King of mariachi -- and endurance

Mexican singer Vicente Fernandez is as reliable as the seasons. The mariachi star returns to Los Angeles each fall, and fans faithfully flock to see him as they did Friday for the start of a seven-night engagement at the Gibson Amphitheatre, his longest run in 20 years at the venue.

Every year, his show is the same. He brings a top-notch mariachi -- 28 musicians this time, seated orchestra-like behind him -- plus a supply of cognac that he downs steadily during his marathon three-hour performances. Visibly tipsy toward the end, the 66-year-old artist always astounds with a gigantic voice that never gives out, belting out hit after hit like a living jukebox.

The only mystery: How does his fan base keep growing in a rural genre that is continually dwindling as a force in Latin pop music?

The king of mariachi -- wearing an intricately embroidered charro outfit with a pistol on his belt -- keeps making new records, but they’re almost irrelevant compared to his vast repertoire. He introduced a powerful new number Friday -- a heartfelt, pro-immigrant plea -- but it received a tepid response. What the fans wanted to hear were the hits, many popularized before some of them were even born.

Chente, as his fans call him, is a constant in a changing world. At a time when Mexico’s most popular acts (Paulina Rubio, RBD, Thalia) ape U.S. pop styles at the expense of their own cultural identity, Fernandez remains a proud symbol of what it means to be Mexican. Or at least, what it used to mean.

Fernandez is the last in a line of towering mariachi superstars. His legacy traces to the music’s golden era in the ‘40s and ‘50s, when singers Jorge Negrete and Pedro Infante exported the culture through popular Mexican movies of the day. But those stars died young, as did singer Javier Solis, whose passing in 1966 at age 35 left the mariachi throne vacant for Fernandez to fill.

Like his predecessors, Fernandez embodies a romanticized image of the Mexican man as passionate, strong, tender, patriotic, noble, loyal, fearless and just. Those qualities are amply reflected in his songs.

In “El Rey” (The King), he’s proud and independent, in poverty or in wealth. In “Bohemio de Aficion,” he’s willing to throw it all away for love. In “Serenata Huasteca,” he elevates stalking into a fulfillment of destiny, stubbornly serenading an uninterested woman because he’s convinced she will come to love him too.

Chente is the suitor who doesn’t back down, even under threat of death (“No Me Se Rajar”). He’s the immigrant who doesn’t give up despite repeated beatings and deportations (“Los Mandados”). And he’s the swaggering macho who privately confesses that his bravado is just a mask for a broken heart (“Aca Entre Nos”).

He’s also a man who does as he pleases. When Fernandez lighted up a cigarette on stage in defiance of the rules, one stocky, thick-necked fan turned to his buddies in the crowd to express his approval. Rule-breaking naturally appealed to that admirer, who occupied a seat that didn’t belong to him, and was willing to fight when challenged.

Nobody clued the lout that you can bend some rules only if you have a voice that ranks as a natural wonder. It’s one thing for the star to get plastered and prove he can maintain. It’s quite another for fans to try to keep up by bingeing on beer while proving they can barely stand and cheer.

It was extraordinary talent that transformed this former shoeshine boy into a folk hero. His fans love him because they see themselves in a common man who turns popular characteristics into virtues and makes them feel that they too share his qualities.

Fittingly, Fernandez uses few stage effects, save the house lights that often shine on the masses.

agustin.gurza@latimes.com