Memories Waver but the Song Remains the Same

A name in the paper recently jolted my memory, taking me back to a time in my life long ago left behind. A time of taking chances with a new business and a new career, shedding the security of a salary just before assuming the lifelong responsibility of fatherhood.

In October of 1980 I opened my own music store in East Los Angeles. The day DiscoCentro debuted, my heart skipped a few beats, a coronary alarm alerting me that I had just jumped off a cliff and it was either fly or fall.

I had staked my survival on 1,500 square feet of space in a strip mall on Whittier Boulevard near Atlantic. Exactly a year later, my son was born. The palpitations accelerated, creating sharp and jagged peaks on my EKG.

Relax, my doctor ordered. Panic, said the bank, the tax man and my trusted workers who turned to me on payday to feed their own growing families.

I had no experience and no training in running a business. But then, most Latin record shops in those days were funky, mom-and-pop places managed with more character than know-how.

At least I had a concept: a specialty shop for Latin music presented in a pleasing, organized and modern environment. American marketing with Mexican soul.

The store design featured a spectacular layout of angled rows facing panoramic front windows. We brought floor tiles from Tijuana, covered the counter with colorful Mexican mosaico, and used splashy displays of blown-up album covers.

The store immediately drew the attention of a rising young executive in the local record industry. Guillermo Santiso had come from Argentina via Mexico and had taken charge of U.S. distribution of Melody Records, the hottest independent label of its day.

Santiso stood out amid the ragtag wholesalers clustered along Pico Boulevard west of downtown at a time when Latin music was still a ghetto market. He exuded South American charm and a confidence that occasionally crossed into arrogance. He loved to dress well, drink good wine and drive luxury cars.

And he had a Midas touch for making hits. Of course, the label’s local success echoed that of its parent firm in Mexico City. Melody was owned by Ignacio Morales, a man who raised bulls as a hobby and who opened an art gallery in Beverly Hills just for fun.

I couldn’t believe how these guys threw money around. So imagine my delight when they offered to invest in my undercapitalized store. They envisioned a Latin retail chain and they financed the second store right away, located in Boyle Heights near 1st and Soto.

That’s as far as we got. A severe recession nearly sank us. I was working longer hours for less pay, chasing shoplifters down the street and agonizing about my employees, who didn’t get paid near enough to face gun-toting robbers. Meanwhile, my partners were getting antsy for a return on their investment. At the end, following our fourth disappointing Christmas, we all had lawyers and parted, bitterly.

I went back to journalism and soon lost track of my former partners, who later also parted ways. This summer, as my son graduated from high school, I was dismayed to learn the fate of Santiso, who had become president of another hit-making label, Fonovisa. He was snared in a federal payola investigation, nailed for a phony tax deduction of $1.5 million and for running a cushy slush fund to bribe radio program directors.

Big revelation: The record business is dirty. The shock is that Santiso, who pleaded guilty, was turned in by his own parent company, Grupo Televisa, the Mexican media giant. I guess the big guys don’t get their hands dirty.

Recently, I returned to the shopping centers where our retail dreams had vanished. The Boyle Heights shop is gone, replaced by a bottled-water store owned by Cambodians. But I was happy to find the original location still open on Whittier Boulevard. Little is left of the original design, except the counter tile, now cracked. Today it’s stocked with CDs, not vinyl.

The manager has been there almost since I left in 1985, surviving three subsequent owners. Whenever they sell the store they sell him with it, joked Gilberto Miramontes, a man who still loves his job. He was so happy to meet me, I was taken aback.

Apparently, my former employees have dropped by now and again, asking for me. They remember me as a good boss, he said. And they look around, reminiscing about the infancy of a shop that will mark its 20th anniversary in October 2000.

I’m pleased to have started something that lasted. I found it fulfilling to serve customers who loved music like I did, and exhilarating to provide them with that rare song they sought.

That part of the music business will always remain incorruptible.

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Agustin Gurza’s column appears Tuesdays. Readers can reach him at (714) 966-7712 or online at agustin.gurza@latimes.com.