WHEN I SAT DOWN with Raul, I decided not to mention that I had never heard of Ozomatli. (Apparently I am one of the few.) What I discovered instead was something more important: how completely music claimed him.
Raul was plucked out of an East LA ordinary life by his talent — a prodigy in the truest sense — and when the world got larger, (he toured with Santana), it stayed large. It didn’t contract back into comfort. If anything, the expansion seems to have amplified his curiosity, his appetite for tones and shapes and voices he hadn’t encountered yet, his willingness to place himself in situations he had no prior experience navigating — exactly like the musicians he loves most. That’s why it makes perfect sense that he teaches songwriting to high school students and prisoners. He knows that everyone has something special in them.
He bought a house in Santa Fe and found a local master to teach him how to build adobes.
Why am I not surprised? — OL
ON PLACE & IDENTITY
You grew up in LA.
I love it. I think if you’re from there, the transformational aspects of any place — if you’re from there, you’re the constant. You’re the through line of it all.
I grew up in a working-class neighborhood just east of downtown called Boyle Heights. The interesting thing about the beginning of the 20th century was that it was the first open covenant place in LA, meaning you could buy land there of any race, color — if you were Jewish, Black, Mexican, Japanese, Chinese, even Russian Jews. You couldn’t necessarily buy anywhere else. So it was a very eclectic neighborhood — probably the first big Jewish community in LA, mixed with Black Americans, Mexicans, Japanese. People mixed. Everybody was living together. That changed after World War II. Japanese neighbors would just be gone. Jewish people started leaving to the Valley. And since then, it became primarily Chicano, Mexican American.
My parents were born there. My grandfather had a store and a house, which was a big deal back then. My grandparents on my mother’s side were born there. My dad’s dad was born in Mexico and ended up there. Culturally and politically, that place became a center for Chicano cultural art and political movement, and I grew up in that. The block I grew up on has the oldest documented gang in Los Angeles. Those are my neighbors. It wasn’t a big deal.
I feel like I carry the neighborhood I grew up in wherever I am in the world, but I’m also very open to everything else. It’s probably served me well. I wish in high school you had to go somewhere really different, just to experience something else. You start to get a sense of how big the world is and how endless it is and how many things you’re never going to see. If you’re lucky, you might see a very, very small part of it. If you’re lucky.
I still have that kind of openness, that willingness. I think it puts me in a lot of places I wouldn’t expect to be, like New Mexico.
You went to school in Ojai. What was that like?
I went to prep school called Thatcher. I showed up with long hair and a leather jacket. The kid who gave me the tour, Julian Pridmore-Brown, was like — I don’t think you’re coming to this school.
But I was loved. I got along great. Made immense friends. I wasn’t the ideal student. The administration was sometimes like — we’re giving this kid a free ride and he doesn’t give a fuck.
If there was anything I learned, it was how to claim myself even more and still be from where I was from. I would bring those kids down to my neighborhood. My nickname was Bully. I’d say — if anyone asks, just tell them we’re going to Bully’s house.
Were you a bully?
Just a name. Maybe because I was so little.
ON FEARLESSNESS
You were also in choir at school.
The choir experience really helped me to be unafraid. It was the first thing that really helped me learn about a much bigger world. I joined from seven to fourteen. We toured everywhere. I’ve sung with the Philharmonic. I have a record with Zubin Mehta. I was still living in the neighborhood, but I’d go have all these experiences with kids, rich and poor, from different parts of the city.
This all helped me not to be fearful of things that are different. Today I teach songwriting to high school kids in the neighborhood, and the kid may be like — I went to this restaurant in this other neighborhood and there’s this discomfort. I don’t think it’s because they really are that uncomfortable. It’s lack of experience. It’s something new and there’s a lack of trust — it’s not familiar. We’re always in some kind of stress when we’re in unfamiliar situations. It doesn’t mean they’re wrong or bad or even great. It just means they’re different.
Touring helped me realize there’s a lot of good people everywhere — and a lot of the discourse you read in the news about countries and cultures is false, as far as my experience. But also, things are not the same. Anyone who thinks something is going to stay the same is not, to me, in reality. Reality is changing all the time. It’s different from when you were five to when you’re fifty. There’s a sense of comfort we get from thinking things stay the same, and we resist. So we’re going to be anxious and uncomfortable with the fact that the world is changing constantly.
As I got older, I had to start to recognize the things that were tough about where I grew up — the death, the violence, the addictions. One of the things I learned as a kid was to hit first. Because when I didn’t, I’d get my ass kicked. And it was like — I have to hit the biggest dude first. No warning, just the shot. All of a sudden it makes a level playing field. All these things I’ve had to unlearn. But that’s all part of growing up, if you’re trying to live in any kind of awareness.
