Charro Charro! Tacos, Cervesa y Mariachi!

Photo: Mariachi Mexamerica, playing weekly at Tacos El Charro

I discovered Jamaica Plain’s Tacos El Charro way before most non-Latinos. Before it had a “Best of Boston” award and long line of tastemongers waiting forever for a table, I frequented the authentic Taqueria there on Center Street. In about 1990 I started doing sessions nearby at my buddy Dicky Spears’ funky home studio, affectionately known as Squid Hell, located off Green Street. Now that I think of it, I was ahead of the crowd on a couple of levels. First, nobody yet knew about Squid Hell, but by ’94 or so, some of Boston’s most well-known engineers, producers and artists were tracking there. Second, few blue-eyed diners had yet crossed the threshold of Tacos El Charro, partially because it was (and still is) in a Latino neighborhood. In fact, that area of JP was still about eight or more years away from experiencing a huge gentrification and renaissance. (Dicky did very well for himself, buying that house back in about ’88. I can imagine what it must be worth now!).

So, we were always looking for food while sessioning, often opting for Doyle’s Irish Pub, the 100-year old Boston landmark on Washington Street. One lunchy mid-day, Dicky told me about the recently-opened Tacos El Charro. He said it made no sense to call in the order on the phone because they didn’t speak English. This was a good sign. So we just went down there. It was a shabby but clean little Cantina, with the classic piñatas and big fancy sombreros hanging from the ceiling. The smell of oil, cilantro and tortillas filled the restaurant. I noticed a small stage and some folkloric Mexican guitars hanging on the wall, too.

The food was great, cooked by mom in the kitchen and served by girls I surmised were her daughters. We’re talkin’ real Mexican tacos: Chopped seasoned steak with onions and cilantro folded in to a softened corn tortilla with beans on the side. That’s right, soft corn, not flour. There were none of the usual American trappings like cheese or olives or lettuce, making this unquestionably the most authentic Mexican food I’d had since moving from Texas five years before.

While eating, I noticed Mariachi memorabelia everywhere. There were photos of full bands as well as individual (very macho) Mariachis, like Hollywood head-shots. I learned that the owner was Pepe Guitierrez of Guadalajara, and he was, yes, Boston’s original Mariachi. While his wife ran the kitchen, Pepe headed up Mariachi Guadalajara, the only band of Mariachis in town. Turns out the group had been in existence locally since, my memory’s vague here, 1978? 1980? He and his wife DID in fact, speak broken English. The instruments hanging on the walls were the real deal, owned by the group, who played there every Saturday night. The restaurant didn’t have a full liquor license, but they did have beer! Holy shit! What a find! What a freaking FIND!

To make a long story even longer, I became a regular there. I got to know Pepe and the band and the girls who worked there. Dicky and I and bands we were working with at Squid Hell got introduced to Tacos El Charro and the Saturday night Mariachi fiesta. On nights when I had a gig with my band nearby, like at The Midway or The Milky Way, we’d go there to eat before the set. Though the place had yet to be “discovered”, I guess you could say WE were discovering it, bringing people there who likely never would have ventured in. And what fun we had!

One memorable night, we experienced Tacos El Charro in its full glory. (Actually it would be more memorable if I hadn’t drowned so many brain-cells in Tecate and Tequila). It was at least ten years ago now. Now that I think of it, it may have been on the eve of us moving to Albuquerque, which would make it late summer of ’97. Bernadette and I and a few friends, including our friend Bert Katzianer, were there having dinner (Bert was in a band I was producing called Rebel Yell). We had a big table with a party of at least six people. It must have been a Saturday because the Mariachis were doin’ their thing. The cervesa was a-flowin’ and the trumpets were a-blowin’ and before we knew it, they had closed the restaurant with us inside. I distinctly remember one of the waitresses locking the door and putting the closed sign up. I’d guess it was about 11:30 when she did that. Now it was the band, the staff, and US! This is when the REAL party began. Suddenly, I got the distinct feeling beer was not the only beverage being consumed. Everyone was dancing and drinking and whooping and hollering. Apparently we were being considered part of the family, and included in the fiesta.

