At the Swap Meet, Musica of the Heart

From the parking lot adjacent to the San Fernando swap meet the blaring of auto and truck horns merges with the popular ranchera music that seems predominate in these parts. Amid blasters spewing “Ay! Ay! Ay!” folks line up to pay the $1 entrance fee, squeeze through the turnstile, then scrounge the booths for bargains: T-shirts (three for $10), herbs and oils (with secret powers) that rekindle romance, cure liver disease and flush out impurities, and the ubiquitous plastic santos (saints) made in Tijuana. Tired of the same old tunes, I’m here to buy the latest CDs by Latino artists. I need the happiness that music provides.

From early a.m. until late at night, music fills my house and neighborhood, for that matter. I can tell the time by the rap music that each morning, right at 7:30, blares from the snazzy pickup driven by a teenager next door as he leaves for school. On weekends, the quiet of night is jarred by the heavy metal sounds that in the foothills bounce off the mountains. On Sunday mornings at Mt. Gleason Junior High School, the mostly Latino soccer players warm up to Tex-Mex music that comes to a screeching halt with the first kick.

How people live without la musica is a mystery to me. Life without music is like being dead (well, almost). Since time immemorial, among nonliterate societies, historical legends and myths were kept alive with song; courtly lovers put to music words difficult to articulate; minstrels sang for their supper. During the Middle Ages, music was as central to European royal courts as liturgical music was to Rome and the Pope. Flor y canto (flower and song) was long at the heart of Aztec culture. Music ruled.

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When at the swap meet, I make it a point to look for Don Camilo Ramirez, an elderly, cavalier senor who plays the violin and sings. He’s never in the same place, but if one listens for the sound of his music--it cuts across through the melee--he can be found. He stands at 5 feet or so in highly polished vaquero boots. Atop his head sits the white cowboy hat he adjusts before he begins a song. In a quirky voice that often falters, he sings canciones de amor, songs of love and longing, of my parents’ generation. My favorites ($1 each) are “Mi Ranchito” and “Vereda Tropical.” I once asked for “El Ausente,” about an absent lover. He only knew a few verses; I knew them all so sang along with him. What fun!

Don Camilito, as the vendors call him, is very popular among the tradespeople; they respect his talent and age and seem to look out for him. He doesn’t sing at funerals or weddings or in church, but enjoys the camaraderie and following he has found at the swap meet, where he discreetly sets a money box atop the gravel. Before singing he clears his throat and sips bottled water. I once saw a man toss money in the box as he went by. He never asked for a tune, merely tipped his hat to Don Camilo.

Music is everywhere. Like Italians, Latinos need music to soothe both mind and body. At the swap meet, stalls that cater to music lovers have the latest Latino sounds. In an effort to woo buyers and drown out the competition, sellers turn up a speaker’s volume so that it hurts the ears. Unlike the romantic ballads of Don Camilo, nortena and ranchera music seem repetitious, crass.

I’m almost out of dollars and should head for home, but just then I hear the voice of Placido Domingo. He is singing a song the Mexican composer Agustin Lara wrote for the actress Maria Felix. The melody brings back memories of an old flame, un viejo amor. Years ago, under the watchful eyes of our spouses, he and I danced to “Maria Bonita.”

Next time I hit the swap meet, I’ll ask Don Camilo to sing it just for me.