In its first five minutes Machete serves up five beheadings, a dozen gunshot victims, a couple of severed limbs, a car crashing through a wall, and a beautiful naked woman stabbing someone then getting shot in the head herself. Oh, and Steven Seagal.

None of this is playfully teased off camera like most Hollywood action films. In Robert Rodriguez's latest shoot 'em up (and stab 'em up), the blood and guts fill the screen. Machete, the movie and title character, makes no apologies about using a man's disemboweled large intestine as a rope to escape from a tall building. No apologies for a priest blowing a man's head into tiny pieces with a pump-action shotgun. Certainly no apologies for a swimming pool threesome.

But that's the fun of this movie. It's so over-the-top and ridiculous that you can't help but come along for the bloody ride. No one in their right mind will confuse this for "serious" cinema or pedantic storytelling. The potential problem Rodriguez faces at the box office is that this movie also makes no apologies for the political sentiment strewn about this two-hour gore fest. And there are a lot of people walking around who aren't in their right mind.

As I exited the theater, another viewer commented that it was refreshing to see Rodriguez—the director of the Spy Kids franchise—getting political. The San Antonio native and Austin film hero has never shied from gore in his films (From Dusk Til Dawn, Once Upon A Time In Mexico). But this is the first time we've seen the gore used in a film that, to say the least, will make some audiences uncomfortable because of the perceived message of the movie.

In Machete, ultra-badass Danny Trejo portrays an ex-Mexican-federale-turned-undocumented-day-laborer who is double-crossed during an assassination attempt. He spends the rest of the film getting revenge—bloody, bloody revenge—against his wealthy, white betrayers.

There's lots of pseudo-Mechista language, including the clichéd, "We didn't cross the border; the border crossed us." If released in theaters a decade ago, Machete's faux-pro-Mexican war cries wouldn't be a big deal. The average moviegoer would get the irony of a militant Jessica Alba and the over-the-top nature of it all. But in the era of SB 1070 and fearmongering to sway elections, there are a lot of otherwise relaxed and easygoing people who will go all Rush Limbaugh after walking out of Machete. The Jan Brewers of the world—with their unapologetic lies and laughable disinformation—have planted enough doubt and paranoia into the minds of everyday people that this movie and its director might become a pariah over what is essentially a tribute to '70s retro-style exploitation cinema. The only headless bodies Arizona's governor has to worry about are the countless ones found in this movie.

In fact, the closest Machete comes to reflecting reality is having Lindsay Lohan in the role of a drug-addicted party girl. Everything else—from the killer Catholic priest to the corrupt senator to the Che Guevara-inspired She—is just entertainment. Pure mindless, totally fun and worth-your-money entertainment. Reading anything into it beyond that is just silly. So sit back and enjoy Trejo and Michelle Rodriguez kicking ass and taking nombres.

Carlos Mencia is a polarizing figure. Over the course of a 22-year career, the California-based comedian has thrived on a confrontational, ripped-from-the-headlines style of humor that takes swipes at everything from immigration to ethnic identity to celebrity. He has offended many along the way, and arguably endeared many more, with hit comedy specials on Comedy Central and HBO.

He was born Ned Arnel Mencia in Honduras and raised in the predominantly Mexican neighborhood of East Los Angeles, Calif. He adopted the stage name Carlos Mencia at the beginning of his career, after the owner of L.A.'s famed Comedy Store told him no one would believe his angry Latino persona with a name like Ned.

Mencia does come off angry at times, famous (or infamous) for getting riled up and shouting at the top of his lungs. Still, he gives a disclaimer: He's just a comedian. It's his job to get a reaction. He says his no-holds-barred philosophy was inspired by watching comedian Paul Mooney and the audience reactions the controversial black comic would solicit. It was after watching Mooney that Mencia adopted the following mantra: "The stage is sacred. You can say anything, as long as it's funny."

Mencia recently returned from performing for the troops in the Middle East. He is currently on a national club tour to work on new material for a planned comedy special in the fall. Last week, he chatted with Austin Vida via phone about growing up in East L.A., clearing up the confusion surrounding his nationality and tackling the controversial Arizona immigration law SB 1070.

Mencia stops by Austin to perform at Cap City Comedy Club on Thursday, Aug. 12. Tickets are almost sold out. Call Cap City at 512-467-2333 for ticket availability.

You're from L.A., but you're no stranger to Texas. What roll has Texas had in shaping your career?

Mencia: It's one of the first places that I began to see that I had a fan base outside of Los Angeles. But more than that, it's a state that has Laredo, which is heavily influenced by Latino culture, and then you have Amarillo, which is not like a border town at all. So I began to find the nuances and differences between this crowd and that crowd. This joke was better here, but not as good there. It made me figure out how to be universally funny—to know that a joke that was funny in Corpus Christi was funny in Amarillo and Beaumont.

Your comedy routines are often mixed with serious topics in between the jokes. What's your goal or philosophy on stage?

Mencia: As long as it's funny, or its intent is to make you laugh or to put you in a mental frame where the next thing I'm gonna say is funny, then I'm okay with it. That stage is sacred. You can say anything you want, as long as it's funny. And that's always been my guide. Sometimes, in order to make a joke be funny, you have to be a little sad. If you're really happy and gleeful, it's not gonna have an impact. Sometimes I have to say something to put you in that frame of mind. And then kinda go "Boom!" and yank your chain. And that just came from watching other comedians do it way before I did and so much better than I did.

When we posted that you were coming to Austin, a few of our Facebook fans had an immediate negative response. Somebody wrote something like, "Carlos Mencia isn't a comedian. He isn't even Hispanic." I've heard people rag on you for not being Mexican but supposedly claiming you are. Can you clear up the nationality thing? And what do you make of people saying this kind of stuff?

Mencia: You know what, you could spend a lot of time thinking "Why do people think this?" or "Why do people think that?" I don't do that. I spend my time trying to be as funny and entertaining as I possibly can. That's what I do because that's what I have control over. If I go up on stage and I do a joke about how I was born in Honduras but in America everybody thinks I'm Mexican, and I get off stage and somebody says or tweets that I'm not Hispanic, I have no control over that. So I don't even spend my time on that. I spend my time trying to create and be fresh. You could spend the rest of your life trying to make people happy that are never gonna be made happy.

Facebook critics

You were born in Honduras, but people sometimes get it confused. Some accusations are harder to confront or dispel, but something like your nationality or place of birth is easy to prove or disprove. Isn't something fact-based like that worth addressing to people who say otherwise?

Mencia: But that's the thing, once you get into that whole thing, you'll end up going forever. You know what it is—when somebody doesn't like you, they go "Well, he sucks. He's this or that." And no matter how many times you say, "No, he doesn't suck; he's funny." And they go, "Well, I think he's not Hispanic." And you go, "He is Hispanic; he was born in Honduras." Then they say, "Well, he pretends he's Mexican." And you say, "No, but he actually says that he's not Mexican." And you just keep going and going, and it never stops. Because that's not their problem with me. Their problem is that they don't like my comedy. And that's okay.

Right.

Mencia: You just can't get tricked into that stuff. You'll kill yourself trying. So every day I get up, and first of all I'm grateful that I live in America because if I was still in Honduras, I'd still be this funny but I'd be milking a cow. I'd be under a cow and my friends would be going [in an affected Latino accent] "Hey Carlos, tell us a joke!" You know what I mean? That's what I focus on; I try to focus on the positive. And I owe that to the fans, really. You could kill yourself. Literally, kill yourself trying to make people happy that you will never make happy.

Let's talk about your family history. You were a legal immigrant from Honduras, but you grew up in East L.A. What was that immigrant experience like for you and your family?