I think it was Pepe or another guy in the group who first shouted for Beatris. Beatris was our waitress, this cute round Mexican girl with a couple of gold teeth right in the front. Others in the place joined in the call for Beatris to the stage. So, sheepish and blushing, she got up there and Pepe handed her the mic. They struck up a Mariachi Classic, Arboles de la Barranca I think it was, and Beatris proceeded to canta la cancion. She had the voice as strong as Tequila, as smooth as a Mexican brew. Incredible! She set the casa en fuego! To be flies on the wall would have been worth it, but they made us feel like full participants in the carnival. They were bringing us beer and not charging for it. At one point I found myself downstairs (Men's room) and my suspicions were confirmed. I stumbled in to the band room where the Mariachis were enjoying Tequila shots. Far be it for me not to join in! Salud!

After that, it gets pretty fuzzy. Like I said, it would be a night to remember, if only I could remember it!

Tom Halter, the lead trumpet in the group has worked with me in the studio a few times over the years, including recently. He’s an Americano but can play with perfectly imperfect slurry Spanish accent. He’s been in the outfit with Pepe, now called Mariachi Mexamerica since day one. You can hear a sample of his work with me on The Fathoms new LP, “Fathom This!”. Click on this link and play the song, “The Palomino”.


Pepe "El Tapatio" Gutierrez in prime form. Que guapo!

The Weirdest Gig Ever!

It was Saturday, August 31, 1996, Labor Day weekend. The Clintons were doing dirty things in the White House, and America was enjoying boom-times. My surf-instro band, The Derangers, had just begun a three band, 23 city van tour to support “Tube: Atlantic Surf Essentials”, which had been released in May on Boston’s CherryDisc label. We had already had a couple raging record-release gigs over the summer. One was at The Rat in May, one at the Wellfleet Beachcomber in July –that one was a total rave—and the tour kick-off show downstairs at The Middle East. That was the one where the Diva Belly Dancer of them all, Sahar, performed on stage with us. Unforgettable. Anyway, the three bands, Derangers, Speed Devils and Bald Guys, each with a van, had opened the tour on Friday night in Louisville. It was poorly attended, and pretty weird in its own right. We were up until four in the morning. Then, we had to get up early to set-out on the long drive to NOLA, which as it turned out looked a LOT closer on the map than it was in reality. We left at about seven am. It took us all freakin’ day, drivin’ and drivin’, literally through bayou country. Fourteen hours later, we arrived at the infamous Mermaid Lounge, the diviest, nitty-grittiest, greatest little juke-joint you’d ever want to play. Well, we didn’t actually arrive like you’d imagine. This place was hidden like The Bridge to Terabithia. It was under a highway overpass in this run-down old warehouse district, and you literally had to drive the wrong way on a one-way street to get to it. I’m serious. All roads seemed to lead AWAY from The Mermaid. So after navigating the underworld-like maze of streets, in the dark, in a bad part of town, we found the dumpy old shack. Our contracts with the clubs always had us arriving between like, five pm and seven to load-in, do sound-check, etc. So seeing as it was now nine, and only our van had found the joint, I was in a panic that we were very very late.

I should have known better. This was N’awlin’s honey! We pulled up and I walked up to the shuttered door. No one there yet. Just a few minutes later, the bartender arrives and unlocks the club. He tells me the sound guy will be there between ten and eleven. “What time do we play?” I ask. “First band at midnight,” he replies. Midnight? Wow. OK, well that’s a load off. Plenty of time, but where are the others?

Soon enough the Speed Devils showed up, but with bad news. Bald Guys van had broken down and was stranded in a very very bad part of The Big Easy. I won’t sidetrack the story with all the details, but I went to their aid, and while we waited under another highway overpass for Triple A, a very nice old black man by the name of Charlie (not his real name) stood with us, to help keep the wolves at bay, so to speak. He was a character: Deck of Kools in the shirt pocket, gold tooth, and kept saying stuff like, “These kids nowadays are real scary. They’ll kill you for your sneakers.” Good thing he was there.

