Carlos Santana, 75, is a guitarist who pioneered Latin jazz-rock fusion and won 10 Grammys. He is the subject of Carlos, a Sony Pictures documentary due out this fall and currently touring nationally. He spoke to Marc Myers.
Carlos Santana, 75, is a guitarist who pioneered Latin jazz-rock fusion and won 10 Grammys. He is the subject of Carlos, a Sony Pictures documentary due out this fall and currently touring nationally. He spoke to Marc Myers.
When I was 9 years old, sharing was not easy for me. As I sat on the sofa in my violin teacher’s living room while he was in the kitchen, my hands found nearly $2 in change between the pillows.
When I was 9 years old, sharing was not easy for me. As I sat on the sofa in my violin teacher’s living room while he was in the kitchen, my hands found nearly $2 in change between the pillows.
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After my class I went to the candy store and spent all the money on M&Ms and Baby Ruth bars. At home, my mother hung out laundry outside, so I started eating the sweets and ate it all up.
When she found out I’d spent almost two dollars on candy and wasn’t sharing it with my brothers and sisters, she left it to me. After that day, sharing became second nature to me and eventually expanded into music and performing.
My parents met in the Mexican city of Cihuatlán. My father José was a professional violinist and entertainer who played at shows. There wasn’t much work in town and the woman he was dating, Josefina, had seen too many American films. Both wanted a better life.
So they fled and made their way to Autlán, 75 miles northeast. There they started a family. I was the middle of seven children spread over 13 years.
We lived there in different houses until I was eight. Our houses usually had two bedrooms and no electricity or water, just an outbuilding. My brothers Tony and Jorge and I shared a room.
My father was charismatic and my mother questioned everything. She had to. He was away for months to earn money. At home, mom had rules and didn’t hesitate to enforce them.
She divided up chores in the mornings and explained exactly how to do them so the house was immaculate. “We’re poor,” she said, “but we’re not filthy poor.” There wasn’t much time left for affection.
My father put all his love into his violin. As a player, he was a powerful storyteller and captured my imagination. In the mid-1950s, Papa followed the money and traveled north. Eventually he was in Tijuana, a party town, where he played mariachi, boleros and polkas. He sent for us in 1955.
My mother sold our stuff for cash and we all took cabs. It’s been a long, hard journey and there’s no turning back. Along the way, I was able to empathize with my mother and the struggle. I told her that one day I would buy her a house with a refrigerator and a washing machine. She smiled and patted my head.
After two tough years in Tijuana, we moved to a better area. A year later my father started teaching me the violin so I could earn money. I started playing the song with my guitarist brothers on the street for 50 cents.
I loved sharing music and making people feel good. Soon I was playing the violin with my father and his friends. In search of a better payday, he took the bus to San Francisco. He planned to be gone for a year. After he left, I stopped playing the violin. My mother noticed that my interest in music was waning.
One day in 1961 she took me to the park to listen to a band with electric guitars playing early rock ‘n’ roll. The solo guy was Javier Bátiz, who turned my head. I was 13 and started following him.
My mother wrote to my father asking him to buy me an electric guitar. He had a friend drop off a big fat Gibson. I listened to everything, ripped songs off records and taught myself to play what blues players did.
The Mexican community in San Francisco had expanded, and my father played regularly at the Latin American Club in the city’s Mission District. He formed one of the city’s first serious mariachi bands.
In late 1962, the club owner supported our move to San Francisco so we could join Dad. That’s where I started my first rock band. The turning point came in 1966 when Paul Butterfield was too stoned to play a Sunday matinee at the Fillmore Auditorium. I tuned in and got the attention of concert promoter Bill Graham, who booked my band. We needed a name, so we called ourselves the Santana Blues Band.
Today, my wife, Cindy, and I live in Las Vegas and vacation at our home in Hawaii. We married in 2010 and moved into our home in Las Vegas about six years ago.
Beginning in the early 1970’s, I bought my mother a number of houses in the Bay Area when the neighborhoods where she lived were declining. The last was 45 minutes northeast of town. She gasped when she saw it.
She said, almost whispering, “My son.” What I saw on her face was shock and gratitude. It’s an amazing feeling to tell your mom when you were little that you’re going to make her life better, and so are you.
Santana’s spiritualism
mom lesson? She taught me that spiritual, disciplined people can see more rainbows and wonders than others.
Vegas house? It’s like a warehouse with high ceilings. Inside is a lot of wood. I am not a plastic and synthetic type.
Why? Diving in and feeling the water hit my face and body is like playing the guitar. I will be transported somewhere else.
Hawaii? There everything becomes more emotional in the sense of gratitude, gratitude and deep appreciation. It’s like discovering new places in my heart.
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