ON EXCELLENCE
I got to tour with Carlos Santana for three years. That was a big deal growing up where I grew up. Santana was part of the fabric of the neighborhood. He always had top-notch players — the original keyboard player from Tower of Power, world-class drummers, Benny Rietveld on bass who played with Prince and Miles Davis.
Every day he would be practicing in his dressing room — playing melodies, learning new pop song melodies, like whatever was on the radio. Pop songs that were not his music — just learning the melodies to be able to hear things. In rehearsal I’m thinking — how many times have you played these songs? He’d be rehearsing the band. No, let’s play it this way. Let’s do this, let’s do that. Work ethic, discipline.
All those badass musicians being like — yeah, he’s the boss. And he says you gotta be here, you’re here. It’s cool. But at the same time — there’s a sort of democracy. But we’re also here because we love to play music. And who are you? Let’s hear what you do. Having that freedom to just kind of go for it. And I added something that meant something to people. So that was like — whoa. That whole lesson of — you just gotta be fearless and go for it and kind of take all your skills and the time you have and go for it. And that was really meaningful for me to have that experience.
ON PLAYING TOGETHER
Being in a choir or band is also about being part of a group, as opposed to an individual.
Yes. That was the day Ozomatli started. Thirty-one years ago. Two of the guys were part of a group that went on strike. The city gave us a four-story building downtown for a year. It became this cultivating place of art — neighborhood kids, different bands, art studios. Our first gig was like — we gotta have a reason to charge five bucks. We need music. All right, let’s play. Cut Chemist was there, who ended up in Jurassic 5. To this day — you’re in the band if you keep coming back.
It didn’t matter that you had a degree in Indian classical music and played the tabla andwas into rock. We were like — how does this work? How do we see beyond all these differences and just create music?
We were so committed to playing, it didn’t matter where. Our biggest weekend was fourteen gigs. Start in Pomona, play some lunch thing, then here at a college, then over there. Our mantra was play.
People would ask — what’s Ozomatli’s secret? You gotta get in front of people and play as often as you can. And get better as you’re doing it. Sometimes we need a real profound moment of uniqueness. Well, let’s just play the acoustic guitar with the tabla and nobody does that, and you break it down and all of a sudden it’s just really beautiful.
And be open to the cross-pollination.
All the time. Some people were into punk rock, and one thing about that is — it doesn’t matter if I know it well enough. I gotta do it with some kind of wholeness and presence in the moment. Some guys were very refined and sophisticated. Well, let’s learn that. How can you orchestrate this so we can all play it? So it’s kind of what I always do when I go into a room. I just want to know who you are. Because we’re a world with so many people, but nobody’s like you.
ON SONGWRITING
I learned to appreciate music from my parents and my sisters because they were always playing records in the house. But I learned songcraft from that. There’s a form and there’s a general arc — doesn’t always have to be the same, but it’s there. I consider myself a lot more than a guitar player or singer. I consider myself a songwriter.
You were focused at a pretty young age on the complexity of expression.
I love that puzzle. But even before that — it’s just fun for me. It’s fun for me to play music, to create it. There’s so much learning that goes on. Whether it’s someone who doesn’t have much experience doing it or someone who has a super high level — I am learning all the time. Because the modality of each of those different paradigms — they have value. It’s like taking all those ideas but still trying to make it digestible to the outside world, only to a point. It’s not the purpose of it. You have to like it first. But in that, especially if it’s a song, generally there’s a form. And that form kind of guides me.
ON TEACHING IN PRISON
You teach in prisons — what makes you want to do that?
I’m one who believes in forgiveness. I believe that any place, anywhere that humans can have joyful experiences — every person has some sort of value in some way. And I don’t know if you’ve ever been in prison, but it’s not fun. It’s meant to not be. So when I tell people I teach songwriting in prison and someone says, why aren’t you teaching at the high school? Well, hit them up. If they pay me, I’ll go, because I’m a working artist. First of all, I don’t do shit at motherfucking places for free.
And I don’t care what they want to learn. You’re here in this class. It’s up to you what you want to learn. I’m going to show you what I do. We’re going to sit around, I’m going to listen to you talk. I’m going to hear phrases. I’m going to encourage you to write something. It’s very important to write. Anything. It doesn’t matter. Someone has the courage to say, okay, I’ll read what I wrote. And then they start writing, they start reading. And then out loud and they’re like — whoa, how is that a song? Well, look how this is a song. Do it again.