So we got the BG van started and back to the club we went. The “stage” wasn’t. We were to play in a corner of the room under a single hanging red light bulb. Yeah. OK. The “sound guy” set up, um, one mic? Maybe two? I don’t remember who played first but we were to go in second, at one am. In the meantime, we were responsible to collect our own door, of which we got 100%. So with a metal cigar-box, Bern set out to do the door, and we’d all take turns. The cover was five bucks. I’m sure we also found another spit of real-estate to set up the merch table, because really, that was the only thing that put gas in the vans and kept us truckin’ from gig to gig.

It was after eleven, and things were quiet. Too quiet. Deathly quiet! There wasn’t a soul in the joint except for the bands the bartender, a waitress, and the so-called “sound guy”, who had finished “setting up” in about eight minutes. He wasn’t very friendly. In fact, they all had this world-weary, we’ve done this way too many times before sort of attitude. You could say they were zombie-like in their enthusiasm.

Speaking of zombies, right at the stroke of midnight, the strangest thing happened: Bern and I were standing outside the shack, smoking and bemoaning the zero attendance, when from every direction; vampire-like silhouettes came converging our way. The streets between the old warehouses were slick with New Orleans mist (indeed the air itself was tropically soupy), and therefore had a silvery sheen. The people walking on them were jet-black shadows, moving slowly towards the club. Totally surreal. I was reminded of the novels of Ann Rice, whose house was in the nearby Garden District.

Within a couple of minutes, as if a switch had been flipped, the place was full. Bizarre. I mean, I knew The Big Easy was a late-night town, but this was ridiculous. I don’t think these ghouls even rose from their beds before 11:45pm. Needless to say, we were relieved and re-energized. We’d make it to the next town (Austin) after-all.

One of the many odd-ball things about The Mermaid was that it had an outdoor part to it, sort of a little beer garden with tables and a string of carnival lights hung across it like a laundry wire. The thing was, you could sit out there WITHOUT paying cover and listen to the music, which was plenty loud out there. This didn’t sit too well with me, but then I learned that in order to come inside and get a beer from the bar (there was no wait-service out there), well, you then DID have to pay cover. So you could be out there for free, but with no alcohol. This made for some very contentious moments during the night. “C’mon dude, just let me in to get a beer. C’mon man! I ain’t payin’ the cover”. I handled these bums with an absolutely zero-tolerance policy. You pay the cover or you don’t get in and go to the bar, period; no exceptions. This pissed a couple kids off. But then we found out that not only was there literally a hole in the wall where you could sneak in, but some people on the inside were letting the outsiders in through a side-door, or at least bringing them drinks. I even went out there at one point, saw that most had beers, and attempted to collect. Fuckers! I still get mad when I think about that. They obviously didn’t have the first clue about the hardships of the touring indie band. This shit ain’t free, slacker!

On the upside, our set itself was maybe my favorite ever. I wish it had been recorded. We played flawlessly, and I got that adrenaline rush that feels like a cool wind blowing through my hair. When I feel that, things are perfect. And to give perspective, I’ve only had the “coolerator wind” feeling maybe four times total over 20 years. The other notable time was when we played the BCN Rock and Roll Rumble (another story for another day). This night in NOLA, we took it up to the next level. Because we were right there on the floor with the audience, and it was packed, we were literally surrounded by people who were right up in our faces. People were shot-gunning weed right in to my snout. Really! Turning the joint around in their mouths and jet-streaming the smoke straight in to my nostrils! Sweet! Only in NOLA! (Well, actually, that happened to us in Santa Fe too, much later in the tour). There was a guy standing in front of me that was so close he kept obliviously stepping on my foot-pedals, randomly changing my guitar-tone. But it was all good. Real good.

Real New Orleans.

And really, really weird…



Drew enjoying water o' the Mermaid, 1996

'Bet you never knew I worked with...

This may be a good recurring category; a surprising artist that I did a session with that people don't know I worked with. The reason might be that it was a demo, a live date, or that I simply wasn't credited.

So, did you know I recorded Patty Griffin?



Yep! Twice, in fact.

The first time was in about '93 or '94. She had a major record deal with A&M (I think) and had been struggling with the production of the debut LP. A well-known pop, funk and R&B producer was tapped to do the record, and apparently he was going for a fully-blown and polished sound that was not at all what roots-loving Patty wanted. So she called up Newbury Sound to do a live 'n' dirty demo of what the record SHOULD sound like. That was the kind of thing that was up my alley, so naturally I was tapped to engineer.