Mencia: The big eye-opener was—and I can't call it racism because it's not about race—was how I was looked down upon in East L.A. because I wasn't from Mexico like everybody that I grew up with. I remember when I was a teenager was the first time I really found it out. I was dating this Mexican girl, and I went to her house and I was talking to her dad, and everything was awesome. Then he asked where I was born, and I said Honduras. And he flipped out. He was like, "What?! No, he's going to ruin the family. You cannot be with him!" I remember looking at him and going, "Whoa, what's wrong?" And he's like, "Honduras?! You're not even Mexican." And I was like, "First of all, I'm not an illegal. I'm here legally. I have a green card." And her family was illegal. And I was like, "You have the balls to talk; you don't even have your papers!" I remember going, "Oh my God. There's a difference between the way we see each other in East L.A." But then I realized that outside of East L.A., when I would hang out with my Mexican friends and people wanted to pick a fight, we were all one.

Right, exactly.

Mencia: I remember one time, I was hanging out with all my Mexican friends and we went to a football game in South Central. And a bunch of black kids started being like, "Hey, what's up you Mexicans?!" And all my Mexican friends were like, "What are we gonna do about it?" I was like, "I don't care; I'm not Mexican." And they were like, "They're talking to you too, Holmes." And I was like "Ain't that a bitch; now I'm Mexican." Now that you want to pick a fight with the big black dudes, "Hey, Carlos, you're just like us."

It's funny how that works.

Mencia: That's when I began to see the hypocrisy in it, and how everybody is fighting not to be the group that's made fun of. And there's always been that group in America, whether it's the Pollacks, whether it's Mexicans, whether it's blacks. Whatever it is, no one wants to be on the bottom of that totem pole. And, so, it began to shape my comedy, and shape me. I began to see that I'm Latino, but I'm not. I'm Mexican, but I'm not. I'm an American, but I'm not. Know what I mean? It allowed me to see things from the inside and outside, and not take it personal.

Your humor is very topical. You talk about current events and what's on the news. Surely, you have material for SB 1070, the Arizona immigration law. What kind of angle are you going to take with that?

Mencia: With laws like that, I try to look at all the angles on it. I try to make sure I'm not just poking fun at one side or the other. I try to really make sure I cover all my bases. I try to go to the heart of the matter, to that one place where, whether you're on the right or on the left, you have to laugh at the absurdity and truth of it.

Right on.

Mencia: So the first thing that came to mind for me was, look, if you want illegal aliens to stop coming to America, then stop giving them jobs, for Christ's sakes. They don't have an illegal immigration problem in El Salvador. Because when a Mexican went into El Salvador and said, "Hey, where's the work?" People in El Salvador went, "We were thinking you might tell us." No one gave him a job, and that was it. So I go to that first: This is a self-made problem.

Yeah, for sure.

Mencia: We hire these illegal immigrants; we tell them that they can work here as long as they keep quiet and we pay them under the table, or whatever we do. And then we freak out when they don't wanna leave, or they call their cousin and go, "Oh my God. You're not gonna believe this. They pay you this much. This is how they live, and they have water and everything." You know what I mean? So then I go, "Okay, what's an analogy that's gonna make people laugh at that moment? Where am I gonna go with that?" So I'll think of something very visceral. There are a lot of things I can think of, but at that moment I'll be like, "We give them jobs and then wonder why they're here. Isn't that like paying a hooker and then going, 'Wait, why are you touching my penis?!'" People will laugh and then go, "Oh my God, that's retarded." And I say exactly. And so I start from that point, and then after that I think I can go anywhere with the law. Making fun of it or making fun of the people or the enforcement of it. Whatever it is, because I first went to that one truth where people went, "Well, he's right about that." And then I try to stick to making it funny. Stick to making sure that it's not so serious that it forgets the punchline. Take it to that comedic level.

Last night may have been the end of an era.

Maneja Beto played a going-away show for their lead singer, Alex Chavez. While not officially broken up, Maneja Beto won't be playing without Chavez, who took a position at the University of Notre Dame. "What will you be doing, mopping floors?" Brandon Badillo of Bemba Entertainment asked in jest, after taking the mic to say some kind words about the band. Actually, he'll be a professor. Dude has his PhD.

For eight years, Maneja Beto has brought danceable rhythms to Red River and all of Austin, mixing genres and styles that appeal to hip indie kids as well as Latin music aficionados. Few bands have attempted this sort of hybrid sound, and even fewer have lasted as long and with the respect that this quintet has garnered in the Austin music community.

The band played two sets last night at The Mohawk on Red River. The first was composed of original songs, many of which are on the band's new album, Escante Calling. We got to hear new music for the first (and maybe last) time. It got off to a bumpy start, with a Chavez's microphone not being on while he was trying to sing (seriously, sound guy?).

The band had a couple of guest female singers providing backup vocals, which was a nice touch—though I've heard Chavez hit notes higher than many women could even hit. There were moments when Maneja seemed not at their best. Maybe it was nerves, emotions or just a bad mix, but they got the crowd into it several songs in. Their recent single "Ofrendas" is always a hit live and that was no different on this night.

For their last song of the first set, the band closed with their hands-down best song, "Campanera." Once that off-kilter guitar line came in, followed by the cowbell beat, the crowd went nuts. This song exemplifies what Maneja Beto is at their best: rhythm-driven and dance-oriented with intelligent and socially conscious lyrics (that, in this case, reference political corruption, immigration and the war in Iraq). They have moments that sometimes fall flat in their live set, but "Campanera" is always solid and reminds you why this band is great. Suena campanera con la cumbia sonidera.

After an hour-long break, the second set commenced in the more crowded and sweaty Mohawk indoor stage. The second set was made up entirely of covers. Maneja is no stranger to covers, known to sprinkle past sets with homages to Morrissey and Joy Division. They went all out for this set, covering Depeche Mode, The Clash, Talking Heads and teasing some Slayer riffs at one point. The mostly Latino crowd went craziest for Maneja's cover of Morrissey's 1988 classic "Suedehead." I don't know what it is, but Latinos love them some Moz. Indeed, after the band's set was done, and Badillo brought the band tequila shots, the crowd was roaring for an encore (mixed with lovingly snide chants of "culero, culero"). So guitarist Nelson Valente, observing that the band didn't know any other covers, offered the crowd a repeat of "Suedehead" and the crowd was all about it.

The five members of Maneja Beto then huddled to discuss how to end the set. They launched into the Morrissey cover once more, but as the song was coming to an end a few minutes later, Valente slowly and teasingly came in with the opening riff of "Campanera." He would play the riff cleanly, then drop out, then play it a little more slowly than usual, before going full-bore into the song with Bobby Garza's percussion, Alec Padron's bass and Patrick Estrada's drumming. As with the first set, the band couldn't help but close their last set with their best song, and the crowd danced as Maneja Beto sweat and grooved under the bright lights for the last time in what might be a long time. Suena campanera con la cumbia sonidera.

Photos by Ajay Miranda.

          Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda           Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda           Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda            Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda            Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda            Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda           Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda           Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda            Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda           Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda           Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda            Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda  Maneja Beto at MohawkPhoto by Ajay Miranda

For those who follow the latest trends and "it" bands in the indie rock scene, Neon Indian kinda came out of nowhere as the hyped band of 2009. The lo-fi dance-rock quartet's songs "Deadbeat Summer" and "Terminally Chill" were summer dance anthems for those who read hipster blogs and tastemaker websites like Gorilla Vs. Bear and Pitchfork. The Brooklyn-based band's sound was so fresh yet retro that it inspired a new genre name: chillwave. And this was all before their debut album, Psychic Chasms, dropped in October (making best-of-2009 lists shortly after).

As it turned out, Neon Indian was the third in a line of popular music projects created by Denton songwriter/producer/film student Alan Palomo. Before Indian, we Texans recognized Palomo as the man behind the glossy house-music group VEGA.

