My father, who was into hot rods and fast cars, made me an offer: If I got A's and B's for six months straight, he would get me an Italian moped, so I could go back and forth to school. It was the start of my love affair with motorcycles that has never ended. I also discovered girls during this period and the connection between the two has never left me.
Across the street from Colegio Williams was Colegio Madrid, an all-girls school, where I saw my first true love, a beautiful blonde named Maria del Carmen, who caused me to blush madly whenever I said hello. For a whole year, I would show off by riding my moped around her, but I never had the courage to ask her to go for a ride.
As I became more serious about my music, my mother began a small business in our colonia selling farm fresh eggs, which she would deliver by car. Our neighborhood was very supportive. They knew I was saving the money for real drums. With their help, plus money from grandmother Pilar, I finally got my first professional set of drums, my first Slingerland kit. Adios cookie tins, though I have to admit I got a pretty substantial start with those tin cans and the army drum.
At 16, I met Fernando, who everyone called El Tarolas--snare drum in English--but among Mexican musicians it was a nickname for a spastic, odd-duck kind of guy. He was a great pool player, a real ladies man and an adequate piano player who knew all the standards like "Misty" and "Tea for Two," as well as some jazz and a little rock and roll. He had a lot of contacts at coffee houses that were springing up as the beatnik movement spread to Mexico; places full of older guys from the National University wearing beards, playing bongo drums, worshipping Jean Paul Sartre and flirting with communism. Some even smoked pot, but I didn't want to know about it; it just didn't interest me. I was interested in jazz, which was coming on strong with groups like Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck, and Dizzy Gillespie.
One afternoon I ran into Fernando in a park across the street from the pool hall which was his base of operations. He was all excited. "Fito, I got you a gig. I want you to come and play in this beatnik joint for me."
"I am too young," I told him. "They won't even let me in because you have to be over 18."
"Don't worry about it. They'll love you. You look good. You have talent. You're great on the drums. You have a thing for jazz. I want somebody who's not just a rock and roller. Come on, Fito, I'll show you a completely different side of music. I'm going to show you how I get a different girl every night and I'll take her home with me and she'll let me do anything I want with her. I'll also show you how you can make a lot of money playing music."
I hadn't really thought about music as a business, as a way to make money, but 50 pesos a day, about four American dollars, was good money for a kid, so the idea was very appealing. Better yet, the gig would give me chance to meet women. I still didn't have a sex life, beyond masturbation. I dated some girls, I kissed them, but that's as far as you could go in those days in Mexico.
Because I was under age, I wore a hat and dark glasses, not only to look like a beatnik, but to hide my face and help me blend into the crowd at the places where we played like La Faceta and El Ego, which became famous in Mexico City as the first coffee houses catering to intellectuals, rebels, poets, and other members of the avant-garde.
The club owners liked me; I seemed to fit in naturally, but because I was under age, the gigs were the start of a lifelong curse of being exploited when it came to getting paid. I'll never forget one club owner saying point blank, "I'll give you dinner, Fito, and let you drink a beer, but I'm not going to pay you as much as I pay Fernando." I wasn't about to argue. I was in heaven just playing and making what I considered big money for a 16-year-old who still lived at home.
By now, I was attending Colegio Franco Español and working toward a bachelor's degree in psychology, reading Fromm, Freud, Sartre, and Jung, and I was still planning to go on to the university. But I was having trouble staying awake in class because I was playing almost every night. I was in three different bands: Fernando's beatnik jazz trio, The Sparks in the colonia, and a new group at the school. I was fortunate though. When most students fell asleep in class, the teachers would throw erasers to get their attention, but in my case, some of the teachers would just go, "Shhhh, don't bother him" and let me snooze away.
The Sparks Fly in this Columbia Records promotional photo
My father, on the other hand, was starting to put pressure on me. He kept saying, "Don't play so much. You're grades aren't very good." He gave me such mixed signals. If he didn't want me to be a professional musician, why did he take me to see all those wonderful movies? Why did he buy me the instruments? I guess he figured, instead of me joining a gang, music would be a nice hobby.
Fortunately, many of the younger teachers had gotten caught up in the beatnik movement too, including my psychology teacher, my ethics teacher, and my philosophy teacher. They were all becoming regulars at the coffeehouses where I played. They were avant-garde people with a sensitivity towards my music and they knew that's where my energy went.
A number of them were homosexuals and they would show up in the cafes with their lovers. (AIDS didn't exist yet.) A couple of them came on to me, but I had a tantrum when one guy put his hands between my legs and that was it. They never pushed it. In some ways, Mexicans are very conservative about that stuff but in other ways they are looser, a little less prejudiced than in the States.
As my reputation grew and I started making more money, I realized that I didn't want to go on to the university. This was reinforced by Luis Maya, my logic teacher, who told me I was already a professional musician. He really appreciated my talent. I told him my father was getting on my case about my poor grades and he said:
"Forget about becoming a psychologist or a doctor because you are already on your way toward becoming a star. You are a pinche rocanrolero cabron." (Loosely translated, it means a fucking rock and roll sonofabitch, which he meant as compliment.) Forget about going to the university because you're not going to find the same sympathy and support there. You are going to be a drummer and you are going to be a great musician. Don't worry about your grades. I'm going to pass you and you'll get your bachelor's degree."
But not all the teachers were that helpful. My problem with my literature teacher wasn't because she was demanding or cruel or a monster. In fact, she was a good-looking woman with great legs, so when I wasn't fighting to stay awake in class, I'd stare at her legs and daydream. One day, in the middle of a daydream, I was called to the principal's office.
The principal was Señor Carriedo; a very stern, but handsome man of French and Spanish descent. He was sitting at his desk in a hand-tailored English Saville Row suit.
"Please sit down."
I'm thinking, "Shit, this is it. Something terrible is about to happen."
"I understand you have some outstanding talents, Mr. de la Parra."
Did he really say "outstanding talents?"
"I was wondering if you could do us a great favor and perform with your band at the graduation dinner. There are going to be several prominent senators, who are the padrinos (sponsors) of the graduation, plus Mayor Uruchurtu. With such illustrious guests, I feel the school should put on a first-class program."
I couldn't believe it. This guy didn't call me in to give me a hard time, he called me in to ask a favor. In the back of my mind I thought: now I've got him. Since I play drums in both school bands, neither group can play without me. And if I'm not there, there won't be any music. Sure, they can hire a marimba band or a conventional businessman's bounce type of band, but the kids don't want to hear that. The kids, the senators, the mayor, everybody wants to hear the now-famous rock and roll band from the Colegio Franco Español--of which I am the drummer. So I'm thinking: Go for it. What the fuck?
I quickly said: "I would be delighted to play for you, but I'd like your help. I'm having a problem with my literature class. I need to pass. I need to get my degree." (Mumbling under my breath, the fact that I was unable to take the final.)
"I'm