“Just walk in like you own the place,” Ozomatli guitarist and singer Raul Pacheco tells me. His advice seems like the perfect all-purpose approach to the music biz, because that’s exactly what Ozo have done, with their seamless pan-Latino sound and political stance that courageously kick the door wide open to increasing popularity, regardless of whether potential fans appreciate the intricacies of traditional Latin music or leftist activism.
Category: Writing
Madonna will earn those spurs of hers someday by going to Nashville to record neo-country-swing versions of all her greatest hits. She’ll twang out “Like A Virgin” on banjo, pedal steel, and washboard, playing hillbilly chanteuse to match all her shitkicker-chic fashion.
The city of Monterrey in the northern Mexican state of Nuevo León sits at the crossroads of culture and capital — close enough to Texas for North American radio/TV reception but not too far from South America for the rhythmic influence of Colombian cumbia. Though strongly identified with its own specific regional history of international trade and rural Mexicanidad as a major border presence, it’s no wonder that this rugged, industrial oasis produced at least three groups in the last decade — synth-styling sophisticates Plastilina Mosh, attitudinous rappers Control Machete, and conjunto-cred barrio combo El Gran Silencio — whose cultural savvy and idiomatic adeptness have garnered attention from U.S. recording labels while confounding any tidy labeling of their music, whether by measure of generic “world music,” outdated “rock-en-español,” or the misleading “Latin pop” moniker.
“…–CHINGA TU MADRE!–…Viva México, cabrones!…” Echoes of crunching chords and cymbals crash on top of backed-up, slogging slogans belted from the microphone and whiplashed throughout the entire auditorium, creating the sloppy aural pit that is the Aragon acoustic experience, which at the moment parallels perfectly the over-saturated floor of the ballroom booming with bodies and banners.
SHOW ME LA BAMBA . . .
The demand to see the headliner seems politely etched onto the subdued yet puzzled faces of those NorthShorreños sparsely seated in the pavilion, though enough Latinos are present to sing along with opener Julieta Venegas, to respond generously to her unassuming presence and charming bilingual embrace of the audience, even if she sometimes breaks a word or two, but apologizes: “Tengo que pensar doble … I have to think double, in English and Spanish.” This admission seems as honest as her voice — at turns fragile and then growling, but with cariño — and the mewling, cabaret-siren of her piano-accordion instrumentation, that sounds more European than Latin American.
“Doin’ it up San Antonio style” — the motto on Alejandro Escovedo’s T-shirt announces his plain jeans-and-boots getup for this rather dressy cocktail-and-finger-foods show in the second-floor salon of the Nature Museum, overlooking Lincoln Park’s swank marinas and jogging paths. With a capo sticking out of his back pocket and a gaunt profile, he looks more like a carpenter than a rocker, which fits the fine craftsmanship of his compositions and storytelling.
Lights dim, shimmer, fade, and revive – pulsing with breath as if to match the steadily roaring grumble of a capacity crowd at the Paramount Theatre in Austin, Texas. Showers of raucous catcalls pour from all walls in rivulets of rage, furor, and nail-biting tension. This 1,324-seater is sold out, and people are looking for blood like sharks who have inhaled fear, thundering like sports fans who taste a touchdown or a piledriver with hands clapping against the backs of chairs and shoes stomping on concrete. The auditorium could almost crack open and swallow itself from stage to balcony.
“This is a vegetarian show,” says band spokesman and bari-sax player Martin Perna, and he explains what he means by asking for no hams, hot dogs, meatheads, or chickenhead-type behavior from the audience. With the venue packed to the point of suffocation during the first set of Antibalas’ return to Chicago, Perna and his mates ask a lot of their fans — not only to be cool to the people immediately around them, but to think about their fellow man, the impact of one’s profession, the many causes worthy of support, and people long dead and far away from ground zero of tonight’s booty shaking.
The entrance to the Big Horse Lounge looks like an average Chicago lunch counter turned taco stand — with a facsimile of the historic Villa/Zapata photo from the Mexican Revolution and soccer-fan paraphernalia on bare white walls glaring under greasy fluorescent wash — opening into a backroom cantina that has featured rock bands on its small stage since the height of ’90s Wicker Park popularity. Mixed identity is no new thing for the venue, which still goes by its former name for owner Armando Enriquez, who calls it “El Chaparral” when answering the phone. A native of Chihuaha, Enriquez has run the business for 14 years, in which time it went from serving the Latino community with Mexican music — rancheras, norteñas, and bandas — to providing another rock venue for the rapidly gentrified neighborhood. The bar’s musical format changed with new developments and tastes, and even though “white folks call it ‘Big Horse’,” Enriquez says, “this place is still Mexican.”
“We’re a straight-up alternative rock band, but with lyrics in Spanish,” El Guapo’s lead vocalist Mike Lopez once said.
