Professional Documents
Culture Documents
jefepeters@gmail.com
Mariachi demons
strapped over my shoulder people honked and whistled out of car windows.
No longer was I just another gringo tourist, but something even more
City's Plaza Garibaldi, the mariachi center of the universe. I had some 20-
***
“I am, like, so honored to be here,” said the Queen of the 274th Annual
Santa Fe Fiesta of 1986. She was a Santa Fe High School Demonette and
cinder-block walls of the gym like a ferret in a burlap sack. The mariachi
and waited. The boys of El Dorado Elementary were about to be scarred for
life.
fiesta,” the Queen continued. “And if you're lucky, one of us is going to pick
you to dance with us.” She gestured to her fellow members of the Santa Fe
Fiesta royal court, Demonettes in lacy dresses and Demons dressed like
conquistadors.
public drinking, and spending the night in the bushes behind the 7-Eleven.
Especially not with girls who had a five-year advantage. They towered
violins filled the gym and the King and Queen took the first dance. Good.
Maybe they'll be too distracted by their own hormones and completely forget
about us.
But there were still the Demons and Demonettes. They approached
the bleachers. They sought out the shyest, the weakest, the least able to
resist.
lights cast shadows under their eyes. They reached out without warning
level. Others gazed off into the distance, their arms hanging limply, and
waited for the dance to end. Only Josh Parnell seemed to enjoy it. But he
sense than dance with an 11-year-old boy. But the music changed the rules
and cast a romantic fog over everyone. Boys formerly geeky and awkward
were now “cute.” And slowly some of the boys relaxed, if only for a moment.
We sat in the bleachers and tried to hide behind one another. I moved
back a row as the Demonettes returned for more boys. And then back
stopped and the teen-agers left, off to visit another school. Back in class,
some boys looked a little taller. And I realized the only thing worse than
***
These aren't happy songs. The story is always the same. Boy meets girl, boy
and girl fall in love, boy loses girl, boy drinks tequila, boy wakes up in barn
with burro dressed in black negligee. Love makes us suffer, but it's a
familiar song and everyone knows the words.
Plaza Garibaldi became its center. Musicians from all over the
country migrated to the plaza and they're still there – playing in the
already played electric bass. But this Mexican bass guitar is something
altogether different.
The guitarrón looks like a normal acoustic guitar fed a steady diet of
bacon and chocolate eclairs. It's about the size of a cello, with a stocky neck
and resting on the stomach. It's big and awkward and easier to play sitting
***
Mariachis in black dinner jackets stood in a horseshoe around
Flavian's table in a posh restaurant in Mexico City's Zona Rosa. The bassist
violins. The accordionist wore a toupee that may have fooled people in the
The restaurant had a tall oak-shelved bar stacked to the ceiling with
bottles and a cluster of faux palm trees along the back wall. Zona Rosa
literally means “Pink District,” and the whole neighborhood had the vibe of
I met Flavian the way you meet anyone shouting at the table next to
yours. In his mid-60s, Flavian had the puffy physique that comes from
decades of selling toner supplies. His wife, at least 25 years younger, wore a
diamond ring large enough to swallow whole the rings of previous, lesser
wives.
could not go on. She was the only one who ever mattered. Nothing could
much younger women. They all sang with the boyish grins of old men who
still had it, mixed with the wide-eyed stare of men fearing they may
The music that had recast 11-year old boys as “cute” 20 years ago
What gave mariachi music this power? And why didn't my adolescent
primered Chevy Novas to attract girls. Rarely were there actual girls in
these cars.
cultural institution that thrives to this day, while Van Halen is all but
extinct.
boom box all night, complete with carefully choreographed air-guitar solos,
Flavian was not going home alone. The mariachis may have helped
***
through a thin instruction manual. The black and white photos made it look
easy.
– the demands are immense. They need to know 300 songs from memory,
He tightened the first string until it was almost in tune and then
“twap!” The string had slipped off the tuning peg and hung limply over the
sound hole. He tried it again, and again, “twap!” He moved on to the next
“Your clavijas (tuning pegs) can't handle the tension. You'll have to
get them replaced before you can play it,” he said. “Come with me and we'll
strings weren't my only problem: my pants weren't nearly tight enough. The
and pants – all black or all white. Intricate embroidery and silver tassels
decorate the outer trouser seams. Only in Mexico could this look macho.
“Not yet.”
Other musicians smiled and nodded their approval. I'd owned the
guitarrón for all of half an hour, but was already being welcomed into their
ranks. If I'd tried the same thing with a Guns 'n Roses tribute band, it
would have taken several months just to find acceptable hair extensions.
picking up his instrument. “You just grab the strings like this,” he pulled
back two strings simultaneously, “and then you pull. Hard.”
Two strings are played an octave apart so the guitarrón can produce
Flop, flop, flop, flop, flop, flop, flop, buzz. The strings wobbled over
“Hey, that's how much I paid for mine,” the guitarronista said. They
The lesson was over. I hoisted the guitarrón over my shoulder. The
de nadas.
guitar duels, trashing of hotel rooms, or vodka shots taken from over-sized