The bedroom closet door swings open to reveal several dozen brightly colored suits. The colored tips of the two-tone shoes peek out from the shelves of the shoe closet. Wide-brimmed hats with feathers, chain watches, suspenders and jeweled cufflinks lie on a dressing table with a mirror. For Jesús de la Rosa, aka Pachuco Nereidas, this dressing room is his private chapel. When I see José de la Rosa adjusting his cufflinks, stroking the feather in his hat and looking solemnly at the mirror, it is as if I am attending the liturgy of a bullfighter getting dressed before entering the ring. This is where the transformation takes place that connects him to his truest self: “We pachucos are made of blood”. “My grandfather was pachuco and my father after him. “It’s not a costume, it’s a way of life that transcends generations,” he asserts. His bare chest reveals a whole story based on tattoos and scars. His battle name, Pachuco Nereidas, is engraved in ink on his sternum, and on his chest is a tattoo of an eagle devouring a snake, from the national coat of arms of Mexico. The scars speak to other, more violent and less romantic times, when pachucos navigated the murky waters of gang members before they became dandies. “Ready,” he calls, tapping the brim of his hat with his finger, a futile gesture from someone who knows he’s the king of the neighborhood. At the door of his home is a spectacular white 1950 Dodge and worn brown leather seats that form the frame that completes the postcard of a decade 70 years away.
José de la Rosa, aka Pachuco Nereidas, in the purest style of a 1950s heartthrob. Rafael Estefania
The Pachucos were born as a youth gang movement in the late 1930s in the border states of Mexico and the United States. “They were the children of second-generation immigrants who suffered from racism in their flesh. Excluded, orphaned in no man’s land, they ended up rebelling against an American society that excluded them,” Mexican sociologist and expert on urban cultural expressions Vicente Froilán Escamilla tells me. No doubt they were not attached to the Nobel Prize winner Octavio Paz, who in one of his texts defined them as “apathetic and sinister clowns” who “indicate through grotesque dandyism and anarchic behavior not so much the injustice or inability of a society that has failed to assimilate them, but rather their personal desire to continue to be different.” to be heard and, above all, to be visible.
Music events at the Zócalo in Mexico City are one of the meeting places for pachucos. Rafael Stephanie
“Aesthetically, they took inspiration from other groups of marginalized migrants, mainly from Harlem in New York, and took the aesthetic of the zoot suit that existed in New York jazz circles and turned it into their own symbol of rebellion,” says Vicente Froilán. Baggy, high-waisted trousers held up by suspenders and tightened at the ankles to accentuate two-tone shoes, long jackets with exaggerated shoulder pads in bright colors, and single-feather fedoras.
This exuberant aesthetic had its own soundtrack with the rhythms of danzón, swing, cha-cha-chá and mambo. Also his hero on the big screen is Tin Tan, the character immortalized by actor Germán Valdés, star of hundreds of films in the golden age of Mexican cinema, who became the lovable personification of pachuco, leaving behind his quarrelsome past and becoming the image of the likeable playboy and party-goer that pachucos are associated with today. In the Zona Rosa, in the heart of Mexico City, a four-meter tall statue of Tin Tan appears ready to jump and swing from its pedestal onto the dance floor. It is music and dance that is the very glue that makes older Pachucos leave their homes and gather around an orchestra or sound system in Ciudadela Park outdoors on Saturdays to dance outdoors, becoming an unexpected and anachronistic tourist attraction and wearing out their soles on Danzón Tuesdays at the Los Angeles Ballroom. In a way, you could say that the pachucos are the last custodians of a music meant to be danced to, but which only makes sense when lived on the dance floor. “In Mexico City we will be about 150 pachucos. Then there are those from the border towns like Chihuahua and Tijuana and also the Pachucos who live in Los Angeles,” says José.
