An eight-year slumber has ended for Mariachi El Bronx with Mariachi El Bronx IV out Feb 13 on ATO Records. The core of Mariachi El Bronx is its abrasive musical stepbrother, The Bronx: Joby J. Ford (guitar, vihuela, accordion) and Jared Shavelson (drums), and vocalist Matt Caughthran, who is visually beaming, his smile penetrating from under his black “LA” baseball cap. Behind him are records, framed posters, and punk paraphernalia—all basking in California sunbeams seeping in through the window.
“For us, it is all about the balance,” says Caughthran. “The Bronx celebrated 20 years. That was a milestone. We released Bronx 6. Been around the world. We celebrated. It was a good time to switch gears.” The band agreed. “It felt like the end of a chapter for The Bronx,” notes Caughthran. “It was time to put it on the shelf.” Reacting to my wince, Matt assures, “Of course, The Bronx is still around, still playing shows. We will definitely be recording at some point.” Caughthran refocuses, “For five years, the need for Mariachi El Bronx was becoming more and more urgent. We were really inspired and hungry to write a new record. Which is where you want to be. We came home from tour and dove in and started writing, started demoing. We were a little nervous. ‘Would we still have that thing?’ If the magic would still be there. But it was.” Listening to IV, no one will be surprised at Caughthran’s confidence in his bandmates. “It continues to be an incredible, unlimited source of inspiration, joy, and music,” he says.
Mariachi El Bronx is a different vehicle for Caughthran. He gets to stretch different muscles from The Bronx. But does it come with a burden to be traditional mariachi? Does it involve research? “In a broad way, yes” he replies. “One thing I wanted to explore on this album is in the song, ‘Bandoleros.’ The credos are traditional, narrative stories about historic battles, heroes, and public figures. It can be about current events. They’re a musical newspaper. People can sing a song to know what’s going on in their community. It’s the battle hymn of the album. It’s about going into to battle together. It’s about brotherhood and being in a band. It’s about having fun, being with your friends, and letting the chips fall where they may. Living fast and dying young.”
The conversation leads to a breakdown of semantics and other verbal tools. He explains how myopic he is about syllables, how scrutinizing he is about word choices, and avoiding what he dubs, “becoming a slave to the rhyme.” The discussions are of frequency and application. But he does not wish to be mired in these details. The big picture retains top status. “The aspect of storytelling is something that I am constantly reminding myself of,” he concedes. “With the Bronx and with punk rock, I’ve always come from ‘I fuckin hate my boss. I hate the fuckin government. And fuck you!’ and that’s the song. It works but … it’s got to be more poetic. It’s got to have more depth. It’s got to be more intelligent for it to be Mariachi El Bronx.”
Caughthran’s storytelling process is a particular foundation of approaches. “It’s trying to find that balance of saying what you want to say and saying it in a way that I like. I don’t like meandering or spoken word melodies. I find myself thinking too much about that. I find myself going to war with myself. As a writer, you need to know where your boundaries are. What your strong points are.”
The raw sweat and spit of The Bronx could be recorded in a studio or in a closet on a four track. Down to basics, their sound bends to a paranoid, claustrophobia state, frantic and deterring. But Mariachi El Bronx—creatively and logistically—need physical space. Never mind thinking room, this band needs literal elbow room. But to Caughthran, “Recording is the best part for us. Especially, on this album. Even going into it. There is so much, ya know? You demo stuff. Even in the demoing stage, you can start to lose your mind,” he laughs. The word is pressure. For the band as an entity and, just as importantly, as a circle of talented, hard-working musicians. “I wrote these songs multiple times, over and over, and different versions just to get the right feel. And making sure it wasn’t something that felt good just to me. Making sure it felt right to the whole band.”
An obstacle that has surfaced in their dormancy is physical proximity. “Take us now. We’re living in different parts of the city. Some in different states. We’re sending ideas back and forth. But it’s not like we’re getting together and really jamming these things out before we get in the studio. So, this record—more than ever—was everyone coming together in the studio and just locking in.”
As if the corralling of eight adults was not sufficient stress, those individuals have independent lives. “You have ten years of a lay off. You have the importance of a Mariachi El Bronx record. No one wants to make a record that no one cares about. No one wants to make a record that isn’t good.” Then, Mother Nature rears her vengeful head, “and on top of that, you had the fires of Palos Verde and Eaton Canyon happening right outside the studio. We recorded in San Gabriel—where we’ve done all of our records. With John Avila. He is our guy. Incredible musician.” Returning to the stark state of recording, “(we) had all these things, all these pressures coming into the record from outside. Plus, everyone has their own internal pressures. From things that are going on in their life and expectations that they have for themselves in this record. Whether it is as a songwriter or playing their instrument.” With sympathy and respect for his cohorts, he supplements these tangibles with “the chaos of the world around us. The world has changed a lot in the last ten years.”
But IV establishes fluidity as it expands Mariachi El Bronx’s canon. The songwriting is vivid, visceral, violent. Listening produces a vision of a lone, crawling body tattered and sweating in a desert sun, propelled by desperation and wanderlust. These are also tales of today reimagined in the realm of rugged bastards, drunks, banditos and “gamblers, former playboys, warriors, lovers” states the press release. The echoes of lives abandoned emanate from the haunting conduits of Keith Douglas (trumpet), Ray Suen (violin), Brad Magers (trumpet), Ken Horne (jarana), and Vincent Hidalgo (guitarrón). Their instruments are hypnotic emissaries joining our ears to another existence bathed in sorrow, regret, and yearning; dressed with tobacco-soaked dust, dry spigots, and tumbleweeds.
Moving as the emotional pith of this band is, the business will need to be done differently. Caughthran comments, “The music industry has changed a lot in the past ten years,” impacting recording, touring budgets, album sales, and merch. “This is for every band on an independent label.” The band’s label, ATO Records out of Chicago was founded by Dave Mathews, and has built a reputation for its diverse roster that includes My Morning Jacket, Alabama Shakes, Amyl & the Sniffers, and Primus. Mariachi El Bronx will adjust and absorb the positivity resulting from writing IV. “That was our time to be together, block it all out, and have fun writing an album.”
Some miseries of the outside world penetrate, current ecological and political climates ensure they will. Caughthran cites present situations and issues for which he can verbally design an anachronistic guise. Repackaged allegories in old, precarious tales of Mariachi culture. “It’s song by song for me. I obviously have my own agenda going into an album, things I want to write about. Ideas that I wrote down thinking they’d be cool. And you usually attempt to get those in—but one of the things I think is important when making an album is surrendering to the process. So, as a lyricist, I need to surrender to the music.” And his bandmates supply a stunning, foreboding, and beautiful tapestry for Caughthran to adorn with his gilded gift of gab.
Mariachi El Bronx IV is out Friday and you can preorder it from ATO Records. Follow Mariachi El Bronx on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter for future updates.
Photo Credit: Auzzy Nufable