Los Angeles Stories

by Ry Cooder

  “What happens now?” I asked.

  “Don’t you worry, I’ll take it from here.” He took off in the Buick. Thirty-third Street went back to sleep. I looked all around for Korla Pandit, but he was gone, and I never saw him or Florencia again.

  Fifteen people were injured in a freak explosion in a quiet neighborhood on Berendo Street, near downtown Los Angeles. The blast originated at 39 Berendo, a record shop operated by one Don Brown. The building was completely destroyed. Police and firemen at the scene found the charred and fused remains of what must have been an exten­sive stockpile of shellac recordings. Sergeant Blaine McClure, of the Los Angeles Police Department, speculated that chemicals may have triggered the blast. “In a case like this, we overlook nothing. Our science boys are very alert, I can assure you.” When asked if the FBI had been notified, Sergeant McClure replied, “The LAPD is on the job, buster.” When asked if Don Brown had been located, McClure said, “We are very interested in Mr. Brown. We’ll find him.”

  Off-­duty motorcycle officer William “Bill” Spangler was taken into custody yesterday after neighbors reported that he chased his wife, Mabel, down the sidewalk brandishing his service revolver. Spangler, who had been drinking, told police that his wife had served him a tuna sandwich for lunch that had paper in it, which he showed detectives. The paper was identified as the label from a 78 recording by Louis Armstrong, a colored singer with trumpet. Sergeant McClure of the LAPD speculated that it was flotsam from the recent explosion on Berendo, one block away. The Spanglers reside at 33 Catalina Street. Neighbors told police the couple quarreled frequently and often. Spangler was quoted as saying, “I’m expected to take it and like it and go out and do this stinking job?” Mabel Spangler was unharmed, and has been released.

  ‘My Dear Mr. Montalvo. I trust this note finds you well. I have found a new home here in Spokane. I find I am enjoying new things, for instance, music! Thanks to Mr. Billy Tipton, who has proven to be a real gentleman, and you know how rare that is! Please remember me to your friend Herman. Kindest regards, Ida Kirby, General Delivery, Spokane, Washington.’

  The manager of the Bundy Theatre at Pico Boulevard and Thirty-fourth Street in Santa Monica stood outside eating a candy bar and watching the traffic. It was Wednesday, a slow night for neighborhood movie­going. The manager was a big man, three hundred pounds easy, from eating candy bars on the job. A Santa Monica city bus pulled up across the street, headed westbound toward the beach, thirty-four blocks away. A solitary rider got out and unlocked the front door at number 3406 West Pico. A sign in the window read “Jazz Man Records.” The manager watched the man enter the store and close the door. “New guy,” he said to himself. “Who the hell cares about records?” Above his head, the marquee lights stuttered on and off, making a buzzing sound like Morse code. God­damn salt air, like I don’t have expenses, he thought, and the thought made him hungry. He turned and walked back inside the theater.

  The new owners at 968 East Thirty-third Street loved the house. It was in perfect shape and priced just right for a young couple. It was after they’d been in the place a little while that the problem arose. Their dog hated the garage. He wouldn’t even go out in the backyard. He stayed in the house and shook and wouldn’t hardly eat. It drove the man crazy. “There’s nothing out there, Jerry,” he told the dog. Jerry whined and shook. Just to prove it to himself, the man got his flashlight and went out to have a look around. When he came back, he was spooked. “Honey, there’s a man in the garage sitting in the big chair. I went up to him, but he was gone. The chair was warm. I don’t know, maybe Jerry’s right after all. What the hell . . .” The woman watched the man and said nothing. Christ, she thought, I was doing all right in Spokane.

  La vida es un sueño

  1950

  A TRIO MAN is a man who stands on a stage, in the spotlight. He plays the requinto, he sings the bolero, and he watches. He watches you, señor, and you, señorita — especially you. He observes the audience, a nocturnal conveyor belt of lovers, haters, and drunks — stretching from the earth to the moon.

  He 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, unfortunately.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I couldn’t see the screen.”

  “What did you have against him?”

  “He was a man despised by everyone in this theater. Ask them all, you will get the same answer.” The innocent man has nothing to fear, nothing to hide, my grandfather was fond of saying, pero, no diga a la policía tu nombre proprio.

  “Why?”