A year has now passed since the Summer of Chillwave, but Neon Indian is still selling out shows across the country and playing major festivals like Bonnaroo. The band's staying power can be attributed to Palomo's psychic-like sense of what sounds and song structures will resonate with the terminally hip. He has his pulse on the indie music world, and he doesn't appear to be letting up any time soon.

But what has been lost in all the hype is the background of the man behind the hippest band of '09. Few people know that Palomo was born in Mexico and raised in San Antonio. His father, Jorge, was an accomplished pop singer in Mexico. I spoke with Palomo recently about this often-overlooked side of his story, as well as future plans of his.

Neon Indian photos by Chantel Clopine, taken at Fun Fun Fun Fest 2009

Official music video for "Sleep Paralysist" by Neon Indian

You were one of the most talked-about acts last year, but the one thing I noticed from all the writeups that gets glossed over is your background. Where were you born and raised?

Palomo: Totally. Well, I was born in Monterrey and I moved to San Antonio when I was like five or six. I go back there usually like once or twice a year. Yeah, I’ve kind of lived all over Texas. I mean, San Antonio is where I’ve lived most of my life. And then at some point, I lived in Denton, going to UNT, which is where I really started making music. And that’s where my first two project started, Ghosthustler and then VEGA. And then I moved to Austin, and Austin was kind of like the conception of Neon Indian.

Did you grow up around music? What got you into music? 

Palomo: Well, you know, it’s kind of funny. I mean, my family is pretty musical in a sense. My brother has been a musician since as early as I can remember; he’s always picked up a couple of different instruments. I mean these days, bass is certainly his focus. And that’s what he studied in college. My dad has actually been a musician his whole life as well. I mean like by the time my brother and I were born ,the bulk of his catalog was already recorded, and he had already gone through most of that. It really provided this kind of interesting background, at least culturally, for us growing up. We grew up around a lot of pop music. I remember Sunday afternoons cleaning the house and my parents would put on records or something and hearing like a lot of Beatles or Doobie Brothers. You know, a lot of like ‘60s and ‘70s pop. And like MJ, of course, and things like that.

So mostly American music?

Palomo: No, but it was funny, because then you’d also have some, like, Vicente Fernandez or Luis Miguel. Just like random stuff. It was a real kind of smorgasbord of, I guess, cultural reference points. And yeah, I mean it still kind of echoes in the background, especially on Psychic Chasms. I sample my dad on two of the songs. I took some of his recordings form the late ‘70s and just interjected them into little parts of the songs.

What kind of music did your dad play?

Palomo: The first one was real, like, orchestral ballady, you know, like kind of ‘70s pop stuff, which was very prominent in Mexico at the time. I think that was when he was living in Mexico City. But later on, he started doing more, like, Hall and Oates. You know, kind of that electro-rock, early ‘80s kind of stuff where it’s like a lot of drum machines and guitars kind of thing. And a couple of synths here and there. And that’s usually the kind of stuff that has come to influence me a little more.

Given your background and upbringing, have you ever thought of touching on Latin sounds in any way?

Palomo: You know, I have considered for the next Neon Indian record maybe trying a song in Spanish or something. It’s funny. There’s a lot of like EBM and early ‘80s industrial music that I’ve found that, whether it’s from Mexico or Spain, or some other Central American countries, it’s just as relevant. I’m surprised to find that there aren’t more people in these sub-genres that get more attention. There’s this band Liaisons Dnagereuses that has so many songs in Spanish that are incredible. And it’s just tough as any like, anything from like Mute Records or something like that. Actually, it’s funny. Their first singles were on that label. But yeah, I definitely have every intention of trying that out at some point.

There seems to be a resurgence in interest in Spanish and Latin American music in the U.S. I feel like, for a long time, Latin America got overlooked in a lot of ways, but people are starting to be interested again. Bomba Estereo, from Colombia, is blowing up with the American dance scene. Delorean, from Spain, has a critically acclaimed dance album.

Palomo:  Well, people always want to see how something can be recontextualized through a different culture. I mean it’s funny like I see some trends in electronic music right now that people are starting to do this sort of like reggaeton beats or something, like that band TANLINES or Lemonade. You’ve got all these bands in Brooklyn that still have all these like sort of techno or even just like low-fi electronic components to their sound, but they are starting to mess more with these like world percussion rhythms. And it’s funny, because it’s like, you know, you might as well have it come straight from the source. I’d like to see like an actual Mexican take on industrial electronic music or something.

You mentioned maybe doing a song in Spanish. Are you fluent in Spanish?

Palomo: Oh, absolutely. Yeah, of course. I mean, that’s all I talk to my parents in and anybody that I come across that knows Spanish.

You said you were six, maybe, when you moved here?

Palomo: Yeah. I think what’s always continued to develop my vocabulary in Spanish is just like hanging out with my family a lot. And I mean, yeah, if I’m a little out of practice I develop a very mild accent that I tend to be very self-conscious about. I try always to just eliminate it as much as possible. Otherwise, my cousins start calling me a gringo.

That's funny.

Palomo: Yeah, totally. I think my dad came to the U.S. first, and then we migrated there may be like two years after. So I think he was kind of getting everything set up for us. I mean I didn’t become a U.S. citizen until high school. So yeah, it started off as just like an alien impermanent residence and then, you know, I ran the gauntlet. [laughs]

Let’s talk about your musical journey. You got into music kind of late, in college. Did you start with an instrument or did you start more with producing stuff?

Palomo: It was kind of a mix of both. Like, Ghosthustler, that was my first real attempt at making music.  And the nature of electronic music is, it forces you to look at it from the perspective of what would be every musician in the band. It’s just like you have to program the drums, you’re thinking about the bass and the synth lines. And then you start getting really heavily into the production of it and the aesthetic that you’re trying to tap into. And it’s weird; Ghosthustler was kind of this like boot camp for developing all these sensibilities very quickly. I was working with three other guys. But much of the objective behind Ghosthustler was to be able to keep up with our musical peers in that genre. So each song was trying to make like these massive production strides. And like, “All right, for this next single we have to finally learn how to EQ our fucking drums or compress them properly.” Just trying to fit all these things in these individual singles. Which was, after a while, actually, pretty miserable. But it definitely allowed me to develop the chops to eventually just move onto my next projects and develop from there.

That’s cool. You have the new single that came out recently. You made a music video for that.

Palomo: Oh, yeah, "Sleep Paralysist." We had like a couple days to just explore Lexington, Kentucky, and all of its incredibly bizarre fucking nooks.

I know; it’s like a surreal kind of video. How much input did you have, given your film background?

Palomo: Well, I mean, you know, when we first started receiving treatments for it, one of the names that immediately popped into my head was Focus Creeps, because I had seen some of the stuff they did for the Morning Benders and those girls videos that got a lot of attention. And I thought that they were incredibly versatile and really competent dudes. And I love how they really knew how to work with kind of these more grainier mediums. You know, like filming on old Super 8 cameras and stuff like that. And that kind of really struck a chord with me as far as the aesthetics of Neon Indian go and what I wanted to translate as far as visuals.

Where are you at musically right now? I mean, you have VEGA and you have Neon Indian.  What’s your priority? Are there any plans to even do some other project we haven't heard of yet?

Palomo:  Well, there’s a few collaborations that can happen organically. But I think for the most part, the main thing that I’m focusing on is writing the VEGA record, which will happen in October. And then this winter I just want to get completely immersed in the next Neon Indian record. I think as soon as we’re done touring, which will be in October, I just want to completely hibernate in the studio for like six months and see what happens.

I like the story about how Neon Indian got off the ground with that first song....

Palomo: Oh, “Should Have Taken Acid With You”?  Totally.

It’s a funny story, man—being unable to schedule an appointment to take acid. Here's my silly question: If you could take acid with anybody, who would it be and why?