A guy might go — well, I was in the cell. I was getting my gear changed in the morning, and I ran into my roommate — and there’s a rhythm in that thing where I’m like, wow. Listen to how you speak. Don’t fight it. That’s what you’re giving. That’s natural. Don’t fight it. This is it. What kind of song is it? And then all of a sudden you’re going — whoa.
Most of these guys don’t get a chance to tell their story.
Don’t even know they have a story. Yeah, and I just want — for a moment, it has nothing to do with anything but what’s happening in that room. Learning, supporting one another, being respectful. One of the big things — whether it’s in prison or a classroom or in a band — is how to share your idea and not feel stupid. And not edit yourself before you even do it.
That’s the history — they get punished for expressing. I think one of the things I identify with in their work, and why it resonates with me, is I grew up in it. My neighbors, all of that. My uncle was in prison half his life. It wasn’t abnormal for me. Plenty of my friends ended up there. I used to teach in Chino. I’d be like — I’m going to run into someone I know.
And they probably trust you.
I think I have a language, a way. The most important thing to me — in any situation, like a high school class where the quiet kid is not participating — by the fourth or fifth time, they’re giving us nuggets that are way better than everybody else’s. And all of a sudden they’re seeing that contribution, seeing that everyone gets excited. I’m like — that’s what you keep. I treat it like professional songwriting. When the whole room goes, whoa! — you keep that. There’s a reason everyone is excited.
It’s the same in prison. There was one guy, his name was Money. That was his street name. He came in with shades, never said anything. The thing is, you have to meet people where they’re at. I’m not a teacher in that way — I’m not like, you gotta do this. No. You can be chill, cool, it’s fine. Listen. By the third or fourth time, he starts saying things that are great.
Before you know it, there’s a little Casio keyboard they let us bring in. He starts playing all this church-style stuff. Great changes, super complicated. He’s like, I grew up playing in the church. By the end of the thing, we’re hugging each other. He breaks down. What’s up, Money? He’s like — I haven’t hugged someone, especially a man, in I don’t know how long.
ON BEING THE WORST MUSICIAN IN THE ROOM
A lot of times these kids I work with are way better than me. But even that doesn’t matter. Let’s find this common ground of communication that is about the joy of playing.
I’ll play with jazz musicians. I’m not a jazz musician. And I’ll just simplify my playing, because that’s what I can do. And all of a sudden there’s a rhythmic aspect and everyone goes — oh, that’s cool. So it’s like having the experience to say — what you know at the time is all you know. Unless you’re going to go practice that little part for two weeks and then come back. This is all you know today. That doesn’t mean you cannot participate. It doesn’t mean you don’t have something to give. But it’s your responsibility to find a way to fit in that adds — that when you start playing, it’s heard. And when you play, it’s felt.
I think that’s very important — to help people be fearless, especially young musicians. Don’t trip, just get in there. You’re going to learn more doing it and struggling than thinking about it. And the best musicians, the most technically gifted — they’ll be joined by someone far less gifted and go, it’s cool, man. Just play what you play. Don’t worry.
When I’m in a recording studio, if I can be the worst musician in the room, it’s the fucking best. That’s how I’m learning. I need to be the worst singer and the worst guitar player. And I’ll learn a lot today.
ON COMPASSION & MISTAKES
Where do you think you picked up your compassion?
I’ve lived long enough. I’ve made plenty of mistakes. Mistakes that have been hurtful to myself. Hurtful to other people. Mistakes in relationships. Mistakes with my children. In the long arc of it, I’ve done a lot of good. Not everyone can say that and have it be true. And it’s also having to let go and forgive myself and not carry guilt about certain things. Decisions I made as a younger person or even as an adult, still. But also look at what I’ve learned and try to get better.
Music can bring us together. But it’s more than just — it’s one medium that, like any art, has that magical, unexplained thing that if you’re human, you feel it more than you can even express it. But when you do get to express it, it’s this whole thing. So any moment I can do that — whether it’s in prison, a giant stadium, a recording room — that’s always what I’m connecting with. I’m connecting with that joy as a young person that I’ve held on to.
ON DOING WHAT YOU LOVE
My parents always supported me in basic ways — taking me to rehearsals, letting me tour as a kid. Not every parent was cool with — he’s gonna go travel for three weeks and sing over here. Some of their friends were like, what are you doing? He’s a little kid. They were like, he wants to do it. So whatever they saw in that, they allowed it. My first real guitar — they took me to a little shop in Hollywood. I saw a guitar for four hundred bucks. My mom cleaned houses when she could. My dad moved furniture for a bank when he could. I was just happy they took me. A couple months later, I came home from school and it was on the bed. They’d put it away. They’d made payments on it. So that was the kind of support I got.