  “He was a one-­man judge, jury, and executioner. He abused his position. He insulted Marga Lopez, myself, everyone.”

  “How did he insult you? Who are you? What is your trade?”

  “I am no tradesman, but an artiste, a musician and singer. ‘Acts like a man, looks like a chicken!’ He’s better off dead, I assure you!”

  “This was an execution. Did you do it?”

  “I salute the man who did.”

  “We will speak with you again. Please do not leave town.”

  “Here I was born, here I remain, here I shall die. ‘Hasta la Tumba Final.’ ”

  “My wife enjoys Trio. Where do you appear?”

  “The Bamba Club, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Please allow me to invite you and your esposa as my guests.”

  “Thank you, it would be a pleasure. Hasta la próxima, señor.”

  “A sus órdenes, Capitán Morales.”

  “Sergeant Morales.”

  An honest man, not unlike the policeman of the film, I thought. But the film had been interrupted. What happened to Marga Lopez? The truth is, these film stories are all alike; the end is always the same. Real life is so much more uncertain, take Salazar, for instance! And now, something new had been added. I had become involved in a mysterious thing, a crime. I had told Morales nothing of the sinister Filipino. Without thinking, I had become an accomplice.

  I TAKE THE “A” streetcar at Sixth and Boyle and get off at Spring Street, a ten-­minute ride. I often meet fellow musicians on the streetcars — the code­-talking black men of jazz, the card-playing Filipinos of the Temple Street dance halls, the nihilistic pachuco boogie boys — we all ride the Big Red Cars, except for the mariachis, who prefer to walk. The La Bamba Club is located in the heart of downtown. Mexicans are under curfew in the downtown area since the riots, but La Bamba enjoys a good reputation and is exempt. Modest on the outside you may say, but once inside the effect is marvelous. Brightly colored paper lanterns with tiny lights give a festive atmosphere, and there are live plants and dwarf palm trees everywhere. At one end, a good-sized stage and an ample dance floor. Full bar and dinner menu featuring Mexican dishes, such as chile rellenos a la casa and chicken enchiladas supreme. Very nice. Julio “Kid” Quiñones is the bartender, with his happy-­to-­be­-alive grin and boxer’s ears. Showtime is nine o’clock. The master of ceremonies, Manuel “El Flaco” Zepeda, welcomes the audience, and then we are introduced. We usually begin with a selection of popular boleros. Boleros have a soothing effect the diners appreciate. I take requests. Ladies enjoy passing a note up to the stage, it excites them.

  This particular evening, it was the following Friday, I received a note that read: Sra Morales requests “Sin Ti.” I caught the eye of Sergeant Morales, who was accompanied by his wife and their companions de la noche. I had already made arrangements. He inclined his head toward me — everything was perfectly understood. I turned to our trumpet soloist, Angel, and said, “the Harmon mute.” The Harmon gives the trumpet a sensation of elegance and refined melancholy.

  Sin ti

  No podré vivir jamás

  Y pensar que nunca más

  Estarás junto a mi

  Yes, it’s true, I have sung this song, perhaps a thousand times. The effect is always the same. One is immediately drawn into contemplation and reverie. The composer gives us a gift of time, a brief moment following each lyric phrase,
to fully savor its meaning before passing on to the next. It is a languid pace, but one that builds emotion and strength in a most subtle way, never to distract from the mood, the intimate world of the song.

  Sin ti

  Qué me puede ya importar

  Si lo que me hace llorar

  Está lejos de aquí

  The poetry is simple, the sentiment is common. But there is the art! Effortless, comfortable, each thought set before the listener like pearls strung into a necklace by the hands of a beautiful woman, one by one.

  Sin ti

  No hay clemencia en mi dolor

  La esperanza de mi amor

  Te la llevas al fin

  Now the trumpet joins in harmony as the wonderful conclusion is revealed. How did the composer build such a work of feeling from two words?

  Sin ti

  Es inútil vivir

  Como inútil será

  El quererte olvidar

  “Gracias a todos! And now, for your dancing pleasure, the orchestra of Bebo Guerrero!” I left the stage. Couples rushed to the dance floor. I observed Sergeant Morales and his wife. A gentleman, he escorted her to the ladies’ lounge and waited by the door.

  “Buenas noches, Señor Morales. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Ah, my friend, buenas noches! My wife is enchanted, I am delighted!”