Palomo: Wow, man. I don’t know. Well, as far as filmmakers go, maybe Michelangelo Antonioni would be someone pretty interesting. Let me think. As far as musicians go, I don’t know. I’d probably like to take acid with Todd Rundgren, but only if I could be in his studio at the time.

That would be pretty sweet. I guess the last thing I want to touch on.... You're based in Brooklyn now. It seems to be that a lot of bands from Brooklyn now are sounding like the ‘80s. I know everything is kind of cyclical, but why do you think that’s coming back now? What’s the appeal?

Palomo: As far as electronics go, especially these days, you have a lot of... I don’t know. To me, all the new digital synths are really like stale and predictable because they come with all these built-in sounds.  It’s not so much about, like, the more undulating, unstable qualities about it. And when people start messing with analog synths, they generally tend to have this more like ‘80s sound to them. I mean, they are like these old esoteric pieces of equipment that break down constantly, and they have a lot of character, though. I mean, that’s kind of the point, you know, is that the sound won’t even sound the same from beginning to end of the song, let alone a different show. And I think that people kind of like having that sense of identity with electronics, as well as just any other instrument that you can play. And I guess, you know, by association, it kind of ends up sounding a little bit like the ‘80s because that was kind of the proliferation of those instruments. But I think that people are more concerned with kind of injecting their more psychedelic qualities now than perhaps then, when it was a little bit more formulaic.

I guess I just don’t think of electronic instruments as having character. A lot of old-school music fans would say electronic instruments are like the antithesis of character.

Palomo: Oh, totally. But I think if you look at anything hard enough or mess with anything, a lot of times it can develop its own identity.

True. Well, that was my last question. Do you have anything else you want to throw out there?

Palomo:  No, just enjoy the show.

Cool, man.

Palomo: Viva México, cabrones.

Brian Lopez. You may not be familiar with the name yet, but you will be sooner rather than later. The Tucson, Arizona, native plays guitar and sings for three very different but very intriguing musical projects that should be on your radar if you're a fan of indie rock or Latin music.

It started with his three-piece indie band Mostly Bears, whose off-kilter psychedelic post-punk songs earned the band a recording session with the indie tastemaker website Daytrotter and recognition as one of the best live bands of 2008 by the Las Vegas Weekly.

Then in 2009, Tucson-based Latin musician Sergio Mendoza brought together a group of like-minded players to pioneer what they called "indie mambo." They took the classic Cuban dance style and blended it with psychedelic guitars and cumbia rhythms, doing for mambo what Austin's Grupo Fantasma did for salsa: bringing it to the 21st century while retaining its roots and culture. This Latin big band is called Sergio Mendoza Y La Orkesta, and Lopez as lead guitarist has earned the moniker of "Latin Jimi Hendrix" within the group.

For his haunting and melancholy solo work—backed by cello, violin and keys—Lopez is more of a Latin Jeff Buckley. His warble is as serene and emotive as a young Buckley's was. Being in just one of these groups would've been enough for a writeup, but that he is in all three makes Lopez a uniquely talented individual and someone to keep an eye on. For now, meet Brian Lopez.... Just don't ask him to play in your reggae band.

Photos by Mari Hernandez and Chantel Clopine, taken at Pachanga Fest 2010.

So what's your background? You're from Tucson...

Lopez: Born and raised in Tucson. The only time I lived anywhere else, I lived in Barcelona, Spain, for six months, during the winter and spring of 2005 for school. Studied Spanish and art. Otherwise, I've been living in Tucson all my life.

How did you get into music?

Lopez: That's a good question; I don't really have too many musicians in my family, or anything. But I picked up a guitar when I was 12 and was pretty good at it. Kind of excelled at that. And I used to be really into sports, so once I stopped growing and getting, like, stronger and stuff, it was kind of apparent I didn't have a career in the NBA.

With the headband and the hair, you kinda look like an NBA player.

Lopez: I'da been in the forefront if I didn't stop growing in the eighth grade.

You'd be playing for Los Suns right now.

Lopez: Los Suns! That would've been a dream come true. So yeah, I went to school and studied music theory, went to college as a classical guitar major for a while. Graduated with a music degree.

I'll come back to the music, but it kinda came up: What's the deal with Arizona? I'm not asking you to speak for a state or for an ethnicity, but just you on a day-to-day basis, do you notice a difference after the bills were passed?

Lopez: There's tons of tension right now. It was an idiotic move because it simply divided Latinos from whites. I feel like it's thrown us back like 50 years, as far as racial tension. Other than the obvious, that's been the biggest disappointment. But Tucson is very similar to Austin in its relation to its state. Would you think that Austinites represent the Minutemen of Texas?

No, of course not.

Lopez: I don't think Tucson is an accurate representation of a lot of conservative thought in Phoenix.

The comparison I've heard is Tucson is the Austin of Arizona while Phoenix is more like Dallas.

Lopez: Yeah, and I've gone all around Texas, and Austin is its own thing. This really isn't Texas, as far as I'm concerned. Tucson isn't really Phoenix.

Tucson is going to be heavily affected by the other law, HB 2281, the ethnic studies law.

Lopez: Mexican studies. I don't want to dive too much into that topic, because I haven't researched it as much as the prior topic, but just fundamentally, it sounds stupid.

Let's talk about the music scene in Arizona. Between your three projects, it seems like the musicians all work with each other. It seems really positive.

Lopez: I think the group that we have right now is very into that idea of working as a collective and bringing a scene up as a group, rather than as one band that just happens to make it. So we help each other out and we become figureheads within the music community. We like bringing other people up to that level, challenging other musicians to sit in on songs. When I started working with the Orkesta, I wasn't into or as good with improv. I just wasn't competent. But now, I can sit in on a set and you tell me what key we're in, I'm good. No nerves, I'm good to go. And I think that's kinda the idea: just working with other people and brining up the music scene within the community.

You play so many kinds of music—Latin with Sergio Mendoza Y La Orkesta (pictured left), indie rock with Mostly Bears—but what kind of music did you start with when you first learned to play?

Lopez: I think when I was first learning guitar, I was just into getting tab books of like Nirvana and Soundgarden and Pearl Jam, that whole Seattle sound. That was seriously what got me practicing. That was the only reason to practice for six hours in a room, so you could learn a Nirvana song or two. And then it stems from there; all of a sudden, I'm in college learning Bach cello suites.

And Latin?

Lopez: With Orkesta, they were new sounds to me, especially the rhythms. I mean, now it's all in my head. It's natural. But for a good while there, I was learning the rhythms. But it's like in my blood, so it wasn't too hard to get the rhythm in there. But for sure, it's different than playing straight-up rock 'n' roll.

Let's talk about your songs, your solo material. I love the song "Molly." It has some heavy, deeply personal lyrics. I loved the line "Stand on your own two feet, even if you stand with him." Can you tell me about the song.

Lopez: It's derivative of an older relationship, but not exclusive to that. It's just kind of a general idea that a lot of people can relate to: You go through a breakup and inevitably each part of you ends up with somebody else. And, you know, you sometimes have to watch other people go along with another romance, and it's difficult but you just have to let it happen. So that's pretty much that song.

You also have songs in Spanish. Is that a conscious choice? You could just stick to English and be successful.

Lopez: I love the Spanish language and if I could write better—like less cliche, more poetic—Spanish lyrics, I'd probably do it all the time. But I can't.

Are you fluent?

Lopez: I used to be when I was studying in school, but I'm so bad now. I can converse with the band, but I wouldn't sit here and tell you I'm like super-bilingual. But I like language; I like French, too. I think if I could invent my own language, that would probably be the best thing. I don't know how receptive people would be to that.

Your band Mostly Bears played a Daytrotter session, which is a big deal in the indie world.