I graduated at seventeen. Told my dad I don’t want to go to college. I just wanted to play guitar. He said, you gotta get a job. So I was a box-cut kid at Target. I just needed to placate my father — which is a good and bad skill. When there’s something like, oh you gotta do this in order to do that, I do it fast just to shut everybody up. Get that shit over with.
I had this little tiny 1965 Princeton amp, a couple of guitar effects. I’d take that on the bus, go to community college classes because I wanted to — I like school. And then I’d go to this friend, a really great drummer, and we bonded. We were in a band called the Hindu Stuntman.
Hindu Stuntman?
We were smoking weed and watching TV and there was the history of the independence of India and these monks set themselves on fire. I was like — that can’t be real. We were into English rock — sophisticated stuff, bands like XTC. But we were doing all sorts of things and did the work. We practiced, played. That’s what I enjoyed — the effort of doing the work, creating, going out and playing, recording.
You knew music was your talent, your love.
I had a moment when I thought of going into politics. Joined a program at the California Capitol. Put music down for a bit. Before I knew it, I was hanging out with senators, both national and state. I think they liked the way I spoke. I was a brown kid who spoke well, which is — oh man, that’s what we need. We gotta get one of those. So I did the whole thing. I was there for almost four years, working in Gil Cedillo’s office and in the statehouse and working on campaigns. And I realized — I’m just not happy. And I still have a guitar on my back.
A respected state representative named Phil Isenberg gave me the talk — do you want to do this? And I was so freaked out, because my heart was like — clearly I do not. And that was it.
You have to love it. You may not be able to make a living at it sometimes. That’s really what it’s about. Any kind of — but that goes for anything. You can get fired at your job tomorrow — and then what? And AI is taking over. What are you going to do? Do you love doing that? Then find a way to pursue it.
For me, I made a decision when I quit — this is it. Whether I’m starving or not, this is it. I gotta get up and work at it every day. That’s the one thing I’ve only been proud about with my children — I would love for you to do what you love, because when you’re doing what you love, this is natural, no matter what you’re doing. And when you’re doing what you don’t love — ooh — it can drive you nuts.
ON LIFE NOW
What are you doing now?
I have a house in Mexico. I have a property in LA — one of the buildings I’ve converted into a studio in the neighborhood I grew up in. I call it the Sound Store because I left the storefront just like it’s an old store. It’s for me and people I work with and my friends.
And little by little, people are showing up and I’m telling them — I think you should be making music. I think you should be making the music you’ve always wanted to make. Why are you waiting? With songwriters, it’ll be — well, I’ve always wanted to — and I’m like, that’s what we’re doing today. There are a lot of musicians who never get their due. And the business parts can drive some people nuts. I’m like — all right, I’ll do that for you.
What’s a month in your life like?
Oh, God, it’s every day. So Thursday, I had a rehearsal with Ozomatli because we’re doing this Songs & Stories presentation. Very different than the full-on band thing. And we were like — well, how do we play these songs differently? I set them up in my studio; we had a rehearsal. Then I gotta jump — I have a little gig in this town near Watsonville, south of Santa Cruz. I’m starting to play there once a month with local musicians and these other really badass players from the area. Then I wake up the next day, fly to SFO to visit a friend whose mother passed. Jump on a plane. Was supposed to go to a baby shower in LA — blizzard. Made arrangements to come here instead.
I’m sitting in with The Mastersons — this husband-and-wife Americana duo who used to be in Steve Earle’s band. I’m out there, doing, visiting, supporting when I can. People come support me. I have events in LA once a month about my music outside of Ozomatli — really just a fucking great party where badass musicians show up. I’ve got a fucking great life as far as I’m concerned.
ON BORING SONGS
You recorded Boring Songs, which is one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard.
No one buys Boring Songs: that’s what you’d think. But they do. There’s a certain sense of self-deprecation. A little bit of safety in that. I’m presenting something I’m not known for, very different than what I’m known for. So I want people to know right away — this isn’t what I’m known for. You may or may not like it. It’s okay.
I started going through all these song ideas and was like — oh, these are the boring ones. These are the ones where I bring them to Ozomatli and they go — boring. Next. Because we’re known as this high-energy band with lots of movement. And there’s a certain fear of attachment to that also. Because we’re not super prolific — we make records every once in a while. I had all these songs, and one day I recorded them with musician friends. They sounded great. Cool, let’s put them out. I printed these on my own. The record label that’s putting this out now — the next issue, they want a name change. And I thought the name was funny. A little dig at myself and at them. And this delineation of people who get it and who don’t. Which I like.