The garments are part of a collection of more than 80 suits that he keeps in the private chapel that is his dressing room. Rafael Stephanie
Today there is a music event in the Zócalo Square. On the way we make a quick stop at the warehouse where José keeps the rest of his suit collection. Walking through a workshop with junk cars and a mechanic changing some tires, you come to a room full of Pachuca memorabilia: hats, shoes and 80 suits carefully stored in clear plastic cases. “Not all of them fit in at home, so I have to keep them here. The mechanic who rents me this space also fixes my old cars so everything is perfect.” José chooses a fuchsia pink one with a matching hat, a white polka dot shirt and two-tone pink and white shoes. “We already have a set for Tuesday,” he says. The Tuesday José speaks of is Danzón Tuesday, an institution within another institution: the official gathering day of the Pachucos in their temple, the Los Angeles Ballroom in the Guerrero neighborhood. This place opened its doors in 1937 — it’s the oldest dance hall in Mexico — and the music hasn’t stopped there since. It’s more than a dance hall, it’s a time capsule. Its walls are covered with hundreds of photographs of bands and orchestras that have performed here over several decades. In one corner, an altar commemorates Dámaso Pérez Prado, the king of mambo, who popularized this style on the same stage in the 1940s. “At one of the tables, Benny More wrote the song Bonito y saboroso on a napkin,” says Miguel Nieto, head of the salon. “On the same dance floor you see, Frida Kahlo danced with Diego de Rivera. “The cultural and musical history of Mexico was written in every corner,” he insists, proud of owning a space that’s as sacred as a cathedral but a lot more fun. “The motto of the salon, coined by my father, is: ‘If you don’t know the Los Angeles Salon, you don’t know Mexico.’ This phrase refers to the salon, the neighborhood and the city of Los Angeles, because if you don’t know this city, you don’t know a very important facet of Mexico, namely the migrants, and it is precisely from these migrants that the pachuco movement was born.”
A closet of two-tone shoes ready to wear. Rafael Estefania
The doors are not yet open to the public and the pachucos are the first to arrive. Here the residents of the hall, practically transformed into entertainers of the party, meet the pachucos, who arrive alone. The average age is around 60 years. At 69, Carlos Bueno, immaculate in his ivory suit, gold shirt, pendants, gold brooch and embroidered hat, is one of the eldest. “I’ve been coming here for 40 years. “To me, being Pachuco means being free, doing what you like and enjoying the dance and life no matter your age,” he says. There is no Pachuco without Rumbera (or Jainas, as they are also known). Carmen, her sentimental companion and dance partner, dressed in a silver and green stretch bodysuit with rhinestones and a tuft of green feathers, could pass for an antique circus trapeze artist. “For me, there is something magical about being able to wear the Rumbera costume of the 1930s. These clothes have fascinated me since I was a child,” she explains. “Mexico City’s pachucos and rumberas are like family. We all know each other and if anyone goes missing, they will be missed greatly.” Given the age of the pachucos, saying “they are missing” has a tragic vibe that makes us think we might be before the last generation of these dandies, watching the last dance of an endangered species.
My gloomy thoughts are dispelled as Zaira and Joshua enter through the living room door, a decidedly young pair of Pachucos, perfectly matched in metallic blue suits. “My grandfather was a pachuco from back then. For me it is a joy, a privilege and it has become part of my life. It’s about continuing to search for our identity. We are not from there, we are not from here, but we are here,” explains Joshua, alluding to the uprooting of his ancestors. “We young people are hardly aware of the old rhythms like the cha-cha-chá and the danzón; However, when you get into these genres and fall in love with them, there is something very magical that pulls you in. The fact of dressing for the occasion, the dancing… everything is a ritual,” says Zaira.
The local wardrobe. Rafael Estefania
With the orchestra on stage, the room begins to fill with people. In this democratic space, classes are diluted and people from all walks of life share the stage. At one of the tables next to the dance floor, an elegant gentleman in a tuxedo and black bow tie is drinking a glass of champagne with his wife, dressed in a yellow tulle evening dress. Three tables down, a group of women are celebrating their birthdays with quesadillas, moles, and a homemade Tupperware cake. On the dance floor, the pachucos join the hundreds of couples queuing to start the next dance. Later, a conga sounds and the pachucos take center stage, performing their choreography and forming a circle of people around them trying to emulate the dancing skills of these veterans.
One of the details that characterize this dandy are the tattoos on his skin.Rafael Estefanía
As he descends the wide spiral staircase in the living room, Pachuco Nereidas appears in his brand new pink zoot suit with the air of an old-fashioned gallant, making his way among the people in an almost reverent manner. A quick movement of the shoulders, enhanced by the suit’s large shoulder pads, and a combination of frantic dance steps on the checkered tiles reveal this dancer’s pedigree to those in attendance in just two movements. During the night there will be many couples passing through his arms with buoyant danzones from another time. “Our culture will survive, it will never die,” assures José before inviting a lady to dance the next danzón. “The pachuco is elegance, the pachuco has dignity. In a few words: “The pachuco lives and the dance goes on,” he says, before disappearing onto the dance floor, merging in an elegant embrace and fading between the rest of the dancing couples with each turn.
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