Original image by There Stands the Glass.
One of the most surreal nights of my life transpired in Ellis, Texas, in 1997. On hand with my boss, I was representing independent record labels including Arhoolie, Rounder and Smithsonian-Folkways at The National Polka Festival. I waded through inch-deep puddles of spilled beer while entertaining guests from music retailers and wholesalers.
The majority of the festival’s patrons after the sun went down were wild-eyed college kids intent on drinking, dancing and getting intimate with new acquaintances. The impetuous youth inspired debauchery among revelers of all ages. I detest nostalgia, but that innocent era now seems paradisiacal.
Although he didn’t care for me, Jimmy Sturr eagerly glad-handed my important customers. The polka star’s recent collaboration with Flaco Jiménez- it won a Grammy Award in 1998- was revived in exceedingly sloppy fashion. My boss and I agreed that Jiménez probably shouldn’t interact with our clients that evening.
The accordionist was beyond commerce anyway. He was among the defining American artists of the 20th century. His early recordings are gloriously life-affirming. His hard-earned crossover bids like the 1992 album Partners are thoroughly engaging.
Jiménez also meant a lot to me personally. He was among the musicians to serve as navigable bridges in my stormy relationship with my father. A Freddy Fender appearance we happened upon at a Texas car dealership in 1975 was the first concert I attended. Fifteen years later, we sang along to the Texas Tornados party anthem "(Hey Baby) Que Paso”.
My dad died soon after that. Jiménez died last week.