I made this stage name — Manboy Brown. The next batch of songs — I want to call it Manboy Brown Hates to Dance. I just want to be in a room full of old people who are dancing and make all these punk rock dance songs. And for me, it’s like: don’t fight it, just do it.
Because all of this crazy political bullshit — that’s extreme in a way I don’t appreciate. But none of that’s going to take away this love I have for sharing, for playing, for creating. In fact, it’s going to make me more adamant about it. And none of this negativity that we see all over the world — I’m not going to be taken down by that. Nowhere.
Is it time now for all of us to get over the pettiness, for people who generally agree, and just keep supporting one another? If the government is not going to do programming, we gotta do it. Those things are out of our control, but it’s not out of our control how we treat each other and the choices we make every day. And that’s it.
ON NEW MEXICO
I came here a few days before the pandemic. None of us knew what was happening. I was in the middle of selling a house in LA. I had to be in Hawaii in five days. My kids were in college. I’m like — yeah, this sounds great. That turned into something else. Like everybody, we thought — we’ll see you in a couple weeks. My kids — are you going back? No. My sisters — where are you? I’m in Mexico. Everything got shut down.
It took me a while to get over feeling guilty. I had a great time in the pandemic in terms of just not having to be so — yeah. My house was sold and I realized how long this could go on. I didn’t grow up with money. I don’t like cash sitting around — I gotta do something with it. At that point, the only things generating money were online. We started selling ourselves for pr-erecorded stuff — doing prerecorded award shows for the Hispanic Chamber of Commerce in Minnesota. We were like — how much? Sure. We’re working cats.
And then I saw a house online. The real estate agent said, This isn’t the area you’re looking, but it is the house you’re looking for. I’d purchased a house before, I learned a lot from it. I needed the house that functioned — the cheapest house in the area I could get.
I got this old adobe. Called up Rick — an adobe expert. One of those great New Mexican characters. Grew up in Santa Fe. He’s like — oh yeah, I fixed those fireplaces in that house forty years ago. The guy who taught me everything built the newest room in the back. He comes in, pokes his head in the fireplaces. Fireplaces are in great shape. Yeah, I built them. Of course they are.
He sat me down — what do you want to do with this house? I want to keep it OG. Old school. He’s like — all right. I’ll be your guide, but you gotta be right next to me. I said, I’ve never done this. He’s like — it don’t matter. You just do what I say. That became this whole other adventure. I was plastering old adobe, building mud bricks. So many profound aspects that were unexpected and really beautiful.
There are so many beautiful things to learn, and so many beautiful things that people know. If you just talk to them, you start to see it.
History is so important — just the facts sometimes. There’s so much that’s fascinating, things that were made a certain way. There’s so much revealed in that — why the political system is a certain way. I know a lot of people from Northern New Mexico. It’s a whole other beautiful dimension.
ON THE APPEAL OF LOWRIDERS
There’s a term — I don’t know how common it is here — but it might explain a lot. Rasquachismo. It’s like saying half-assed. Like — I was in an accident. I don’t have enough money to get my fender fixed, so I taped it together. Here we go.
Because we’re infinitely resourceful. That’s what we are. No matter what, whether you have something to do it with or not — solving the fucking issue and doing it. Those cars are junk, man. Old cars that don’t run. And then — oh, let me get it running, because I know how to work on a car from my dad, because he never wanted to take it to the mechanic because he didn’t have the money.
I would compare it to haute couture. When you buy that dress — fuck, how are you going to wear that thing and walk anywhere? That’s the point. It shows great skill, not necessarily a lot of funds, but it’s grossly impractical — like very fancy clothes. It’s about making these things that are extreme. Noticeable no matter what. You see someone on the runway — what the fuck? You see this car rolling — what the fuck? And also — I could never do that. I could never make a car work like that. I hung out with those dudes. I had old Cadillacs. They were shitty. They weren’t fine. I understood the pride of it. Everything leaked. But I got that. You cut the frame off a little, go in there with the welder, change it up.
ON CREATION
Nature is complex. I’m trying to create something with what I know that day, I don’t want that constraint. Especially with other people — all of a sudden there are all these other ideas, ways to do things that are cool. It’s almost like you practice and work at your craft in order to come to a place where you can be as free as possible.
In writing music — it’s a blank canvas. In half an hour, there’s going to be something here. That’s fucking magic to me. That’s creation. It really is just from our personal experiences. We’re just bringing in whatever resonates with us. But I like to create a space for myself and for others where we’re allowed that. I mean, where are we allowed to do that in this world?