Chalino backed by mariachi, a style he never recorded while alive. Chalino in duets with people he never met. In addition to the official releases, they stock the Chalino CD on which he was backed by a banda that wasn’t around during his lifetime. Another hawks a poster of him loading a gun, with just one word: SINALOA.Īnd then there are the CD booths. A vendor sells a T-shirt with an overcontrasted photo of him on top of “CHALINO” done up like the Supreme logo. The car-accessories booth sells a black-and-white window decal of a grim Chalino, Stetson on his head, which is cocked to the side. Sure, I can stream his hundreds of corridos on Pandora, Spotify and YouTube, but it’s the swap meets where the compa lives. I’m at the Cypress College swap meet, looking for Chalino. The repeated snubs are no mystery: The gatekeepers of American and Mexican popular culture remain disgusted by Chalino, aghast at the profound changes he brought not only to music, but also to an entire generation of Mexicans on both sides of the border-for better and for worse. Just like the 20th anniversary, the 15th, the 10th and the fifth. The 25th anniversary of his murder after a concert in Mexico came and went this past May, with no public commemoration, no media coverage, no nada. Yet Chalino remains criminally, unsurprisingly unmentioned in the mainstream, in both the United States and Mexico. He’s also one of the most important Southern Californians in decades, someone who deserves mention in the same conversations about region-changing titans as the Chandler family and Don Bren. Chalino did all of this, without the help of a music label or media hype or seed money-in Spanish, in los Estados Unidos. Dre launched empires and protégés Nirvana and Pearl Jam defined a genre and fashion Tupac and Biggie got gunned down before their time and became immortal Green Day and Weezer spawned waves of imitators. He’s the most influential musician in the United States of the past quarter-century-no one comes even close. It’s as if Coachella millennials un-ironically rocked out to “Streets of Laredo” performed in the most bumpkin way possible, in daily homage to the Wild West.Īnd it’s all gracias to Chalino. This full-scale assimilation still happens, with one fundamental change: It’s now cool for Mexican-Americans to display as much of their mexicanidad as they want. For more than a century, Mexican-Americans have shook off the rituals of the old country to embrace the new, with traces of symbolic ethnicity such as tamales for Christmas and mariachis for parties allowed to linger as ritual. There’s no seemingly logical reason why twentysomething Mexicans in Orange County would blast Chalino’s music. Even if you don’t know Spanish, the productions feel like an invitation to duel. The lyrics are three-minute rural operas about men who kill or die for revenge or respect-and usually a combo of all four. The drums snap with menace accordions overdose on notes.
And not just because the song still echoes even 100 feet away once you hear Chalino, he’s impossible to forget. The SUV speeds off, but the voice of Rosalino “Chalino” ánchez remains. “Because I’m of the men/That when I lose, I don’t cry.” “And if I lose, oh, well,” the singer brags. Next follows one of the baddest singing voices ever put on tape, a howl that sounds like an air-raid siren filtered through sandpaper, that makes Tom Waits sound like Marvin Gaye. It’s the opening notes to “ Baraja de Oro” (“Golden Deck of Cards”), a conjunto norteño classic written more than 45 years ago that compares women to poker and gets more macho from there.
Accordion trills rush from the Escalade’s speakers and rattle the windows of my pathetic Camry, idling in the next lane. They type away on smartphones while clowning on one another in English-a scene as far away from their Mexican roots as a taco salad.Įxcept for the music. Four young Mexican men inside, all buzz cuts and oversized white T-shirts and tattoos, look as if they’re two days out from a stint at Theo Lacy.
The gleaming black Cadillac Escalade trembles at the intersection of Beach Boulevard and Cerritos Avenue in Stanton.