Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck, and Dizzy Gillespie.
One afternoon I ran into Fernando in a park across the street from the pool hall which was his base of operations. He was all excited. "Fito, I got you a gig. I want you to come and play in this beatnik joint for me."
"I am too young," I told him. "They won't even let me in because you have to be over 18."
"Don't worry about it. They'll love you. You look good. You have talent. You're great on the drums. You have a thing for jazz. I want somebody who's not just a rock and roller. Come on, Fito, I'll show you a completely different side of music. I'm going to show you how I get a different girl every night and I'll take her home with me and she'll let me do anything I want with her. I'll also show you how you can make a lot of money playing music."
I hadn't really thought about music as a business, as a way to make money, but 50 pesos a day, about four American dollars, was good money for a kid, so the idea was very appealing. Better yet, the gig would give me chance to meet women. I still didn't have a sex life, beyond masturbation. I dated some girls, I kissed them, but that's as far as you could go in those days in Mexico.
Because I was under age, I wore a hat and dark glasses, not only to look like a beatnik, but to hide my face and help me blend into the crowd at the places where we played like La Faceta and El Ego, which became famous in Mexico City as the first coffee houses catering to intellectuals, rebels, poets, and other members of the avant-garde.
The club owners liked me; I seemed to fit in naturally, but because I was under age, the gigs were the start of a lifelong curse of being exploited when it came to getting paid. I'll never forget one club owner saying point blank, "I'll give you dinner, Fito, and let you drink a beer, but I'm not going to pay you as much as I pay Fernando." I wasn't about to argue. I was in heaven just playing and making what I considered big money for a 16-year-old who still lived at home.
By now, I was attending Colegio Franco Español and working toward a bachelor's degree in psychology, reading Fromm, Freud, Sartre, and Jung, and I was still planning to go on to the university. But I was having trouble staying awake in class because I was playing almost every night. I was in three different bands: Fernando's beatnik jazz trio, The Sparks in the colonia, and a new group at the school. I was fortunate though. When most students fell asleep in class, the teachers would throw erasers to get their attention, but in my case, some of the teachers would just go, "Shhhh, don't bother him" and let me snooze away.
The Sparks Fly in this Columbia Records promotional photo
My father, on the other hand, was starting to put pressure on me. He kept saying, "Don't play so much. You're grades aren't very good." He gave me such mixed signals. If he didn't want me to be a professional musician, why did he take me to see all those wonderful movies? Why did he buy me the instruments? I guess he figured, instead of me joining a gang, music would be a nice hobby.
Fortunately, many of the younger teachers had gotten caught up in the beatnik movement too, including my psychology teacher, my ethics teacher, and my philosophy teacher. They were all becoming regulars at the coffeehouses where I played. They were avant-garde people with a sensitivity towards my music and they knew that's where my energy went.
A number of them were homosexuals and they would show up in the cafes with their lovers. (AIDS didn't exist yet.) A couple of them came on to me, but I had a tantrum when one guy put his hands between my legs and that was it. They never pushed it. In some ways, Mexicans are very conservative about that stuff but in other ways they are looser, a little less prejudiced than in the States.
As my reputation grew and I started making more money, I realized that I didn't want to go on to the university. This was reinforced by Luis Maya, my logic teacher, who told me I was already a professional musician. He really appreciated my talent. I told him my father was getting on my case about my poor grades and he said:
"Forget about becoming a psychologist or a doctor because you are already on your way toward becoming a star. You are a pinche rocanrolero cabron." (Loosely translated, it means a fucking rock and roll sonofabitch, which he meant as compliment.) Forget about going to the university because you're not going to find the same sympathy and support there. You are going to be a drummer and you are going to be a great musician. Don't worry about your grades. I'm going to pass you and you'll get your bachelor's degree."
But not all the teachers were that helpful. My problem with my literature teacher wasn't because she was demanding or cruel or a monster. In fact, she was a good-looking woman with great legs, so when I wasn't fighting to stay awake in class, I'd stare at her legs and daydream. One day, in the middle of a daydream, I was called to the principal's office.
The principal was Señor Carriedo; a very stern, but handsome man of French and Spanish descent. He was sitting at his desk in a hand-tailored English Saville Row suit.
"Please sit down."
I'm thinking, "Shit, this is it. Something terrible is about to happen."
"I understand you have some outstanding talents, Mr. de la Parra."
Did he really say "outstanding talents?"
"I was wondering if you could do us a great favor and perform with your band at the graduation dinner. There are going to be several prominent senators, who are the padrinos (sponsors) of the graduation, plus Mayor Uruchurtu. With such illustrious guests, I feel the school should put on a first-class program."
I couldn't believe it. This guy didn't call me in to give me a hard time, he called me in to ask a favor. In the back of my mind I thought: now I've got him. Since I play drums in both school bands, neither group can play without me. And if I'm not there, there won't be any music. Sure, they can hire a marimba band or a conventional businessman's bounce type of band, but the kids don't want to hear that. The kids, the senators, the mayor, everybody wants to hear the now-famous rock and roll band from the Colegio Franco Español--of which I am the drummer. So I'm thinking: Go for it. What the fuck?
I quickly said: "I would be delighted to play for you, but I'd like your help. I'm having a problem with my literature class. I need to pass. I need to get my degree." (Mumbling under my breath, the fact that I was unable to take the final.)
"I'm sure something can be arranged," the principal smiled.
At that moment I realized for the first time I could use my art as a weapon. Being a musician gave me power. My talents were worth something.
I got an "A" in literature and after the graduation dinner, my logic teacher, the one who called me a fucking rock 'n' roller, signed my menu "with great pride and joy in his artistic sensitivity" and told the band: "You boys have it made. We make people think. You make people feel. That is much more important."
At that moment, I knew for sure my career was music. It was the point where I broke from the establishment, from my father's expectations, from the pressures of my family to go to the university.
There I was, fresh out of college with a degree in psychology, and the '60s were dawning. From Paris to San Francisco, young people were making their presence felt throughout the world and Mexico was no different. The blooming rock revolution in the United States was spilling over into a thriving rock scene south of the border; underground cafes were springing up even though this was a period when rock n' roll was constantly banned and suppressed by what we called el dèspota gobierno (the despotic government). To the officials, these clubs were hotbeds of revolution instead of college student hangouts.
