was not unusual for people to come up and tell us: "You guys sound just like the records." We played Beach Boys, Beatles and Righteous Brothers songs. It was pretty amazing--this Mexican band all dressed up in their corny red silk tuxedos, straight out of the border honky-tonks, sounding like American and English stars.
At the Troubador one night, a bald guy in his 60s, chomping a cigar, stopped us as we were getting ready to leave. In a thick Italian accent, he said his name was Lou Ransella. He seemed to know a lot about us.
"I don't care if you guys don't have work permits. And I don't care if you're minors. You're a great group and I'm going to get you jobs. Don't worry about anything. Just don't get in trouble. Don't say anything to anybody. Otherwise they'll put you in a wagon and send you back and you don't want that. You're going to make it."
We returned the borrowed Impala and Lou bought us a used Ford Falcon wagon. He said we could repay him from the work he got us at a redneck country-rock club, The Farmhouse, in Cathedral City, a small desert town near Palm Springs.
Looking at a map, I realized I'd be playing only 40 miles from the University of Redlands, barely a half hour's drive from Sonja. We were living the American dream: applause, a steady job, a girlfriend I loved and a decent car for only $300.
During our gig at The Farmhouse, Tony fell madly in love with the club's "go-go girl" Karen, "The Sensational Queen of Watusi." She was a gorgeous, statuesque blonde who shook her body to our music for hours every night; driving us and the audience into a frenzy.
At the same time, my relationship with Sonja was heating up. I was falling in love with her and she with me. Actual sex wasn't in the picture yet, but we did everything else that young people did in those times.
I was too young and happy to think that this was too good to last. For two months now, we were living an idyllic existence and we even stopped looking over our shoulders for the Border Patrol. In addition to our steady job at The Farmhouse, Lou Ransella lined up gigs for us in Hollywood and even Nevada, which we were really looking forward to.
The bad luck began when our $300 Falcon blew up on our way to see the new hit movie "Help" with The Beatles. We ended up taking a bus to Indio, a few miles south, near the border. As we stepped down from the bus at the Indio station, two Border Patrol officers were checking the papers of passengers who looked Mexican. I have blue eyes and fair skin so I just kept walking and they didn't stop me. Novi, of course, was an American. No problem. But our singer El Chava was from Tijuana and looked it. They immediately grabbed him and started giving him the third degree.
Watching this unfold killed me. God damn it. We had it all and now it's over.
Novi whispered to me: "I'm going to tell them the truth about everything."
"What the hell for?" I whispered back. "Don't tell them anything."
He was really pissing me off. I was against him copping out because I was convinced they would let us go if we simply stuck with our story: we were a bunch of Chicano kids, Beatles fans, who came down from Palm Springs to see "Help."
But Jon, a straight arrow with strict parents, spilled his guts.
It was my first taste of the American Border Patrol and they were total assholes. To them we weren't harmless kid musicians; we were just one more bunch of damn wetbacks.
They gave us 24 hours to get south of the border, which was just enough time to get our instruments and pick up our pay at The Farmhouse. The owner was nice about it, but sorry to see us leave because we had begun attracting regular fans.
Heartbroken, I called Sonja at college. "We got caught, darling, and I have to leave the country right away. I don't know if I can ever come back. They said I might never be allowed to return."
"Fito, wait for me; I'll be right there. Please try to stay until I can get there."
Waiting in the bus depot in Calexico to return to Mexico, we were so depressed we were in a state of shock. Sonja and I just cried in each other's arms.
And here comes the Border Patrol again.
"Take those drums apart."
"Why? We're leaving. We're going home. We're getting out of your country. You got what you wanted. What harm are the drums?"
"There could be drugs in them. So take them apart. Now," he barked.
"Why would I take drugs INTO Mexico?" I asked, "That would be stupid."
"I said take them apart. Now!"
We didn't even use drugs in those days and we looked more like American college kids than dope runners.
It took me close to an hour; my last hour in the States, to disassemble the drums down to the point where he could be sure there wasn't 50 kilos of heroin stashed away somewhere, while everyone else in the station gawked at us. I burned with shame having to do that in front of my straitlaced American girlfriend. Then I had to put the drums back together.
We almost missed the bus. As we ran through the station, I kissed Sonja all the way. My main fear was not being able to come back. I liked the United States, aside from being humiliated by its cops. I wanted to get back to the home of American music. I had met interesting people who were good to us and I had learned a lot about the culture that had fascinated me since those old Benny Goodman movies.
Above all, I wanted to see the woman I loved again. First Kathy now Sonja. I kept meeting these American angels and losing them.
Four months, two weeks, four days and seven hours after our friends had given us a big farewell party in central Mexico City, we tumbled out of a second-class Estrella de Oro bus in a station in the same neighborhood. We were grimy and bleary-eyed after a 52-hour run from the border, toting our guitars and drums and the last few bucks we had saved from the invasion of El Norte, the foray that was going to make us stars.
Trudging through a cold December rain, we headed right for a coffee house where we could find out what was happening and maybe line up some gigs.
We ran into Mauricio, a musician I never liked. "The gods return," he said, laughing disdainfully.
We sat around staring at the coffees and lemonade.
"Yeah," one of the guys said wearily. "Los Dioses."
I saw it differently.
"Fuck that guy. He's wrong. We went to El Norte and we played for them and they liked us. The Americans aren't gods. They're people like us and they accepted us. If it was up to the people who heard us play, we'd still be there. Okay, we got kicked out because we had bad luck, but we didn't fail. We showed we could play their music just as well as they do."
That was true. But America had seen the last of Los Tequilas. And soon Los Tequilas would see the last of me.
Changing our name back to Los Sinners, we immediately got a gig at the Plein Soleil, the biggest, hippest coffee house in the city. But our disagreements over music became terminal. The other guys wanted to be Herman's Hermits, which to me was the worst of the worst. I hated that shit, but I had to play it with these people because I was only the drummer and singers are more important.
They said it was ridiculous for us to play like Negroes, but it was even more ridiculous for them
