La Justicia looks like any other taco joint in Pilsen or Little Village. It has a gaudy pink facade, and the windows are covered with Corona stickers and little Mexican flags. But show up at 26th and Springfield on a Friday night and you’ll stumble into a miniature Aragon Ballroom, a sea of jeans and black T-shirts, corduroys and leather jackets. Three or four Latino rock bands perform here each week, and if a metal act comes on, a small mosh pit inevitably develops in front of the makeshift stage.
“Many second- and third-generation Mexican-American kids have adopted rock as their music,” says Martinez. “They can’t identify with what their parents and grandparents listen to. They like American rock. But they like Spanish rock better–it gives them a connection to their roots.” So when his brother-in-law Hugo Amaro formed the band Zamandoque Tarahum in 1999, Martinez offered them a gig. He had his staff haul away the 22 tables on the restaurant’s first floor to make room for the audience. A few dozen people turned out, and he offered the band a weekly slot.
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This is a community of young immigrants and children of immigrants, and not all of them agree who their audience should be. The scene is split on the issue of language. Most of the musicians were born and raised in America; even those who grew up in households where Spanish was the primary tongue are fluent in English. But while many groups are open to singing in English, some stick with Spanish as a point of pride. “It’s about reclaiming our heritage, our roots,” says Zamandoque singer and guitarist Ruben Amaro. Others, like guitarist Omar Castro of Uno de Mas, say they don’t have ideological reasons for singing in Spanish–it just seems natural. To complicate matters, some fans demand a commitment to the language; Martinez says bands that sing in English at La Justicia don’t get a good reception.
Lopez’s views are seconded by Rorie Valdez of KMA Management, the coordinator of MOBfest, a local industry showcase. For the past two years Valdez has put together Latin rock bills for the fest and offered career advice to local bands. Zeroing in on the Anglo audience is the way to go, she says, but many north-side club owners and clubgoers recoil upon hearing the words “Latin rock”–Valdez says she’s been asked if her clients sound like Ricky Martin. When Vendima’s Jose Perez tried to convince the owner of a major north-side venue to give his band a gig, “He heard me say ‘Latin rock’ and asked, ‘Is that like Tito Puente with guitars?’ It was like, ouch. We didn’t get anywhere.”
Regardless of how they market themselves, most of these bands crave a recording contract. In this arena as well, Latin rock bands face distinct challenges. Most labels have Latin music divisions, but they’re geared to promote traditional styles like salsa and norteno, says Valdez. A rock band is a curveball. “The industry knows this is a potentially very lucrative market, especially after the last census showed how many Latinos are out there,” she says. “But they don’t know how to approach it yet.” As proof of the scene’s potential, she points out that local act Planeta de Crystal sold 20,000 copies of their self-produced 2001 release, Velocidad. “They did that mostly out of the back of a truck. Imagine what they could do with proper backing.”
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photos/Marty Perez.
