Now it’s his career that’s on the move

As an immigrant, singer-songwriter Kevin Johansen, one of the most acclaimed new figures in Latin pop, is a man always going in the wrong direction.

He was born in Alaska, as far north as you can get and still be an American. He was raised from age 12 in Argentina, as far south as you can get and still be Latin American.

Pulled by polar extremes, he spent his life searching the hemisphere for a balance -- of culture, of language, of musical styles, of identity. He moved to New York in his mid-20s, a young man with a guitar seeking not so much success, but himself.

After 10 years, a divorce, a second marriage, a baby girl and countless odd jobs (including a short stint walking Joan Rivers’ dog), he went back to Buenos Aires with a demo of his own songs under his arm, the only thing he had to show for a decade of struggle in the Big Apple.

People there thought he was crazy. Argentina in 2000 was a country in collapse, economically and socially. Everybody was desperate to get out, he said with a laugh.

But as a musician, Johansen had finally made the right move.

He turned his New York demos into his debut album, 2001’s “The Nada,” put together a band by the same name and recorded another bilingual album, the quirky and clever “Sur o No Sur,” which has generated critical acclaim. “Sur” has been nominated for best album and his “La Procesion” for best song at the Latin Grammy Awards, which will be held Sept. 1 at the Shrine Auditorium.

The album captures the duality of his Argentine/American identity in an effortless whole that blends and bends genres, turning the jarring dilemma of displacement into an advantage. Johansen, who performed with his sextet Saturday at California Plaza, finally found that balance by just being himself.

“When you move a lot, you always try to adapt, and that’s what happened to me for many years,” says the affable singer, who agonizes to admit he just turned 40. “I was always trying to adapt to the place where I was, instead of having more confidence and showing who I was.”

Johansen’s hourlong set, the closing concert of the fifth annual Latin Alternative Music Conference, drew songs from his two albums. On stage, the all-Argentine band added punch and instrumental embellishments, notably the excellent flute and sax work of Andres Reboratti.

The problem was that Johansen’s deep baritone was often hard to hear in the mix, muddled in the lower registers with bass and percussion. People danced at the edge of the Water Court, but Johansen’s songs, to be best appreciated, need the lyrics.

Luckily, the singer gave clues in brief bilingual comments between songs. He introduced his characters, such as the insufferably smart dancer of “Cumbiera Intelectual” and the revolutionary posers of “McGuevara’s o CheDonald’s.”

Johansen invents a genre for every song. The tongue-twisting “Guacamole” is Tex-Mess. “Sur o No Sur” is popklore. And “Puerto Madero” is Angloturismo.

Clearly, he likes to think of himself as a des-generado, someone who breaks down genres, a de-genre-ate. In an interview before his show, Johansen also described himself as “the alternative to Latin alternative.”

It’s his way of defying categories, a natural response for someone who never fit in.

Johansen’s second album, and especially the title cut, is openly autobiographical. “Sur o No Sur” translates as “south or not south,” but in Spanish, it’s a play on Shakespeare’s “to be or not to be.”

The verses describe the push-pull of his immigrant experience, giving alternating reasons why he should stay or go, none of them good. It’s the story of a real nowhere man, one who’d like to stay home, if he could only find out where home is.

Johansen says he later realized the song’s universal application to all immigrants, regardless of nationality.

“Everyone can relate to the dilemma of ‘Sur o No Sur,’ ” he says, sipping a Starbucks at the plaza. “Do I stay here with my own culture or do I try to get a better life and change my culture for another?”

For Johansen, wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the logo of a dubbed TV show, “Los Soprano,” the choice was never either/or. Switching back and forth between cultures was his way to a better life.

His father was a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War who was banished by the Army to desk duty in Fairbanks. His mother was an educated Argentine immigrant who taught English and hated the cold clime.

Kevin, the antiwar baby, would soon become a child of divorce. After moving from Fairbanks to Denver, Phoenix and finally San Francisco, his parents split when he was 6. The boy rarely saw his real father again.

His mother soon remarried, but that union also ended, bitterly. One day, near the end of the sixth grade, she broke some drastic news: “Tomorrow, we’re going to Argentina.”

Johansen recalls the move as “a bit traumatic.” Within 24 hours, he became a preteen being raised by a single mother in a country he didn’t know.

In Argentina, Johansen was given a guitar by an uncle. He played in a local rock band, Instruccion Civica (Social Studies), that made a record in 1985. But five years later, he decided to go to New York and reconnect with his North American side.

Almost from the start, he found a patron saint in Hilly Kristal, owner of the famed punk and new wave club CBGB, where he made four recordings. He credits Kristal for helping him overcome hang-ups about writing in one language or the other. “English and Spanish is like one language to me,” says Johansen, who sometimes combines both languages in one line.

After Johansen’s first marriage ended, he briefly gave up performing. Kristal’s advice at that point, recalls Johansen in a mock serious tone: “If you’re down or sad, just write a sad song.” That’s when he started calling him his “mentor tormentor.”

To survive, Johansen worked as a tour guide at the United Nations, a receptionist at a firm doing ad jingles and a pianist at a hotel during the breakfast buffet, after he helped set up. He got the dog-walking job from an ad in the Village Voice.

Johansen returned to Argentina in 2000 after his neighborhood gentrified and his rent tripled. His mother-in-law had just died. His own mother would pass away soon after.

Somehow, he remained optimistic. His music, far from dark or angry, glows with humor, wry wit and affection for people and places he has encountered along the way.

“I never grew bitter,” says Johansen, whose second daughter was born eight months ago. “I guess songwriting helped me survive. Even at the worst moments, for some reason, I had this kind of weird confidence. I don’t know. I just had the feeling it was going to turn around.”