Lopez: Yeah, that was during our last album tour. So hopefully this next time around, we can go see Sean over at Rock Island, Illinois, again.

Isn't that kind of in the middle of nowhere, the Daytrotter studios?

Lopez: Yeah, man. I remember when we did Daytrotter, we drove all night and I was sleeping in the back of the van. We woke up at 8 in the morning, and we were there like five hours early. It's on the border, so there's Iowa and Illinois. Anyways, they were having this crazy reggae festival, which is my least favorite of genre of music to wake up to.

Same here, man. Every song sounds the same, and I feel like people feel obligated to say they like reggae. Glad you said that.

Lopez: I'll just say "generally speaking." I'll keep it real: I hate it. Not into it.

Yeah.

Lopez: I have this friend who I thought was really cute who wanted me so bad to go see her friend's reggae band from D.C. They were playing in Tucson. I was like, "All right, you're cute. I'll go to a show." I was there and I was like, "Man, nobody's this cute to make me wanna be at this show."

Watch a music video for Lopez's band Mostly Bears below.

It sounds like a weird reality TV show premise: What happens when you mix a metal guitarist, an acoustic singer/songwriter, a hip-hop emcee, a jazzy drummer, an alt-rock bassist and a psychedelic turntablist?

What you get is the band Este Vato. What connects them is their love of Latin music and their belief in spreading cultural education and pride through song. The Austin-based Latin fusion sextet has only been around since late 2008, but they've caught our attention early and often with their infectious live show and approachable every-man demeanor.

As the band members' diverse music backgrounds suggest, Este Vato is a versatile group that can deliver a mellow cumbia, a raging protest tune or a catchy rock en español number. These sounds and more are captured on the band's self-released, self-titled debut CD, which can be purchased at their shows or on Bandcamp.

The band is composed of the Reyna brothers, Rocky and Oscar, who grew up in a musical family in Hebbronville, a 5,000-population town in South Texas. Their father, a Tejano accordionist, was a big influence on the brothers getting into music. In Austin, the Reynas met local singer/songwriter Ricardo Lara and Laredo-bred emcee Feliciano "Chano" Lopez, as well as veteran drummer Frank Ramirez and DJ Rey Treviño.

I recently talked to Este Vato about trying to make it as a young Latin band and returning to play shows in their hometowns of Hebbronville and Laredo.

Concert photos by Isabel Salazar. Promo photo provided.

With your various musical backgrounds, how did the Este Vato sound come together?

Ricardo: It's just like minds. We're all into music. If like minds come together, they're going to produce something. Background doesn't matter.

Chano: I think we have a general idea of what we try to do as "Latin fusion." So there's a Latin element that connects everything. But on top of that, we have rock, reggae, hip-hop.But whenever we make music, it's whatever we feel.

Ricardo: It's a lot of feeling. We can go into a song and think "It sounds like this" but then, you know what, it actually sounds like this. We just kinda let it flow; don't force anything.

Rocky: Basically, everybody comes together and, individually, they do what they do. Ric is a singer/songwriter, so that's what he brings. Chano brings hip-hop. Frank's drumming style is real jazzy, real intricate. I listen to everything: rock, Tejano cumbia. My brother brings Slash. [laughs] The Guns 'N Roses influences. Everyone brings what they have to the table.

You're a young band, around a year and a half old. With so many influences, it must be a challenge writing songs. Do you ever bump heads?

Chano: Not that it's really a challenge, but yeah, we try to fit stuff together and sometimes stuff doesn't fit. We want everyone to have their piece, you know what I mean. We compromise, I guess, without really talking it out.

Ricardo: We're not really stepping on anybody's toes. Nobody really has an ego in this band.

Rocky: Except for Chano, who likes to show up fashionably late.

[group laughs]

Ricardo: Prima donna.

Chano: I came from Cedar Park for this.

Ricardo: And I came from like 10 minutes farther than that.

You added another member recently, too.

Rocky: Dean, the conga player.

Ricardo: I met him at Qua. [laughs]

Fancy Qua? I didn't expect that.

Ricardo: Yeah, he was doing the drumline. You know the Captain Morgan Girls and all that? He was doing his percussion thing. I listened to him. He was playing along with whatever music was playing.

Like over the sound system, not a live band?

Ricardo: Yeah, just hip-hop or whatever music they play there. I was like "Hey, man, I have this band, Este Vato. Check it out." And he's kinda been tagging along since.

He was that good at Qua.

Ricardo: He just sounded really good.

Chano: He was playing to some Lady Gaga.

I know, right? "You made Lady Gaga sound good. If you can do that, you need to be in my band." Let's talk about the music. A lot of the lyrics are political or at least socially conscious. Was that an intentional decision from the start?

Chano: I don't think necessarily political, but we definitely wanted to say something.

Ricardo: It's not all about booty-shaking and how much money you have. We ain't got no money.

Hey, most of those dudes who sing about that don't have money.

Chano: It's just stuff that pertains to us; it's reflections of our background and our culture. At the same time, it's supposed to be fun though. There's a lot of issues that aren't getting addressed, really. There's a platform for me to say that stuff. A lot of people would say, "Well, that kinda music is dead," but it's not.

Rocky: I like to think of it as educational dance music. [laughs]

Speaking of educational, you guys have a song that references the Kennedy assassination.

Rocky: "Balaso." That's Ric.

Ricardo: Basically, it's just talking about how he was murdered in front of the world to prove a point, saying if you defy the government, we can kill you.

Chano: We both wrote those lyrics and collaborated our viewpoints, and I think the one thing we both share in common is the ties to our upbringing. I remember growing up in Nebraska. Kennedy was a hero to my grandmother because he was the only person at that time who was standing up for equal rights, as far as someone who could actually do something about it. And even he got taken out. His legacy carries on, and that's what the song is about.

Let's talk about the challenges of being a young band and a Latino band in Austin. How did you guys get gigs early on?

Rocky: I already had experience booking shows through my other band, my rock band Exeter. I had connections with talent buyers and bar managers. We actually got invited to our first show, which was with Bombasta at Flamingo Cantina.

Ricardo: Bubba Hernadnez and Los Super Vatos.

Chano: Subrosa Union.

Rocky: At that time, we only had five songs. I told the guy, "Yeah, we'll play. We'll open up because we only have five songs. This is literally our first show" And so we played it. The crowd loved it, thank God.

Frank: I'd only been playing with you guys for a month.

Chano: I was blown away, kinda like really taken by surprise. From that first show we played, it was nonstop after that. Especially in Austin, where it's oversaturated with bands. But I really saw a difference with being a Latin band over being of a rock band. No one really cares, unfortunately, if you're a rock band. You gotta do something crazy or be completely different in some way. And, I mean, we were different, but...

Just being you, a Latin fusion band from South Texas, makes you different.

Chano: I was like "Whoa, this is really crazy." We went from that first Flamingo show to playing a nationally sponsored tour by Remezcla and MySpace, where they were advertising the show every time you logged into MySpace. And playing with Girl in a Coma. To us, just a couple weeks before that we were at their show, saying "Wouldn't it be awesome if we played a show with them." And then a few weeks later, we were there. It's fun, man. It's cool.

Rocky: In the beginning, it's always more of a popularity contest. Like who has the most friends, because that's really who's gonna be going to your shows at first. The only way you're gonna progress further than that is if you create a buzz. Look at Ghostland Observatory, Alpha Rev. Those bands created a buzz in Austin, and unless you do that you kinda plateau. That's really the bad part of being in Austin. It's a cesspool of bands, and you have to set yourself apart.

How do you create a buzz, though?

Chano: With us, it was our friends at first. But see they would bring a friend. And they tell a friend. And their friends' friends. Word of mouth is pretty much it.

