He Never Lets Up

It’s a gorgeous summer morning in this sleepy town across the bay from San Francisco--just the kind of day, no doubt, that inspired Carlos Santana a decade ago to think about making this area his home base. Not only does he live here, but he also has an office complex downtown, where he rehearses and deals with business matters.

But the area’s calm is broken by the clatter from a plethora of car repair shops. Just a few steps from Santana’s office, a welder is trying noisily to restore the original shape of a wrecked vehicle.

The setting seems perfect for a man whose own set of contradictions becomes apparent a few minutes after you meet him.

Here’s a legendary figure in the world of popular music, a respected guitarist who has sold an estimated 30 million albums over the last 30 years and who has shared the stage with everyone from Bob Dylan to the Rolling Stones. He was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in January and will receive a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame on Aug. 17.

Given all of Santana’s success and acclaim, it’s easy to imagine him sliding into middle-age complacency.

Instead, he remains every bit the rebel, musically and personally. For all his success, the Tijuana native has never forgotten the sting of belonging to an oppressed minority. Even today, he’s not one to pass up an opportunity to criticize the establishment.

“I kiss nobody’s ass,” Santana says only a few sentences into a conversation that takes place in a plush conference room decorated with memorabilia.

But as soon as the topic switches to his wife, Deborah, or his three children, Santana’s expression changes. His face remains serious--he rarely laughs, although his conversation is always sprinkled with humor and irony--but there’s a sweetness to his eyes, a peaceful sparkle of utter contentment.

“If you come to my house, there’s nothing about Santana [in it],” he says. “No gold records, no souvenirs. It’s just my family and me. If you want to know people, you have to visit them. And I like visiting my wife and children. The only time I have left after I’m done with my music, I devote to them.”

Although his recent albums haven’t sold as well as such ‘70s classics as “Abraxas,” Santana continues to be a strong draw on the concert trail. As part of his summer tour, he’ll be at the Greek Theatre for four nights starting Thursday. Santana is hoping to jump-start his recording career again, having signed a new pact with Arista Records, where he is reunited with label president Clive Davis, the executive who signed him to Columbia Records three decades ago.

“I’ve always had a tremendous regard for Carlos and his music,” says Davis. “I love the fact that he’s ambitious, hungry and inspired with all kinds of musical ideas. . . . Santana is as relevant today as he was before.”

It is only a few days after the guitarist’s 53rd birthday, and it’s clear that he likes to think of himself as brimming with the same passion and energy that he brought to the music business all those years ago. He’s eager to live up to Davis’ expectations.

“I want to be with passionate people, people who have the necessary vision to place my music back on the radio,” he says, sitting calmly as his assistants in the adjoining room hustle about, finalizing details for the next leg in an almost never-ending cycle of touring. “Clive has only 27 artists and has enough passion to take care of all of them.”

“Passion” is a key word for Santana, one that is repeated throughout the day.

“There’s nothing wrong with having passions, you know,” he says at one point. “I never saw Miles Davis bored, or boring. I always saw him with big eyes, looking at the food, looking at the girls. So, I admire people who have unending passion . . . that bubbly thing. You don’t want to drink a 7-Up that doesn’t have bubbles.”

During the last decade, Santana has had a hard time finding people with whom to share that effervescence. “Wayne Shorter has that passion,” he says when asked to name some of his favorite contemporary musicians. “Herbie Hancock has it. But there’s not that many people who are consistently hungry.”

That view may explain why Santana’s music is still rooted in the ‘60s and why he has such respect for many of that generation’s rebellious luminaries.

Of today’s musicians, the guitarist can cite only a handful of artists whom he considers relevant.

“I like Dave Matthews,” he says slowly, as if going through an imaginary list of candidates. “I like Primus. Definitely Prince. But there’s too many guitarists who play a zillion notes per minute. And I don’t like people from Seattle too much, because they still sound white to me. I don’t like bands that sound black or white. I like bands that sound like a rainbow.”

In retrospect, Carlos Santana couldn’t have been in a better place at a better time than psychedelic San Francisco of the ‘60s, where he formed his band.

After spending his childhood in Tijuana, Santana moved to San Francisco, where he discovered the blues. In October 1966 he formed the Santana Blues Band with Gregg Rolie, a keyboardist he met after graduating from high school there.

Things were ripe for a group that could fuse the bluesy side of rock with Latin rhythms. Today, when the term “world music” has become a standard part of the pop vocabulary, it is hard to imagine the impact that Santana’s first three albums had when they appeared.

