Eclectic Cowboys: Los Lobos, Blues Fest’s headliners

We're a garage band," says Steve Berlin, keyboardist/saxophonist for Los Lobos. "We actually rehearsed in a garage for years. All along, we've pretty much been refining the garage side of us."

What was born in a garage in the East L.A. barrio was nurtured in the roots-punk movement of the early '80s, then thrust into fleeting stardom in 1987 with the platinum-selling soundtrack to La Bamba. During the '90s, the rampantly eclectic Los Lobos began to shed genre distinctions and meld influences into a sublime manifestation of accessible avant-rock, which yielded the masterpiece Kiko ('92) and the bold, bracing Colossal Head ('96).

The quintet is consummately versatile, able to lovingly render squeeze box-fueled Tex-Mex, Colombian cumbias, grungy blues, hot-wired rockabilly, country twang, or faithful covers of songs by Marvin Gaye, The Beatles, James Brown and more.

Quite simply, this highly refined garage band has become an American cult institution, and after 27 years, its members say there's no quit in sight. "I don't see us slowing down, even," Berlin says. "It's all we're equipped to do, which cuts down on your career options. But it's still fun; we genuinely enjoy ourselves pretty much all the time."

What is it about those bands that manage to stay together for decades? The glue that binds them is stronger perhaps because of a shared youth, a more unified sense of purpose, an intrinsically stronger musical bond, a career trajectory that enables members to mature and better handle rough spots in the road. In the case of Los Lobos, it's all of these. "The stuff that generally breaks up bands is an unequal distribution of talent, money or both," Berlin says. "We figured out how to deal with that a long time ago, so when money and attention did show up it was not some calamitous situation. Because we are and remain adults, we are better able to handle our problems."

Adds drummer Louie Perez: "When you break it down to the simplest, it's about us being friends."

Singer/multi-instrumentalist David Hidalgo, bassist Conrad Lozano, singer/guitarist Cesar Rosas and drummer/guitarist Louie Perez — hippie-looking Chicanos infatuated with the Beatles, Stones, Hendrix and Clapton — knew each other from the neighborhood. They were part of various high school bands with names like Kat Chow, Checkers, Euphoria and Fast Company that played backyard parties throughout East L.A. Just out of high school, they gravitated together in 1973, bonded by a new agenda. "Our heroes in rock were dead," Hidalgo has said. "The disco thing was horrible and was taking over, so we decided to try something different."

They picked up acoustic guitars, accordions and other folk instruments and turned to traditional Mexican music. Soon enough, the quartet was playing at every imaginable barrio function, drawing Chicano grandmothers and Mohawked punks alike. In the summer of '75, the guys had taken several bus trips to Mexico in search of songs, instruments and fun.

"As Mexican-Americans, we're born here but never totally accepted as Americans," Perez says. "In Mexico, we were looked at as expatriates, so where do we go? Sit on our hands, ponder our dilemma? No, we found freedom in that."

By the mid '70s, Los Lobos were alternating between rock and Mexican folkloric material. The quartet set up shop in a series of clubs and restaurants. They recorded a couple of tracks for an album earmarked as a fundraiser for Cesar Chavez's United Farm Workers Union. In '78, they cut their first independent LP, titled Los Lobos del Este de Los Angeles (Just Another Band From East L.A.), a nod to a similarly named Frank Zappa album.

Los Lobos never lost sight of taking their hybridized music to points well beyond East L.A. On May 4, 1980, the foursome, clad in guayabera shirts, their hair unfashionably long, opened for Johnny Lydon's post-Pistols band Public Image Limited at a run-down L.A. boxing venue called the Olympic Auditorium. As they lit into their Mexican songs, the punk crowd showered them with invective, saliva and bottles. They forged through a short set and issued the crowd a middle-finger salute as they left the stage.

Recent Philadelphia transplant Steve Berlin was in attendance. Impressed with the band's verve, he decided to work his way into their circle. The incongruous gig had been set up by Tito Larriva of The Plugz. Soon the Lobos started hanging out on the Hollywood punk scene, championed by their friends The Blasters.

They plugged in and played revved-up rockabilly and other roots stuff. The crowds embraced them. Stylistically, Los Lobos were hardly a punk band, and they were generally far better singers and more proficient instrumentalists than their new scene-mates. "We fit into punk only in its intensity and attitude," Perez says. "We fit in so well with the camaraderie, the reclaiming of music from the corporate world. We'd be playing a traditional norteña Tex-Mex song and people would be stage diving."

By the early '80s, major labels were nosing around the L.A. punk scene. Cajoled by The Blasters, Slash Records (distributed by Warner Bros.) signed Los Lobos. They recorded an EP, … And a Time to Dance, which generated a critical buzz and, out of the blue, bagged the very first Grammy for Best Mexican/American performance. They followed up in '84 with How Will the Wolf Survive and officially entered the ranks of critics' darlings.

It was three years before 1987's By the Light of the Moon was born of artistic strife and indecision. During the sessions, Los Lobos became involved in a side project — doing the music for a biopic of late East L.A. '50s rocker Ritchie Valens. The band was handpicked by Valens' family. With the music to La Bamba in the can, the producers decided at the last minute to release a soundtrack album. Los Lobos re-entered the studio and cut a quick-and-dirty version of the title song.