Rocky: Everywhere I go, I tell people about my music and most of the time, I bring it up. We'll be talking about, like, "Ugh, I just ate Whataburger and my stomach hurts." "Hey, I play in a band; you should totally check us out."

[laughs] You guys are still young as a band. I'm sure you have goals. One-year, two-year goals. What do you want to do in the next couple years?

Rocky: One thing I do want to do is collaborate with local and regional artist. Like doing a collaboration with Maneja Beto or Hadyn Vitera, or other performing artists. Just making it interesting.

Chano: That's one thing that's been cool. We've played with hip-hop artists and rock bands.

You guys play a lot of Red River rock venues. Not a lot of Spanish or bilingual bands do.

Chano: Yeah, exactly. It's funny how there's kind of a crossover. I mean, they don't know what you're saying, but they're feeling the music. We've played at Beerland with crazy, off-the-wall bands.

Rocky: Like psychobilly bands.

Chano: We make these friendships with these bands. The camaraderie is one cool thing about the Latin scene too. Bands like El Tule, Maneja Beto, La Guerrilla. They're always looking to get us on the bill and vice versa.

Oscar: We've played in front of audiences that we might not have otherwise.

You have the Red River crowd covered. But have you thought about getting into discotecas on the east side to see how your sound goes over?

Chano: We haven't tried, but we want to try. We wanna definitely play shows in San Antonio. We definitely want to get more of the east side exposure. We don't really want boundaries.

You guys go home and play shows in Hebbronville and Laredo. What's the reception like?

Rocky: The one show we played in Laredo was for the Brown Impressions Lowrider Car Club's anniversary. They liked us there.

Chano: Laredo is a bigger town, so they might like your stuff but they're not gonna show it, because then they'd be going out on a limb, you know what I mean? They'll be standing there with their arms crossed, but they're standing there still. In Hebbronville, we played a festival down there, and there were old-school Tejano guys totally blown away that we were doing something they could identify with, but they were blown away by having a DJ spinning records and scratching.

Rocky: The fact that we're different, I think they appreciate that. There's a lot of talented musicians in Hebbronville. I only wish they would get a little more creative and kinda expand and do their own things. I think that's what they appreciate from us. They can't go to our shows in Hebbronville and sing along to our music because they don't know our music. It's not cover songs.

You're not performing old standards. It's your songs.

Rocky: It's cool that they go out and listen to it and like it. Even if they're not singing to it, they're dancing. And that's even better to us. Hopefully next time we go down there, they'll get to memorize our music, learn it and sing along.

Piñata Protest frontman Álvaro del Norte embodies punk rock's do-it-yourself spirit, enrolling himself in accordion classes after he couldn't find an accordion player in San Antonio who wanted to play in his punk rock band. Del Norte had a vision for a band that broke from the traditional punk sound, ironically enough, by incorporating the traditional norteño sound of Mexico.

The concept isn't so strange—Tejano music started off as an experiment by musical pioneers who were tired of the same old stuff and decided to blend Mexican sounds with rock 'n' roll, country and R&B.

There's a case to be made for these punk rockeros to be considered the next and most viable evolution of the Tejano genre. But del Norte won't go that far. Instead, the humble San Antonian is content to talk about the ups and downs of being in a band, as well as the importance of having a supportive group of people around you.

We sat with del Norte backstage at Pachanga Fest and talked about the band's new album, Plethora, as well as learning to play accordion. Del Norte's girlfriend, taking minor objection to the interview being in the VIP area, sent him a lovingly vulgar text.

Tell me about this text you just got.

Álvaro: My girlfriend just sent me a text that says, "You're a V-I-Puto."

What does it mean to be a V-I-Puto?

Álvaro: I'm a puto, but a very important puto. [laughs]

The first thing that stands out about your music is the accordion. People aren't used to accordion in punk, aside from the Dropkick Murphys. Most kids want to play guitar and be rock stars. How did you pick up the accordion?

Álvaro: Well, actually, I didn't start playing it until this band started. And honestly, I had to pick it up myself because I couldn't find any other accordion players who wanted to play punk rock music.

So that was the vision from the beginning, having a punk band with accordion in it?

Álvaro: Yeah. I've been playing music in bands since I was in high school. We always sounded like everybody else. At the time, I kinda gave up on music. I said, "I'm just going to do something my own way. Something fun, something different. I don't care about getting big. It just has to be fun." That's what it was about. So I thought it would be cool to combine my two musical influences, punk rock and norteño, which I grew up listening to. Anyways, so, I was a bass player and I couldn't find an accordion player or a singer. I was like, "Oh, well." I pick it up myself. Luckily, I happened to be going to school at Palo Alto College where they have accordion lessons. So I bought one and took lessons for a semester.

Was it difficult to learn?

Álvaro: Playing accordion and singing is a lot harder than playing guitar and singing. It almost works against you.

It seems more complicated with all those buttons. You guys have been playing for a few years, but what were your first shows like? Did you get weird looks?

Álvaro: Definitely. When people saw the accordion on stage at a punk rock venue, they were like, "What's this? What are you doing?" But for the most part, people have been open-minded. Even if they don't like our music, they at least appreciate that we're doing something new.

At your shows, fans tend to get up on stage and push you guys or put an arm around you and sing along. It looks fun, but does that ever get annoying, dealing with rowdy crowds?

Álvaro: You know, our crowd is pretty rowdy, and I love them when they get rowdy. I love it. I want to play music to move people, either emotionally or physically. If they get so worked up to come up and push me, great. But it does get kinda annoying when they keep bumping into me and I can't play. But I'd rather have them bump into me than stand like this.

Arms crossed, blank expressions. What was your family's reaction to you playing this kind of music?

Álvaro: They really liked it. I mean, they liked the fact that we were continuing on with "our people's" music, in some way or another, so they like it.

To me, what you guys are doing is spiritually the next evolution Tejano, in the sense that early Tejano was guys mixing their conjunto influences with Americana and rock 'n' roll influences. You guys now are just mixing your American punk rock influences with your traditional Mexican influences.

Álvaro: Our sound is a reflection of where we are from. We're a product of our environment.

Exactly. I want to talk about some of these songs on Plethora. Who is "Jackeee" and why did she run away to Alaska?

Álvaro: Jackie is not a real person. That song is actually about me. When I was 19, I came to live here in Austin because I wanted to get away from my parents, be on my own. But at the same time, I wanted to reinvent myself. And I thought moving away to another city where nobody knew me would be a great chance for me to become someone different, someone better than who I was. But what I ended up finding out was I was really the same person. And really, if I wanted to change it had to be within myself. There's no need to run away.

Sometimes, if you get away, it helps you realize that you never had to leave. You come away from the experience more mature. Something like that. Last couple things: You guys very much have your sound. Do you plan to branch out and experiment?

Álvaro: It's a secret. No, we're going to stick to our sound but we definitely want to experiment. Maybe not so much with me bringing in other instruments, but maybe with bringing in other genres.

Last question: What's the philosophy of your band?

Álvaro: The only reason I started playing music is because I discovered punk rock. I remember the first time I ever heard punk rock, I felt like I had just done a line of coke or something. I felt so energized.

Not that you would know what that feels like.

Álvaro: Oh, no. But it was an amazing feeling. I felt so enlightened. I felt like jumping around. So for me, at least personally, what I want to do at every show is make every person at that show feel the way I did at that moment when I was 16.

All photos by Mari Hernandez for Austin Vida.

Larry Harlow is a living legend. Depending on your musical tastes, that statement is either obnoxiously obvious or total news to you. The salsa pianist known as El Judio Maravilloso ("the marvelous Jew") grew up in New York and was a pioneer of salsa music in the '70s, along with his Fania Records cohort. Harlow has recorded with, performed with and produced all of the salsa greats from Ismael Miranda to Celia Cruz.