The band that walked in the door that day were all Boston Hall-of-Famers: Adam Steinberg on guitar, Jim Mouradian on FenderBass, and Billy Conway behind the kit. I mic'd everything up and before long we were rolling tape. Patty was in a glass booth with my favorite old Neumann U87 in front of her, and the band rolled takes totally live. Incredible. One thing I remember fondly was on one of the playbacks in the control room (on the big Urei mains), Conway complimented the drum sound. He said, "Now THAT sounds like my drums! Why don't other engineers get that sound? That's exactly what I'm looking for!" That made me tingle with pride because as a member of Treat Her Right, he had had plenty of session experience with a couple of major producers. The only overdubs we did were some guitar things with Adam. Like he'd play electric on the live take and then overdub an acoustic.

And Patty was amazing. She sang flawlessly and with a lot of soul. It only took a golden touch of reverb at the console and her track was good to go. She reminded me of Aretha, Janice, Bonnie Raitt and Emmylou Harris all rolled in to one.

The only glitch was a political one. The studio had run out of DAT tapes to mix to. It was Sunday and the DAT store was closed. So I offered up a tape that I had with me which had some other crap on it. Her manager, a woman who was extremely in control of everything and not in a happy way, did not like this idea. But since there was little other option, that's what we did. She made me sign something that I would erase my copy and this was not for release and blah blah blah. So the next day I made a copy for Patty and the manager and that was that.

Did I erase the original that I had made?

Well guess what I found the other day? Hehehe...wink wink!

Sounds incredible.

The second time I worked with Patty was when I was producing tracks for Laurie Geltman's "No Power Steerng" CD. The sessions were in '95 or so, at old Euphoria Studios in Revere, which by that time was really showing its age. But we did some great songs in there, and Patty came in to to do backups on the song "Elbow" as I recall. Again, Patty was a one-take wonder.

Hot Rockin' Nights at The Ol' Bucky

Finally some time to blog. I'll see if I can get two topics up today.

First, I had a dream last night, that I was walking down the rubble-strewn corridor of an old hotel that was vacant and seemingly under renovation. Down the end of the long hall, there was one room still in it's original condition; plush with dark wood, warm lighting and bookcases. There was a dark haired older woman in there who said she had lived there for forty years. That's when I was awakened by the big lightning storm that blew through here last night. Big boomers! One strike was literally within yards of the house.

As I laid there with the storm going, I was haunted by the dream. Then it occurred to me that, long ago and for a brief time, my band House of Joy actually rehearsed at the Buckminster . Yes, Hotel Buckminster, the famous vintage hotel in Kenmore Square with the Pizzeria Uno on the ground level. Who knew that rock bands used to rehearse there? I mean, I had nearly forgotten it.

This must have been '89? '90? I DO think there were people living there on the upper floors. There was literally plaster rubble all over the place. You'd walk in and there was a front desk with a guy at it, take the crappy elevator or stairs up to, I'm pretty sure it was the second floor we played on. There were several bands playing in the old rooms up there. In fact, 'BCN DJ Shred's band was in the room next door to ours. They were kinda cow-punk, as I recall. Anyway, our room was on the Brookline Ave side, just about 10 feet above the street, and our window looked out across the pike at the lights of Fenway. It was summer and hot. Between songs we could often hear the cheering crowd coming from the old ball yard. Because there was a constant flow of people parading up and down the sidewalk below our window, and it was too hot to close the window, now and then a couple people would actually stop and listen to us from out there. We'd wrap up a song, and there'd be impromptu clapping from the street below.

Good times at the old Flop-House Fuckminster.


Obviously the "Bucky" was restored and polished back to glory, and it still stands today, offering elegant and pricey accomodations to visitors to Bean-town. (And I guarantee you there are no bands practicing there anymore, and likely never will be again).


"Hello?....No! For the hundredth time, this is NOT the HOUSE OF CHOY!" Glammy Times on a rooftop, HOJ, circa 1990.