must have the knowledge, the repertoire of songs that tell the simple stories of life, la historia of every man and woman: romance, religion, and death. He must have the touch, the sense of the crowd, their mood. Happy and gay? The songs must correspond. Borracho and melancholy? Then, there is a desire for the songs of la lucha, the struggle of living.
Some of us are better than others. Some are even men of wealth and fame from the sale of discos and autographed pictures. That is a rare category, the famous ones of the Mexican silver screen: Trio Los Panchos, Trio Los Tres Reyes. They wear the tailored draped gabardine and smile as the beautiful star glides by: Ninon Sevilla, Maria Felix. But I am not one of these. No, I am somewhere in the middle. I am not conocido, but I am not desconocido. My instrument is old, but the maker was respected. Hernando Aviles of Los Panchos once commented that my tone is acceptable. Los Angeles is not Mexico City, but we have many fine nightclubs and restaurants here. It is enough. One must not aim too high. “Ya Estoy Con Mi Destino.”
I choose not to interfere. Sometimes there are disagreements. Over what? An insult on the dance floor, a look of disrespect to the esposa, a dispute over a song lyric? Rough language is used, knives are drawn, that sort of thing. The Trio man never takes sides: “And now, señoras y señores, muchísimas gracias a todos, a marvelous new song from the poet laureate of love, the genius of sentiment, El Unico, Agustin Lara! And it is my privilege to announce that the great man is with us in the Club La Bamba, en ésta noche! Viva!” In this way, calm is restored. If one lacks sensitivity, women will lose interest. If one seems effeminate, men will feel compromised. I am known in the world of Trio as a man of skill and finesse. I am not associated with any one particular trio, but prefer to work freelance. This marks me as something of an oddity.
Los Angeles is a maze of class distinctions. I live in the great barrio of East Los Angeles, overlooking Hollenbeck Park. My street is one of large, older homes and one small residence hotel, the Edmund, where I have a room with a balcony. Flower boxes, trees, gardens — a bit bohemian, you may say, but not leftist; that milieu lies further north, in Boyle Heights. There you may find the authors of revolutionary political tracts and those of the poorer class of scholars and professors. My district is favored by entertainers. Not celebrities, but those who have regular positions like myself. We are not mariachis! Mariachis are hardly more than street beggars! You will find them congregated in Garibaldi square, on First Street, near the Aliso Flats district, a squalid area. Mariachis are of the mestizo class, specializing in the primitive music of the migrant and the homesick. I am educated. I read the staff, I know the ostinato, crescendo, obbligato. Trio is refined and elegant.
The Trio man is a night man. I return home between one and two in the morning, and I arise at noon. It is my custom to have coffee at Graziesa’s Squeeze Inn. Graziesa makes my coffee with hot milk, the way I like it. She is just my height, barely five feet tall, but always cheerful. She greets me with a song when I arrive. I tell her, “Graziesa, I will present you at La Bamba. You will be a sensation.” She says the public wouldn’t pay money to see such a short, fat woman, and she had better stick to making tamales and café con leche.
I read both the Spanish and the English newspapers. I am not limited in my thinking in the usual ways of the musician who cares only for boxing and women. I am interested in everything around me — literature, art, science, politics — but most of all, I love the cinema!
On this particular Saturday afternoon, I was in a state of intense excitement. The latest film from Mexico City featuring the Diva of Sorrow, La Reina of Shame, Marga Lopez, was opening at the Million Dollar on Broadway. I was first in line. Rain was forecast, so I carried a light overcoat and an umbrella. My clothes are specially tailored by Ramildo of Hollywood — they do not make ready-to-wear for a man of my build. “Look as good as you can” is my motto. I took my usual seat in the back row, on the aisle, where visibility is better for me.
In they came, rushing to their seats. The lights dimmed, a thrilling moment! Suddenly, a ripple of anxiety swept through the crowd. Heads turned, faces peered out, regarding the figure of a portly man standing by the door. I recognized him at once. Alberto Salazar! Salazar dared to show his face in this moment, before this audience, in this theater? Unspeakable! Unacceptable! Alberto Salazar was, in fact, the film critic for La Opinion, the leading Spanish-language newspaper of East Los Angeles, and a scheming, grasping egotist who spent his time pontificating to a retinue of craven sycophants in the cafes and slandering everybody in his newspaper columns. For years, he had nurtured a vendetta against Marga Lopez, trumpeting some flaw in her performance or gloating over some base rumor of scandal in her personal life. To my complete horror, Salazar took his seat in the row in front of me! Directly in front! I was appalled! The last row is essential for me. There, the slope of the floor is such that I may see the entire screen, and now, this hijo de la puta sat there, blocking my view.
The film began. Well, there was no choice, every seat but one was taken. It was quite impossible, but I tried to follow the story, which seemed to concern itself with the double life of a poor woman of Mexico City who sacrifices her own happiness in order to support her younger sister in an upper-class religious boarding school. By night, the woman earns a little money as a taxi dancer in the famous dance hall, Salon Mexico, a place we musicians know well. The principal male character was that of a sympathetic policeman, played by the great Miguel Inclan, who watches over her in a fervor of unrequited love. Que emoción!
A half hour had gone by when a latecomer arrived and took the empty seat next to Salazar. A man, slender, with wavy black hair worn long and heavy with pomade in the manner of the Filipino. His coat was wet, so it had begun to rain. A little time went by. I listened, I concentrated. The Marga Lopez character was trapped in a brutal relationship with a dance-hall pimp, played by the repulsive Rodolfo Acosta — a bully who forces her into danzón contests and then takes the prize money for himself. Desperate, she steals the money back, the pimp beats her, but the heroic policeman bursts in on the scene and declares, “Hit a man, you are so macho!” The two men struggle. The woman escapes. The policeman is victorious but wounded. He looks for her at Salon Mexico. She weeps with gratitude. The policeman weeps with gratitude for having had the opportunity of defending her honor! Wonderful! Sensational!
At that point the Filipino rose from his seat and left. Odd, I thought. Unless, of course, he can no longer tolerate the noxious presence of Salazar, who actually seemed to be asleep. Ay caramba, por eso! The monster sleeps through the film, then goes out and butchers it in the newspaper! But I was now able to see the top half of the screen. The policeman reveals his love and devotion. He offers his hand; he is not offended by her degraded lifestyle, her humiliation. But she refuses him! She is unworthy, his reputation and position are at stake, and so on. The social order must be maintained, the woman must pay the price; it was ever thus. “No llores más,” the policeman entreats her, but we know the trail of tears must go on and on. “Pa’ Qué Me Sirve La Vida,” as the mariachis say.
Suddenly, shouts rang out in the theater. “Sangre! Mucha sangre!” The house lights came on. I smelled blood, it was true. I know the smell, my uncle was a poultry butcher and it was my task as a child to pluck the chickens. I saw at once that the blood flowed from beneath Salazar’s chair. I touched his back, and he toppled over onto the floor. A butcher’s flaying knife protruded from the back of his neck. “Le gusta el pleito, el Filipino,” as my grandmother used to say. She was very old, but I remember her well, with her pince-nez glasses and her habit of cigar smoking, in the manner of the comic actress Dona Sara Garcia.
The police arrived. Sergeant Morales was put in command of the situation. Morales is a man necessary to the conduct of police business among the Spanish-speaking population. Owing to my proximity to the deceased, I was the first to be questioned.
“Did you accompany Salazar to the theatre?”
“Certainly not!”
“But he sat very near to you.”
“Yes,