At age 71, there isn't much Harlow hasn't accomplished musically, earning a lifetime achievement award from the Latin Grammys in 2008. Still, this nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn refuses to sit still or fade into the night. He earned himself a new (and younger) audience in 2005 when he recorded and performed live with The Mars Volta, a progressive/alternative rock band with Latin influences. Harlow recently worked with another young group you may have heard of: Austin's Grupo Fantasma. He lent his piano mastery to the track "Juan Tenorio" for Grupo's 2010 album El Existential.

We spoke with Harlow backstage at Pachanga Fest, after his set with Grupo Fantasma. We talked about working with younger bands, as well as his new projects in the works. Harlow, along with a 50-piece orchestra will perform a free concert on August 14 at Lincoln Center in New York. Get details about that at www.larryharlow.com.

Let's talk about the here and now: You just got off the stage with Grupo Fantasma. How did it feel?

Harlow: It was a great set. They are extraordinary men, you know. This is like about my fourth time playing with them. I was here last year.

At Antone's, right?

Harlow: Yeah. I had a great time. I just love this town. Antone's was a smash. And then I played with the guys when they came to New York.

How did you meet Grupo Fantasma? Who asked who?

Harlow: David Lobel called me.

Their manager?

Harlow: Yeah, but I didn't know who Fantasma was. So of course I look 'em up on the website and I listen to the music, and I thought, "Ehh, let me straighten 'em out a little bit on a few pointers." So I brought some arrangements. They were playing my arrangements; they'd been playing them for a couple of years. But they got their own thing. They're really a good Latin rock band. They play really good, and they understand the African roots of it. They're getting better. They're starting to play with dynamics. Like I heard the band that was on two bands before them; it was so loud and they never got soft. You couldn't hear a word the singer was saying. The band from Tucson. So Fantasma finally learned how to play with a little dynamics.

Give it room to breathe.

Harlow: A little loud, a little soft. Play with a little feeling. When the singer comes in, they get lower. So they're really getting more professional as time goes on. Unfortunately, the record business is in the pits right now. They're discontinuing CDs everywhere within the next year. The economy is down the tubes, and nobody is purchasing records. The clubs. There's no way to play in New York. I mean, New York, the capital of the world? I don't play in New York, unless I do Lincoln Center, Radio City or Madison Square Garden. That's it.

How often do you play these days?

Harlow: I do maybe two or three weekends a month. Sometimes it's just a guest shot, sometimes with my own band. Sometimes with the Fania big band. Fania is going back out on tour June 30 with all the old guys. I told them, I said, "Hey, listen. Why don't we pull in on three ambulances and all get out on crutches and walkers." They didn't like that for some reason. But you know, they're all up in their 70s, those guys. I'm one of the younger ones of the bunch.

You're the spring chicken of the bunch.

Harlow: Yeah, and I'm 71. But they're 75, 76. Johnny Pacheco is not in good health. A lot of them have passed away; Celia passed away. Pete Conde. You know, you kinda miss it.

What impresses me about you is that you're at this legendary status, yet you continue to work with younger guys like Grupo Fantasma and The Mars Volta.

Harlow: Oh, you know about The Mars Volta? Mars Volta was such a hoot to play with. The vice president of Universal, a guy named Avery Lipman, went to law school with my son. When he signs a new act, he always asks them whose your idol. Thinking they're both guitar players, Omar and Cedric, he thought he'd say Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton or somebody like that. He said Larry Harlow. "Larry Harlow? That's my best friend's father." They said, "No way! Can you get him to play on our album?" So they called me up, and let me tell you, they paid me stupid money. I mean, they paid me so much money. So I said, "Who's The Mars Volta?" So I bought a couple of CDs, and they're a far-out band. You know, they're screeching away.

The Mars Volta is not for everybody.

Harlow: Not for everybody. And they're bilingual. I said, "What am I gonna play on this stuff?" They said, "Don't worry, don't worry." It took us a while to find a mutual studio. So they flew to Puerto Rico. I was there to do a couple of concerts. I said, "Okay, can I hear the tracks?" They said no. I said, "What do you mean no?" He said, "No, no. Wait until we get into the studio." So they put me off for like a day or two. And we're riding in the car to the studio and I'm like, "Can I hear them now?" No. I said, "Something's up here."

[laughs] Uh-oh.

Harlow: And, you know, these guys are with the big afros, tattooed up the wazoo and the horn-rim glasses with the tape on it. They're kinda nerdy looking. I get to the studio, and there's five keyboards in a circle. And he says, "When I point at you, you take a solo." I say, "Well, what key are you in?" They say, "We don't know; we don't read music." I said, "Oh, I'm in trouble." Flea was there from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and a couple of guest artists they had. So the guitar's going [imitates guitar with high pitch screeching] yeee-yaaah-yeeeee-yaaaw. And then in the middle of thing went right into a Cuban guajira. And he goes, "Okay." And I took a 12-minute solo and my hands were bleeding. Scraped all the skin off my fingers. It turned out great. They put it out and sell 400,000 records in two months. All of a sudden, Rolling Stone is calling me and all the rock bands are calling me to record with them.

It introduced you to a younger audience.

Harlow: They're interesting guys. Very creative kids. They moved from Texas to New York. They're all in New York now, and they don't answer their phones ever. I leave messages and they don't call back. But I've been having fun. I'm more than just a salsa piano player.

That's great. It sounds like you're still enjoying it.

Harlow: Yeah, yeah. There's nowhere to play in New York, so I'm always on the road. I play in Europe, South America. So I'm gonna be in Tucson. I don't know whether to cancel. Maybe they'll ask my guys for papers, deport 'em to Mexico. No, but I'm gonna do it for the Tucson Jazz Society. It should be fun.

Have you been here at Pachanga all day?

Harlow: Yeah, I came early. Wanted to hear all the different bands.

Honestly, have their been any bands that really got your attention?

Harlow: The female mariachi band, Mariachi Las Alteñas, was great. And it's funny, because Roberto Pulido, I produced some stuff with Pulido back in the '70s. I used to do all the Miller Beer commercials. You know: Lite de Miller, la cerveza que no llena. And one of them was Pulido when he was just starting out, you know. If I see him over there, I'll say, "Do you remember me from 1977?"

That's funny.

Harlow: We made a lot of money with Miller. Most musicians don't know, when you do these kind of recordings and jingles and Broadway shows, they contribute to a welfare and pension fund. I didn't even know. And then 30 years pass, all of a sudden I hit 60, and I start to get $1,000 a month in the mail for the rest of my life. It's from the jingles I did in the '70s. Because it all went through the unions. I was the only artist with Fania that ever put recordings through the union, so I paid got union scale. And all my musicians got compensated for that, so that was good.

So what's next for you?

Harlow: The big news. In 1977, I wrote a suite—a thing called the Salsa Suite, La Raza Latina. It's about an hour long with a 50-piece orchestra with strings and everything, and Ruben Blades sang lead on it when he was young. So Lincoln Center approached me to do a project. So I said, "I'd like to do La Raza Latina." So I dug up all the music and rearranged it. I said, "Let me get Ruben." Ruben just came off a 30-city tour where he made a fortune because he was the promoter. Matter of fact, he even cut the band in on the profits. So I wrote him an email. "Ruben, would you like to do this. There may be some money involved." He says, "I'm interested."

[laughs] The magic word.

Harlow: He finishes the tour, comes in. I ask, "How much money do you want?" He says, "Pay me whatever you want." I say, "Whatever I want? You know, it's not a lot of money. It's a free concert, free for the public." We'll probably end up with $3,000 or $4,000 a piece, me and him. But I got a 50-piece orchestra I'm going to conduct in Lincoln Center, outdoors, on August 14 of this year. It's a huge project, a good three or four months of preparation. Rehearsals start in July.

