Looking for Camelia in the Polka Beat World of <i> Norteno</i>

It’s 10 o’clock on a Friday night, at the dingy end of University Avenue in San Diego.

Salieron de San Ysidro, procedentes de Tijuana . . .

They passed San Ysidro coming from Tijuana

Their spare tire was full of marijuana

He was Emilio Barela, she was Camelia, “ La Tejana”

The song buzzing through my head is called “ Contrabando y Traicion-- Smuggling and Betrayal”--but a lot of people just call it “ La Camelia. “

“ La Camelia “ is the reason I’m wandering around here, looking for Polo’s. I’ve been told this is the place where “ Camelia “ and other gutsy songs of the border--known as Norteno-- play nightly.

Norteno music is being heard a lot these days. It’s not your usual synthetic be-bop fad created by some ambitious record-company exec, but real music by and about real people. Border people. Polo’s is supposed to be one of its spawning grounds.

I first heard “ La Camelia “ in Tijuana in the Plaza Santa Cecilia several months ago. The mariachis were singing to each other as they gathered to await the night’s business.

When they passed San Clemente they were stopped

At the immigration checkpoint.

They were asked where they came from, And they had to show their papers.

She was from San Antonio, a woman with a big heart.

“ ‘ Camelia ‘ isn’t mariachi,” one of the accordion players tells me. “It’s Norteno. Border music. You hear Norteno on both sides. It is stories of life on the border. Life as it is, not how it should be. People know these songs all the way from Tijuana to the Caribbean.”

Polo’s is an oasis of light in the dark of University Avenue. A clump of men wearing cowboy hats and boots sit on tall bar stools under its entrance light, sharing a magazine. Behind them the thumping two-beat music comes out muffled, until you flub in through the heavy red Leatherette curtain.

“Ten-dollar cover charge,” says the guy in the shadows just inside. Ulp. Ten bucks? An early clue Norteno is moving up-market. “We have Memo Lugo and Los Lobos del Norte tonight,” he explains. “Plus, Los Consules.” The way he says it, these guys must be big in the Norteno world.

There’s a red glow to the place. A bobbing sea of 10-gallon hats dominates the dance floor. They almost seem to connect with the low ceiling. Swirling around them is a ghostly blur of white dresses, Edwardian in their fullness.

Yet the dance is no graceful bolero. It’s a rambunctious one-two polka. The women clutch their companions tensely around the neck. Suddenly you see why. Without warning, the men swoop their partners down onto the floor, sliding them along horizontally. The women hold on for dear life.

“ Quebradita! “ says a guy sipping a Bud, his eyes lighting up from beneath his Stetson. “ Quebradita? It’s a Norteno break-dance. Muy popular. “

When a woman loves a man, she’ll give her life for him

But, beware if she feels she’s been hurt

Smuggling and betrayal are two things that go together.

The band--Los Consules--ends its set. “You like the dance?” asks Jose Serrano, the drummer, who easily spots me in the crowd, bootless, buckleless and bareheaded. Serrano, it turns out, is 26, bilingual, and a rising star in the Norteno world. “Come to the back room,” he says, “we can talk. Memo Lugo will be playing for a while.”

We sit down with our beers in the starkly lit storeroom, crowded amid boxes and clothes. Serrano looks--and sounds--like a Latino Garth Brooks.

“ Norteno music, man! It’s incredibly popular. It has exploded in the last five years. Just like American country music has--it’s going crazy. We had 15,000 at a one-day festival in Balboa Park this year. In Texas they get four times as many. And look at Norteno dress code! A whole new fad in itself. Especially the guys.”

He takes off his hat.

“The hat’s the main thing--has to be a wide-brimmed Stetson. At least 10-X quality. The number of Xs in the brim show how expensive it is. See, mine has 10 Xs. That cost me $225. But a lot of guys go for 30-X. It’s status! Then there’s big buckle belts and vaquero boots. Guys like lizard boots--or what’s real popular right now is ostrich-skin boots--$700-$900 for a pair . . . Just so they can look the look when they come in here.”

They arrived in Los Angeles, and went straight to Hollywood

There, they exchanged their tires in a dark dead-end street

They delivered the load and received the money.

Gregorio Mena, the band’s 48-year-old guitarist, says Norteno has been strong since the late ‘40s, when northward migration really got going.

“But actually it dates back to the 1830s,” he says. “Our president, Santa Anna, allowed many Americans into Texas. Some of the immigrants were German. They brought the accordion and the polka with them. Then they took Texas from us, but we kept the accordion, and the polka beat--and they have been the heart of Norteno music ever since.”

But what about the soul of Norteno today--a time when Serrano composes happy yuppie songs like “ El Celular ,” a funny ditty about problems with lovers when you have a cellular telephone, or a song about foxy ladies, “ Te Vez Buena “ ?

So far I haven’t heard the gritty songs of border struggles I came to hear--classics like “ La Camelia “ or “ Los Mandados “ about the guy caught “300 times” by las migras trying to cross the border; or “ Tres Veces Mojado “ about Salvadorans who come north and risk being illegal in Guatemala, Mexico and, finally, the United States; or “ Felix, “ about the murder of a Tijuana newspaper editor, or even the ballad of the massacre at the McDonald’s in San Ysidro.

“Uh, we don’t play them,” Serrano says. “Look, I was born here in San Diego. . . I mean, I’m proud of my heritage. I’m teaching my little girl both languages. But our life is here. All these immigrants who keep coming across the border--well . . . they do cost our country a lot in welfare and medical bills.”

I thank Serrano and say goodnight. In the darkness of University Avenue, I flag down a cab. “ La Camelia “ floats back into my head. I guess the beers are helping. I’m trying to remember the last two verses. I start humming.

“Say, isn’t that a Norteno song?” the driver asks.

“Yes,” I say, “it’s supposed to be ‘ Contrabando y Traicion. ‘ I can’t remember the last two verses.”

“Well you’ve got the right cab,” the guy says. “My father used to sing them all.”

For the next 10 minutes Camelia comes alive as we fly down Interstate 5, singing at the top of our voices.

Emilio told Camelia: “ After today, you can go your way

You can start a new life with your part of the money.

Me, I’ll go to San Francisco, to join the woman of my life. “

Sonaron siete balazos.

Seven shots were heard. Camelia killed Emilio

The police just found a gun on the ground

Nobody knew what happened with Camelia and the money.