Los Lobos’ Native Sons is an album of covers (with the title track being the lone original) that surfs the wonderful rock ‘n’ roll waves of their youth. It is, in their own words, “a love letter to their hometown, Los Angeles” – because, of course, they’re “just another band from east L.A.,” or so they say!
There’s a folk citation, “trad arranged,” which stakes a lovely claim into aged traditional beauty. But America is a brief glance at ancient stuff; so, the wonderful reassurance that “Los Lobos still are,” with a given a list of band members who have weathered years of rock ‘n’ roll and are still a true brotherhood, is a similar and true Americana lovely claim that is a featherbed comfort in a very modern and very transitory world.
Native Sons, in the very midst of that chaos, finds an anchor that, quite simply, says a big “thank you” to their City of the Angels’ musical past.
It does, perhaps, confine Los Lobo’s diversity of rock, soul, blues, and bajo sexto-fired folk to individual songs, similar to (the brilliant!) Will the Wolf Survive – rather than their later works like Kiko, The Town and the Country, Tin Can Trust, and Gates of Gold. Those more recent albums were flavored with everything from psych to reggae to jazz, and of course, peppered with a lot of just plain weird and lovely noise, flowing together like a sinuous musical wave (to stay with the West Coast theme!) upon the beach sands of California’s Pacific coast.
Once again, Los Lobos has proved, when it comes to American rock ‘n’ roll street cred, they have nothing to prove.
Native Sons fires up every step and every hamburger that ever greased any American Saturday night dancefloor with delight. It explodes with the Midnights’ “Love Special Delivery.” Percussion punches, there’s a big trombone sound, while Conrad Lozano’s bass dances with deep joy. Then Cesar Rosas’ vocals touch the heart of rock ‘n’ roll that is always in motion as it “Shaken, Shaken, Shakes.” And then a ’60s styled organ hovers over a tough guitar solo. Lots of fire, here.
It should be noted that numerous guests appear on this record, and they do include David Hidalgo Jr. and Jason Lozano, both credited with drums. Los Lobos once recorded a children’s album called Papa’s Dream. Proud dads, indeed!
[SOMETHING ELSE! INTERVIEW: Steve Berlin talks more about Los Lobos’ ‘Disconnected in New York,’ life after “La Bamba,” and career intersections with the Replacements, Paul Simon, Levon Helm and the Dead.]
Next, “Misery,” written by Motown guy Barrett Strong (who has an L.A. connection as Motown moved to the West Coast), mines blues passion and recalls the gossamer grace of Peter Green of early Fleetwood Mac fame, which has always been part of the Los Lobos sound. This is velvet pathos blues stuff. And, it’s just an idea, but David Hidalgo’s vocals have a soulful touch that, throughout this album, echo with the fervor of Van Morrison and Richard Manuel. And, “good old Barrence” sings background vocals. As Conrad Lozano says in the liner notes, “Isn’t that cool?”
Well, as my friend, Kilda Defnut said, “This whole record is cool, just like a pair of hip Cesar Rosas sunglasses.”
Ahh, then there’s a wonderful rendition of the Buffalo Springfield’s “Bluebird,” which morphs into a psych jam ala the Jefferson Airplane, circa After Bathing at Baxters. This is followed by a brief acoustic respite, but then the tune grooves into “For What It’s Worth.” It tantalizes tattooed memories. Now, it’s just an idea, but Native Sons is a bit like (to get all literary!) the Romantic poet William Wordsworth’s poem, “Tintern Abbey,” where he returns to the place of his “dizzy rapture” of youth and now sees that youth through the lens of gained wisdom. That thought, perhaps, turns this covers album into an important artful glance.
Another classic, Jackson Browne’s “Jamaica Say You Will,” is given a multi-voiced confessional big chorus vibe that (sort of) recalls the Band’s “The Weight.” And this record, in a very lovely rock ‘n’ roll way, raises Lazarus from his grave. The title tune, “Native Son,” the only original composition, does just that as it promenades with a youthful stroll through the chords of remembered youth.
The same is true for the Beach Boys’ “Sail On, Sailor,” as it slowly unfolds with stately drama. Percy Mayfield’s “Never No More” is “jump blues” and allows Steve Berlin to honk a lot on his sax, and it certainly follows in the footsteps of early (and very lovable) songs like “Don’t Worry Baby” and “I Got Loaded.” The Don Harris and Dewey Terry-penned “Farmer John” sputters and yelps like a good rock song does from time to time. And, once again, Steve Berlin honks a nice sax. Then, the Blasters’ “Flat Top Joint” gets a greasy rock workout, with Cesar’s hip vocal and then former Blasters’ man Steve honks his sax a few more times. And, by the way, there’s a tornado-ripped guitar solo.
Of course, there’s ample evidence of Los Lobos’ heritage. “Los Chucos Suaves” mines the 1949 song from Lalo Guerrero, known (thanks once again to the liner notes) as “The Father of Chicano Music.” Good history always sings a nice tune. Then, “Dichoso,” from a Willie Bobo 1966 Feelin’ So Good record, is lovely and languid with a sensitive vocal from Cesar and, once again, Dannie Ramirez on trombone.
And then there’s the centerpiece, War’s funky “The World Is a Ghetto.” This is slow; it’s silky; it’s a time bomb ticking – with an explosive chorus, and it’s a lovely lava flow. Little Willie G, who sang on the original War recording (thank you again, liner notes!) gets a backing vocal credit. Let’s just say this is sublime and very funky music. And, yes, it all ends with Mario Paniagua’s instrumental, “Where Lovers Go,” which is a star-gazed last look, after the final dance, forever wanting to hang onto a transient moment — with a passionate time-bending guitar solo.
Perhaps, that’s the eternal dance step of good rock ‘n’ roll, the sort of rock ‘n’ roll thing that pulses with the communal blood of deep family and friends – while proving over and over again, that yes, indeed, this wolf will always, thankfully, somehow manage to survive.
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