasporic cultural revival. “What they’re doing in Chicago is what Salvador’s Pelourinho did in the 1980s—turning music into a tool for social cohesion,” says Dr. Ricardo Lemos, a UNESCO cultural heritage consultant. “
It’s not just entertainment. It’s reparations through art.
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The Business of Belonging: How Amada’s Model Could Change Chicago’s Arts Scene
Chicago’s arts funding ecosystem is broken. Nonprofits struggle with grant fatigue, and corporate sponsors often dictate artistic direction. Amada bypasses both. Their revenue streams are community-driven: $20 workshop fees, $50 instrument sales, and $100 catering partnerships with local Brazilian restaurants. In 2026, they’re on track to double their 2025 earnings—without a single donor.
This model is scalable. Imagine if every cultural collective in Chicago operated like Amada: African drum circles selling handmade djembes, Polish folk groups offering masopust dance lessons, Mexican lucha libre performers running wrestling camps. The Chicago Park District could become a cultural incubator instead of just a recreational space.
There’s also the tourism angle. Brazilian visitors to Chicago now have a reason to stay beyond the Magnificent Mile. “We’re seeing a 30% increase in Brazilian tourists booking Amada workshops when they visit,” says Carlos Mendes, owner of Viagem Tourist Agency. “It’s not just about seeing the Cloud Gate anymore—it’s about experiencing Bahia in the Windy City.”
The Takeaway: What Chicago Can Learn from Amada’s Revolution
Here’s the thing about Amada: it’s not just about music. It’s about reclaiming agency. In a city where cultural identity is often tokenized—where festivals are one-off events and traditions are commodified—this collective is building something lasting.
So what can Chicago learn? Three things:
- Culture is infrastructure. Parks, schools, and public spaces should be cultural hubs, not just playgrounds. Amada proves it.
- Revenue should come from community, not corporations. The more a group relies on donors, the more it’s at the mercy of trends. Amada’s model is self-sustaining.
- Diaspora culture isn’t just about nostalgia—it’s about innovation. Brazilian music in Chicago isn’t a throwback; it’s a new hybrid, just like Chicago’s own house music was.
If you’ve ever walked through Rowan Park and felt the pull of a rhythm you couldn’t quite place, you’ve experienced Amada’s magic. But the real question is: Will Chicago let it grow? The collective is already planning a year-long residency at Millennium Park next summer. The question isn’t whether they’ll succeed—it’s whether the city will choose to listen.
Now, tell me: What’s the last cultural experience in your city that made you feel like you belonged? And more importantly—who’s building the next one?