So it's just a one-off concert?

Harlow: I said, "You wanna take this on the road with me?" He said, "Nope, I'll only do one for you." So I call Louie Enrique and say, "Louie, you wanna do it?" He's like, "Yeaaah! I'm in!" He's a very good singer also.

So August 14 at Lincoln Center, then?

Harlow: Yes. I suggest you come early. We're gonna shoot in HD, four-camera shoot; we're not gonna put it out commercially, but at least we'll have it for posterity.

It's good to see you're still so active at 71.

Harlow: Well, I've been married several times, but I married a wonderful woman about 11 years ago who supports all the things I do and pushes me to do things like this. When you give back, you know, it makes you really feel good. When someone writes in, "Thank you for all the great music," that's better than a million dollars for me. As long as my health holds up, I'll be around.

So, what's your outlook for these Grupo Fantasma kids?

Harlow: They're great; they just should've been born 20 years earlier, you know. It's a tough business right now. You look at Crosby, Stills & Nash and they can't draw a crowd by themselves. So they have to go together with somebody; they put four or five acts together and they do a concert. Look it, Santa Rosa was in New York at the Nokia Theater. $150 tickets! Give me a break. I don't care how good he sings, I'm not paying $150 to see Gilberto Santa Rosa. $45 maybe. And, you know, the city cuts back. All the free concerts are less and less, and the clubs don't exist anymore. The rents are so high they went out of business. The city said to the Copa Cobana, which was a great 3,000-person venue, "Listen, we need this building for a subway stop. Get out." They own the property. So that's the end of the Copa Cabana. So now the only places you have to play in New York are these little restaurants. You know, they're restaurants during the day and then at 9 o'clock they take out the tables and chairs and higher a quintet or sextet. And I can't even fit my band on the stage, better yet them pay me. And Europe's getting bad now, too. Hopefully, the economy will turn around.

A lot of this stuff was happening before the economy crashed.

Harlow: Yeah. But tropical music will never die. South America is just booming. You go to Venezuela, Colombia, Peru. They have 200 radio stations playing salsa music. You go to New York, there's one radio station playing salsa music. And if anything is in a foreign language, the American stations won't play it. So it's difficult. But I have a lot of fun. I'm still here.

Still here, still kicking ass. The set was amazing.

Harlow: It was a great set. I enjoyed myself a lot. And the people were very responsive, which was wonderful. Thank you.

All photos by Mari Hernandez for Austin Vida.

Did Subrosa Union replace pot with Jäger shots as their vice of choice? When I saw them at Flamingo Cantina a year ago, the Austin-by-way-of-El-Paso trio was jamming the kind of reggae-rock odes to Mary Jane that made Sublime and 311 popular with college kids in the '90s. But when Subrosa Union's latest full-length, One Night Stand, landed at my doorstep, I was blown away by the scorcher of an opening track that is "Penny Arcade." The song is a full-speed-ahead pop-rock anthem with big crunchy guitar riffs and sing-along lyrics about a subject some of us know all too well: dramatic yet addictive chicks.

Using arcade games as a metaphor, frontman Michael Anaya lets the character of Penny know, "Ain't got no time to nickel and dime with you." Still, he concedes, "You got your hooks in me, and nothing's for free."

If anyone has mastered hooks, it's this band. One Night Stand is chocked full of big, blaring anthemic choruses fit for rock festivals and pop-rock radio. They get in your head and never leave. If 101x, the local alt-rock station, isn't putting this album on rotation soon, I don't know what's wrong with them. This is the kind of music that would do really well with their crowd.

And Subrosa knows it, too. The album's lead single is "6th St. Beauty Queen," a catchy mid-tempo admonishment of the big-haired, overly-made-up and scantily-clad ladies who act like anything but. Who in Austin between the ages of 18 and 30 can't relate to that sentiment? Yet, I can totally foresee these "beauty queens" doing flavored vodka shots at Maggie Mae's while completely unironically claiming this song as their jam. The song is geographically specific, but the theme is universal: "You always sleep in your make up, tomorrow you wake up, ready to black out and do it again."

Not to downplay the band's musicianship or songwriting chops, but this album wouldn't have been possible without Alien Ant Farm's Mike Cosgrove at the helm. It has that sugar-high glossy pop-rock feel from the dudes who transformed a Michael Jackson classic into pop-punk goodness. Cosgrove is the guy you want if you're a young rock band at a crossroads.

Subrosa Union always had a pop sensibility (how else to explain their live Elvis Presley covers). But their reggae vibes kinda held their pop side from really shining. That's all changed. Musically, the album's title track shows shades of Weezer, Pavement or even Eve 6, but because of Anaya's distinct vocals and the heavy bass, it's still very much a Subrosa song. Cosgrove gets a writing credit on "Laces Loose," the band's ballad that uses running shoes and racing as a metaphor for having a crush.

The album starts to lag toward the end, as the band smartly put the best tracks up front. "Hurry Up & Wait" is a skippable track, rehashing all the ground that's been covered in the eight previous tracks without contributing something new. Still, it's kinda catchy.

Bass is what distinguishes this band from similar alt- and pop-rockers, practically driving the song "Start to Finish." It helps that they came from years of playing reggae-infused rock. It gives Subrosa a sense of groove and rhythm that might not be a priority for other bands who center everything around guitars. Ultimately, Subrosa Union has crafted a satisfying pop-rock listen that will appeal to fans of alt-rock radio and maybe even some top-40 listeners.

Check out a short clip of their song "6th St. Beauty Queen" below.

Mitote is an Austin-based ensemble that, as vocalist and guitarrista Alex Chavez puts it, "seeks to explore the vast musical terrains of Mexican traditional son but with a Chicano sensibility." Their focus is on son jarocho, the traditional sones and instruments of southern Veracruz, Mexico.

"We are inspired by both the grounded yet virtuostic musicality of the groups emerging out of the movimiento jaranero, groups such as Mono Blanco, Son de Madera, and Chuchumbé and the efforts to maintain and renew the musical traditions of the Sotavento," Chavez says. In addition to playing traditional songs, the sextet has written sones of their own, which they say they feel represent a "musical archive of a Chicano re-imagining of community across borders."

Chavez might be more familiar to you as the lead singer and keyboardist of Maneja Beto, a modern-sounding indie band that blends cumbias with spacey tones and Smiths-era alternative rock. Mitote, then, is clearly a departure from his main gig, but not a surprise. Chavez is the kind of musician who can't stay still and is never satisfied to do one thing. Always challenging himself, he also recently started playing old-school soul and R&B in a band with Grupo Fantasma's Beto Martinez. The project is called The Downtown Rulers Club.

Asked how he finds time for all these projects, he'll tell you, "I make time. Simple as that." It's that no-nonsense attitude and creative spirit that makes all of Chavez's projects potent and worth paying attention to.

As for Mitote, the sextet has a CD release show on Saturday in the East Austin bar Rabbit's Lounge to celebrate the release of the nine-song album II.

The album was recorded at Ohm recording studios in Austin with the engineer Chico Jones. II features musical contributions by Austin notables Martín Perna and DJ Chorizo Funk, as well as spoken-word contributions from Rene Valdez (executive director of Resistencia Bookstore) and Erika Gonzalez (co-director of PODER).

Featuring instruments like the guitarra de son, cajon, quijada and jarana, this is clearly not your typical Austin band with guitar, bass and drums. But that's the point: maintaining tradition. The name Mitote comes from the Nahuatl word mitotli, which refers to indigenous ceremonies meant to maintain culture in the face of colonial rule.

For more info on the band, check out www.mitote.org. See them this Saturday at Rabbit's Lounge. Details at Do512. Listen to a track from their album below.

01 Coco by Mitote

Ian Morales contributed to this article.