By the time La Bamba hit theaters in the summer of '87, By the Light of the Moon had all but petered out after an unimpressive run. In one of those unexplained pop-culture events, La Bamba became a mega-hit. The album and single both reached No. 1 on their respective Billboard charts.

What happened next is still astonishing in some circles. Daunted by fame and commercial success, and disappointed by audiences who now viewed them as some sort of Valens tribute act, Los Lobos decided to retrench. They approached Warner Bros. president Lenny Waronker with the idea of releasing a set of acoustic Mexican songs, La Pistola y el Corazon. Remarkably, the executive supported the idea. The album was released in '88.

"We were having a major identity crisis at the point," recalls Perez. "Pistola was the proverbial monkey wrench in the machine. People said we were committing commercial suicide. But we had to get back on track. I can't say that album was a blessing and a curse. It was simply a blessing. It really gave us the opportunity in mid-career to assess ourselves, to get back to what we were all about. It sent us back to that trunk in the attic to rediscover where we'd been, where we came from and to start all over again. We knew that we couldn't make "La Bamba II' and be spokesmen for Doritos the rest of our lives."

Predictably, Pistola was a poor seller. The ensuing The Neighborhood (1990) proved to be a difficult project and failed to make the expected commercial impact. "It was a frustrating time," says Berlin. "It was a disappointing record. We were somewhat demoralized because we saw no residual effect from La Bamba. We thought it would inch us up the (popularity) ladder, but that proved not to be the case. We toured foolishly, spent a lot of money, did the two-bus thing. It was the first time we listened to rock 'n' roll wisdom — "you gotta go this way, get a lighting guy' — we overdid everything because that's what you were supposed to do. It all proved to be as fatuous as it really is."

Los Lobos emerged from their slump with a sense of nothing to lose. Little did they know they would soon create one of the best albums of the '90s. "All the stuff about hit records, the pressures, no longer meant anything," Perez explains. "We rededicated ourselves to making great, pure music. And that's what Kiko was all about. It was a cosmic sort of thing."

"We figured, let's at least have fun, experiment," adds Berlin. "Up to that point, we did have this parochial sense that certain songs went like this and others went like that. We kept things in their own compartment. Then we thought, "Let's see what happens if we mix it up.' That's where we started."

The producer/engineer team of Mitchell Froom and Tchad Blake joined the process, and the sonic adventurism hit full stride. The sessions were liberating, with each new day bringing a sense of discovery.

Kiko's songs had an expansive, dream-like quality. The arrangements employed warped synth sounds, distorted horns, judicious amounts of dissonance. In effect, the band used the studio as an additional instrument. Perez's lyrics took on an almost mystical quality.

"I remember when we finished the record, we went to listen to a playback at Ocean Way (Studios in Los Angeles)," Perez recalls. "We all sat there as they played the whole record. When it was over, we did not say a word. We got in our cars and went home. It was so powerful. At that point, we realized that (music) can take on its own life if you get out of the way, ride shotgun for a while."

Kiko was released in '92 to resounding critical plaudits, but it fell short of hitdom. Nirvana, Pearl Jam et al. had seized the zeitgeist, and although Kiko was a sterling example of true alternative rock, it got lost amid the grunge.

Los Lobos remained energized, though. Perez and Hidalgo continued to write and cut tracks on a home 4-track recorder. Froom and Blake entered the fray and, collectively, they turned out an inspired slice of outre-rock under the moniker Latin Playboys.

The band continued in a similar vein with 1996's Colossal Head, but with a more rough-and-tumble sound. The groove-intensive songs were built in the studio around riffs or vamps, then fleshed out with all manner of sonic debris. Berlin sees it as the band's bluesiest record. "With Kiko, we were aware we were dreaming," he adds. "With Colossal Head, it was, "We did this once. What else can we do with this concept?'"

A thorny split with Warner Bros. followed and Los Lobos signed with Hollywood, Disney's pop music arm. They released This Time in '99, a solid outing, but one that seemed to curtail the intrepid spirit. "Maybe it was caution," Berlin allows. "It was more like, "Let's be on our best behavior so we don't scare the crap out of these guys too soon.' I think we were more aware of song structure. We really didn't accept anything until it sounded like a composition. Whether that was a question of wanting to be more conservative or wanting to see if the same sparks could fly going at it another way — it's probably a combination of those."

Los Lobos has since moved on to Hollywood's sister label, Mammoth. "To be blunt about it, Hollywood's focus was extracting cash from teenage girls," Berlin says. "Teenage girls have proven remarkably resistant to buying our records."

As the quintet begins yet another era with a new album slated to begin in late spring, Perez takes a minute to reflect on one of Los Lobos' cultural achievements: "I kind of giggle under my breath, 'cause this is not the kind of music you expect coming from Mexican-American kids in East L.A. That's what I really take pride in. People expected a certain thing to come from us, but we shattered those myths and stereotypes. The Mexican-American people, the history of our art and music and culture is really deep and abstract. But it's been trivialized for so long. Being ourselves and creating the music we create challenges that."

Contact Music & Features Editor Eric Snider at 813-248-8888, ext. 114, or snider@weeklyplanet.com.

This article appears in Mar 29 – Apr 4, 2001.