Don’t Mess With Tejas
Wrangler butts drive me nuts.
In the lexicon of rural America, that statement — generally reserved for bumper stickers, sleeveless T-shirts and mud flaps — is considered a compliment. A small slice of warm apple flattery that purports to say, “The sight of your ill-fitting jeans fills me with feverish lust” or, in simpler terms, “Self-imposed wedgies make me horny.”
When I say it, I’m politely imploring, “I am ill at ease with how snug your trousers are and fear that your groin will succumb to suffocation as a result.” Or, in simpler terms, “Dude, I can see your junk!”
I’m versed in the practical uses of blue jeans. They can withstand the elements. They won’t fall to your ankles when you’re elbow-deep in a pregnant heifer. They provide handy stowage for snot rags, billfolds and cans of Skoal. But they should not — under any circumstances — be used as a stage costume.
At least not by Raúl Navaira. For as Señor Mix-a-Lot might say, bambino got back. Then again, there’s something captivating about a large man in tight pants twisting and shouting for several hundred people, as Raúl and his brother Emilio did last Saturday at the Kansas City Tejano Jam. The man can shimmy. And by doing so, he demonstrates the celebratory side of Tejano music that tosses formality out the window in favor of shaking what your momma gave you.
Most people living north of Amarillo associate Tejano with its most famous murder victim, Selena, who was ventilated with a handgun at a Days Inn nearly a decade ago, striking a blow for Tejano while inadvertently boosting the career of Jennifer Lopez when Her Royal Bootiness starred in Selena.
I hoped to see that sort of Latin goddess at the Municipal Auditorium exhibition hall on Saturday night.
Raúl Navaira wasn’t what I had in mind.
But he didn’t disappoint, either. Nor did any of the other acts. Shelly Lares brought a little of Selena’s Tejana heat — not to be confused with Tijuana Heat, which describes the burning sensation one gets after fraternizing with a border-town prostitute — and David Lee Garza y Los Musicales offered their countrified Tex-Mex contributions. Ruben Ramos y Mexican Revolution transformed Municipal from the Y’All Come Back Saloon into the Buena Vista Social Club, and the cool sophistication of Little Joe y La Familia melded well with the elegant and dignified crowd, each of whom had paid $45 a ticket to get in. (The price tag hinted that events of this magnitude happen infrequently around here.)
But even as Little Joe — a pocket-sized frontman with a vague resemblance to Tattoo from Fantasy Island — had the dance floor swinging with his powerful voice and sleek backing band, it was Emilio y Grupo Rio that seemed to be having (and creating) the most fun.
Among the Tejano splinter cells, Emilio’s brand lands somewhere in a syrupy Bermuda Triangle of country, polka and mariachi. Tejano is generally up-tempo and jovial, driven by an accordion, a horn section or both, but Emilio (and the gyrating Raúl) contributed an additional goofy, pop-star edge.
Middle-aged women crowded the stage and shrieked whenever a soft, cooing voice or sudden pelvic thrust was offered in their direction. Emilio exhorted the crowd in Spanish, and the crowd responded with roars. Sadly, I had no idea what he was saying — my high school Spanish is on permanent recess — so the only things I could’ve translated into English would have been phrases like:
My name is Emilio. What is your name?
I would like two beers, please.
It is hot, and a cat is in my pants. Where’s the bathroom?
But Telemundo is the most entertaining channel on cable television for a reason. Watching good-looking people get shitfaced and writhe to a catchy beat transcends language barriers.
Plus, this was a communal affair. With the stylish clientele and the banquet tables surrounding the dance floor, it felt more like a large wedding reception than a concert. Men in suits and fedoras spun ladies in evening dresses while women in sharp cowboy hats two-stepped with gentlemen sporting crisp Western shirts and large, gleaming belt buckles.
Yes, the audience was mostly adults (furthering speculation that Tejano is fading away), but at least one youngster was present. A young boy — perhaps Emilio’s son Diego — danced and sang onstage alongside Emilio and Raúl. The kid seemed born to perform. Which can lead to only one conclusion.
It must have been in his jeans.
