By Diego Renteria
From: Tell Your True Tale
As a teenager, I was part of a mariachi group with high school friends. We performed at birthday parties, masses, quinceañeras, and weddings around Southern California, each time becoming part of someone’s special occasion.
We always hesitated about taking gigs after December 15th because members traveled with their families for the holidays. In 2006, however, almost all our members stayed in our town of South Gate for Christmas, so that year we accepted a Christmas Eve gig because it was a one-hour performance in our hometown.
I arrived at the house about a half hour early and warmed up with my fellow musicians at a nearby strip mall parking lot. The night was chilly and our thin trajes were no match for the cold. I worried about not being able to feel or control my fingers in the cold but looked forward to a quick festive performance without worrying about being harassed by a drunk.
We walked down their driveway to their backyard. Most of the backyard was taken over by a stucco-on-chicken-wire two-story rear unit that looked perpetually under construction. A few people sat around a small fire in the center of the backyard, eating tamales from disposable plates and staying warm by the fire. The lights in the front unit were on and the smell of pozole wafted from the open kitchen door to the backyard.
They had hired us but did not seem very invested in our performance. I was accustomed to the occasional grito or exhortation in the middle of songs, clapping at the end of songs, and song requests, but this audience seemed unusually indifferent. As we encircled the family members and sang for them, the embers and smoke from their fire blew towards us, enveloping us and choking us.
When our hour was done, we bowed and started to take our leave. One of the men stopped us.
“Stay for one more hour.”
I did not expect anyone in the house to notice us leaving, let alone ask us to stay.
“Can’t. It’s Christmas Eve and we agreed to only one hour. We have to go be with our families.”
“I’ll pay five hundred dollars for the second hour.”
“Sorry, we really have to go.”
“Seven hundred dollars?”
“Look, we must…”
“We’ll talk about it with the rest of the group.”
We thought he was bluffing about the money. He gave us $500 and said he would give us the rest at the end. One hour of our time on Christmas Eve was worth $1,000 to him. Usually we charged $300 an hour. Read Rest of This Story Here
Diego Rentería is a semi-retired mariachi musician who plays the guitar, vihuela, and guitarrón, who used to live in the Los Angeles area, but now lives in Boston.