And the “Summer of Love” would define Santana’s musical and philosophical direction for decades to come.

“The ‘60s was the most important decade of the century,” he says. “You had Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, John Coltrane, Sun Ra, Jimi Hendrix. Everybody was experimenting with consciousness revolution, doing peyote, mescaline and LSD.

“People were going beyond the meat and the electricity, beyond logic. Vietnam was happening, the Watts riots, the Black Panthers. And it didn’t start in Liverpool, you know. To me, the Bay Area was supremely important in creating a whole new frequency for the rest of the world. I was very fortunate to be here at that time.”

After the band’s historic appearance at Woodstock in 1969, Santana’s first album, “Santana,” broke into the national Top 10 and stayed on the charts for more than two years. Through such songs as “Evil Ways” and “Soul Sacrifice,” the collection showcased beautifully the strength of his long, instantly recognizable guitar notes and the muscular strength of his multi-piece percussion section.

But the follow-up, “Abraxas,” which spent six weeks at No. 1 the following year, was the kind of defining work that still sounds vital. It was early in his career to achieve a creative zenith, but Santana’s second album somehow struck the perfect balance between salsa and blues, instrumental pathos and serene contemplation.

The combination of Fleetwood Mac’s “Black Magic Woman” and Gabor Szabo’s “Gypsy Queen” was a celestial piece of psychedelic blues, while Tito Puente’s “Oye Como Va” became in the hands of Santana the ultimate salsa-rock jam.

“When I was in high school, there were certain songs, like ‘Louie Louie,’ ‘Gloria’ or ‘Satisfaction,’ that made everybody go crazy,” he remembers. “The first time I heard ‘Oye Como Va,’ I knew it was a serious ‘party forever’ song. And since then, it’s like a feeding frenzy every time we play it.”

Although the group never quite recaptured the tremendous inspiration of the first three records, the albums kept coming, maintaining Santana’s signature guitar sound and the explosive presence of three or four percussionists.

During the ‘70s, the guitarist experimented with “Bitches Brew”-type atmospherics and collaborated with jazz guitarist John McLaughlin on the mystically tinged album “Love, Devotion and Surrender.” And in the ‘80s, his sound became more poppish and radio-friendly, although he never quite managed to match the commercial impact of the Woodstock days. His first Arista album, which will bring his career total to 29, could be in the stores next spring.

If there’s anything Santana enjoys talking about as much as music, it’s politics. At the end of the millennium, he is eager to make new music, but he also wants to awaken people’s consciousness.

“Anybody who communicates with people, be it through music, colors or information, is responsible for the message he delivers,” he says, returning to the room after a break to meet with a couple of young artists who design and print the colorful T-shirts Santana sells on tour.

“You have to pinch people and remind them that we’re accountable and responsible for this planet. I use music to give people information on how we can enter the new millennium without depending so much on authority figures. I always say that we can do without the three P’s: the pimps, the pope and the politicians.”

Santana has taken it upon himself to communicate these messages, and in concert he always takes a break from the music to emphasize his principles of unity and racial harmony.

“In every concert I have ever given, I emphasize what John Coltrane and Bob Marley used to say: ‘All is one, embrace your absolute. There’s one love, a love supreme.’ And everybody, even the gang members from East L.A., they leave the show saying: ‘Santana is giving us chewing gum for the soul, something to chew and think about.’ ”

Race is an important issue for Santana, and he uses his heritage to promote pride within the Latin community. “The truth is that in this country, if your skin is white, you have more opportunities. And we have to change that. Everybody gets wet when it rains, from the prostitutes to the pope. My music strives to communicate that message of unity.”

Santana is the first to admit that he could be accused of arrogance, or of speaking from a comfortable position of power.

“[I know that] a lot of people might say: ‘Who does Carlos think he is now?’ But that’s not true. I don’t wanna elevate myself while everybody else remains down.”

He pauses, and then looks out the office window with a hopeful expression on his face. “On the contrary, I want to transform, illuminate and elevate my consciousness, and other people’s consciousness as well. I’d like us to go into the new millennium with a new vision.”

Just before saying goodbye, he stands in a hallway lined with photos of his concert appearances around the globe. “I don’t believe in flags, borders or patriotism,” he says. “To me, that’s like asking me to eat somebody else’s barf. And I’d rather starve to death. The only flag to me is the heart.”

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Santana and Los Lobos, Greek Theatre, 2700 Vermont Canyon Road, Thursday-next Sunday, 7 p.m. $20.25-$38.25; Saturday sold out. (213) 480-3232.