By Kat Bein
By Shea Serrano
By S. Pajot
By Terrence McCoy
By Falyn Freyman
By Shea Serrano
By Jacob Katel
By Michael E. Miller
A group of Central American and Mexican men waits eagerly outside the Medrano Express courier offices in Homestead for a five-dollar snapshot. They're posing next to local talent Lily Alvarez, a sweet, voluptuous Guatemalan gal in a silver sequined top who could pass for Selena. Most of these migrants left their families several years ago with plans of sending money and materials home, and Alvarez's Sunday-afternoon karaoke performances of cumbia and norteño songs have brightened their week of hard labor. Among her most popular numbers are those originally performed by Mexico's legendary Los Tigres del Norte, who are widely known for their corridos, ballads based on real-life stories of the conflicted and downtrodden.
Aware of an upcoming South Florida visit by Los Tigres, New Times asks a few of the migrants a question: Does anyone have an experience worthy of a Tigres song?
Most of the men stare at their feet, shifting a little. Then a Guatemalan named Freddy grins, exposing a gold star on one of his front teeth. "I do," he says, and tells of his 15-day journey from Guatemala, through Mexico, and across the Rio Grande. Mexican migrant Enrique shakes his head and intercepts: "Dude, Los Tigres already did that one. It was 'Tres Veces Mojado' ['Three Times a Wetback']."
With a career spanning four decades and 55 albums, this multiple-Grammy-winning band has turned nearly every story into song. So it's little wonder last year's Grammy was a Lifetime Achievement Award.
"I would describe it as communicative music with lyrics directed to the audience. We sing real-life stories — things that happen to our audience. We make the music and work with composers to fit it with the lyrics," explains lead singer and accordion player Jorge Hernández.
To a certain extent, he can relate to the migrants. After all, in 1968, he, his brothers, and their cousin came to the United States to test the band's luck when they were teenagers. They were fortunate to obtain a visa through a contract to perform with their compatriots at Salinas Valley State Prison near Soledad, California. From there they went to San Jose, where they sang for many suppers, belting out mariachi tunes at patrons' tables in restaurants. That all changed the day English producer Art Walker strolled in, liked what he heard, and signed them to his Discos Fama label.
"My plan was to go over, fulfill my contract, and come home," Hernández recalls, chuckling heartily. Home was the tiny town of Rosa Morada in Sinaloa, Mexico. "[Walker] really liked folklore, and I think he took notice of us because he thought our folklore was different," he says. "His musical ear was pretty broad. He used to tell us: 'Hey, that melody's good. We have to find the lyrics.' Then he'd hum and say, 'Do this with the accordion; do that with the guitar.' We always did our music with a lot of joy for living, which he really liked."
The sonic outcome was kind of like mariachi, country, and cumbia, with a strong oompah beat, and though the group's success wasn't immediate, Walker's ear never failed him. In 1972, he asked them to record Angel Gonzalez's ballad "Contrabando y Traición" ("Contraband and Betrayal"), about a woman smuggler who shoots her lover and takes off with his money. The sensationalism of the lyrics and the gusto with which Los Tigres performed them suddenly had the band's music moving away from restaurant tables and onto international airwaves.
The success of that number prompted the band members to dig into other real-life incidents, which they continue to do today. Often they send out researchers, even journalists, to scope out dramatic tales in dangerous lands. They've made millions off stories of true crime, political corruption, and perilous border crossings, all the things so tied to the folklore of Mexico's northern border. But don't think for a second they condone vice or violence, says Hernández. In fact he's miffed that the recent wave of unsolved murders of other norteño artists such as Sergio Gómez of the Grammy-nominated band K-Paz de la Sierra; Zayda Peñas; and Valentín Elizalde should have any reflection on Los Tigres. There's been widespread speculation among music industry and crime experts that many of these artists had ties to drug cartels, though nothing has been officially proven.
"I don't think it's right that we're judged along with other people who've taken a different life path. We've always behaved ourselves and we always will. We don't have anything to hide," he says. That even goes for their critiques of the Mexican government, because, he says, their tales are already in the archives. "We've told some pretty heavy stories, but they're all documented."
On 1996's "El Circo," he calls former Mexican President Carlos Salinas de Gortari (1988-1994) and his brother Raul circus performers: Carlos the tamer, and Raul a magician who could make money disappear from the president's hands. In 1995, authorities discovered Raul had stashed hundreds of millions of dollars in overseas accounts, while his annual salary as the director of the government-run Basic Commodities Distribution Co. had capped at $190,000.