It makes perfect sense that veteran Mexican singer Pepe Aguilar would release the most thoughtful and ambitious album of his career during a tumultuous time in his life. Art has the capricious tendency to thrive on conflict and uncertainty.
“It’s the one album that best defines my personality,” Aguilar says over Zoom about “Que Llueva Tequila,” an elegant, mournful collection of música mexicana love songs punctuated by deep — and almost experimental — rock ’n’ roll undertones. Released earlier this summer, it was met with critical acclaim, but the numbers on streaming platforms have been tepid.
“This is the first time that I delve into elements of rock and psychedelia that don’t normally show up in mariachi music,” he explains. “I owed this record to myself, and I’m happy with the end product. But I’m not naive. I knew that streaming services wouldn’t exactly be jumping at the chance to add these songs to their playlists,” he adds with a hearty laugh, punctuated with a tinge of cynicism.
At 56, Aguilar stands as one of the most respected maestros in contemporary Mexican music. The son of late golden era icons Antonio Aguilar and actress Flor Silvestre, he is part of a singing dynasty that now includes his daughter Ángela, 20, and son Leonardo, 25. Pepe and his children recently appeared together on the Jaripeo Sin Fronteras tour — a traditional cross between concert and equestrian spectacle.
“Working with Pepe on his ‘MTV Unplugged’ was one of the most enriching moments of my career,” says acclaimed singer-songwriter Natalia Lafourcade. “From the very first moment I was impressed not only by his amazing talent as an artist, but also by his deep humanity and sensitivity. Pepe is not only an icon of regional Mexican music, but also a bridge that brings different generations together. I feel grateful for having been part of his musical history — his passion for life continues to inspire us all.”
In the ‘90s, after an ill-fated venture into rock with the band Equs, Aguilar set his eyes on música mexicana and made a name for himself as a brash innovator. On albums like the now classic “Por Una Mujer Bonita,” he opened new avenues by introducing unusual instrumental combinations. As a producer, he anchored the songs on arrangements so precious and velvety, they sounded as if they were meant to be framed at a museum. Aguilar also became a huge concert attraction across the Americas with a gentlemanly vocal style that harks back to 20th century Mexico — an intoxicating blend of jubilant ranchera and misty bolero pathos.
But everything changes in the fickle world of pop music. Last year, Aguilar was involved in a brief, viral Twitter spat with rising star Natanael Cano over his distaste for the raw new wave of corridos tumbados. His daughter Ángela has been in the public eye due to her recent marriage to controversial singer Christian Nodal. And after years in Los Angeles, the Aguilar family moved to Houston in the state where he was born.
“It was a sudden change, but a necessary one,” he says. “We were a bit tired of the cold Los Angeles energy. We pined for something different. I never imagined I would feel so comfortable here. We’re happy for now, but we may return to L.A. in the future.”
In many ways, “Que Llueva Tequila” is Aguilar’s emotional reaction to everything that has been happening around him.
“This is probably the seventh or eighth time that I completely reinvent myself,” he says. “It’s a new dawn; a new way of doing things.”
Like the venerable classic rock aura from which it draws, “Que Llueva Tequila” demands patient listening. “Corazón a Medio Día” begins with the safety of a sweet accordion line, but there are some Pink Floyd-like electric guitars buried in the song’s seraphic outro. And the arena-rock mood that kicks off “Hasta Que Me Duermo” becomes downright symphonic when Aguilar belts out the massive chorus about obsessive heartbreak — a moment that can best be described as progressive ranchera. Some of the songs were written by longtime collaborator Enrique Guzmán Yáñez. Others are by Pablo Preciado, the singer-songwriter with Mexican pop group Matisse.
“Maybe I’m being conceited, but I believe we may have stumbled into a new sound,” he enthuses. “The music business is nothing but a game focused on making money and following what everybody else is doing, and many experimental records never make it to the mainstream. But now that anything goes — now that you can include the most vulgar expressions imaginable in a song — why not see what happens with these new sonic possibilities.”
Clearly, Aguilar is taking an aim at the unapologetic irreverence of corridos tumbados, their tall tales of sexual prowess and recreational drugs. He laughs when I confess that I enjoy the coarse new sound of música mexicana.
“I don’t feel the inclination to include profanity in my songs, or sing praise to the convoys of drug dealers parading themselves in the streets,” he says. “I don’t see myself starring in a musical either, because I don’t like musicals. This doesn’t mean that I’m weird or overtly critical. The good thing about all this artistic liberation is that Mexican artists are now part of the global landscape. Suddenly, the gates are wide open for all of us.”
In a peripheral way, Aguilar’s children are also part of the new wave — at least generationally. As the father of adult kids, he is wise enough to distance himself from the toxic labyrinth of tabloid flashes and social media venom.
“We all come to this world to learn some lessons, and the studies program is tailored to each unique individual,” he reflects. “We’re just a little piece in a huge cosmic puzzle. At 56, I can tell you that my kids are now adults, responsible for their choices and the consequences of those choices. Our work as parents is already done — we become observers. Of course you suffer for them, but you have to get rid of your own paradigm of how things are supposed to be. Coming to terms with this has been difficult, but also liberating.”
These existential musings may account for the gauzy, melancholy mood that informs the songs of “Que Llueva Tequila” — a prism that adds poignancy to his singing.
“Music functions like an escape valve,” he says. “Not to place myself in the role of a victim — qué flojera — but I tend to focus on the unfairness of life and its profound sorrow, and there is definitely a lot of that going around, my brother. Every artist has a mission, and mine is singing to sadness. Somebody has to do the dirty work.”
