Comedian Quincy Jones embarked on a crowd-funding campaign to make a stand-up comedy special when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. This week it airs on HBO; Fandango Fronterizo is an annual event that brings together musicians across the U.S.-Mexico border in celebration and in protest; L.A. theater company Chalk Rep mounts a play in a cluttered garage to bring an immersive experience to their audience.
Fandango Fronterizo music sharing event helps mends fences at US-Mexican border
Not much can get across the U.S.-Mexico border fence these days, but every year at Friendship Park, a security zone between San Diego and Tijuana, music is heard coming over the thick metal fence.
The event is called Fandango Fronterizo, in which musicians, some trekking up from Tijuana and some down from San Diego, meet at the border with instruments and start strumming in the son jarocho style.
"Son jarocho is a style of traditional music, and traditionally it isn’t performed, it’s actually played in what’s called a fandango," said Adrian Florido, who used to report for KPCC and now works for NPR's Code Switch. "And that’s when a bunch of musicians bring their instruments and gather around this wooden platform called a tarima, and they strum and they sing verses. So it’s really important to be around this tarima, so you can hear and respond to your fellow musicians."
Florido, who is a co-organizer of Fandango Fronterizo, joined The Frame in studio to explain how the event began and how political trends make the event increasingly harder to put on.
Interview Highlights
What started it, and how has it evolved over the years?
Back in 2008, a friend of mine named Jorge Castillo, who lives in Tijuana, he got frustrated because he had friends who lived in both Tijuana and San Diego, but not all of his friends could cross the border, so they couldn’t have a fandango together. So one day, he was at a beach clean-up in San Diego, right by the fence. And he saw people - because back then, the holes were big enough so you could literally buy, like, a popsicle through the fence, pay the vendor on the Tijuana side, and he’d hand you the popsicle. He saw that and he said ‘Oh, this is a great place for a fandango!’
Describe the fence - can you see through it, can you hear through it?
The fence is a very tall, thick fence. It didn’t used to be that. So, yes, you can see and hear through it, but with sort of some difficulty. When this event first started, it was a lot easier to do that, but as the fence has gotten taller and thicker, it’s made it more difficult to see our fellow musicians and hear them through the fence.
So the obvious thing you’re trying to preserve is the spontaneous nature of the fandango, but you’re having to deal with permits, musicians are having to lug their instruments, what, a mile to get to this venue - So how do you preserve the spirit of the fandango when you’re dealing with the logistics of the venue itself?
Well, you know the spirit of the fandango has changed a lot, I think, in the last nine years that it’s been happening. As the border has sort of taken on a much more central role in our politics, for a lot of people I think the fandango has come to represent a political statement, a kind of resistance. And I think that, in many ways, no matter what your opinion is about the border, you can’t go to this space and play music with friends across the border, or see people doing this, and not just, sort of, be moved by this human experience that that represents, by the humanity of it.
I think one of my favorite moments in the years that I’ve been organizing it, was maybe two or three years ago, when we started strumming, and the music began, there was this border patrol agent, who had been kind of rough and a little bit rude to us as we were setting up. As soon as the music started, I looked over and he pulled out his iPhone and had started recording, and it was really - it said a lot to me about the power of the music, and the power of taking it across the border.
Hypothetically, this is a place where Donald Trump would want to build a wall. Not a fence, not where you can hear music through it. Going forward, what are the issues and obstacles facing this, and can you see it continuing in the years ahead?
I mean, we’ve already seen, as this site, Friendship Park, has become more heavily policed, it’s already become more difficult to have the event there. In part, because, as the border has gotten taller and thicker, it's literally changed the way that sound travels through the fence. It often makes it difficult for the music on both sides to stay in sync. So that's sort of one practical thing.
Another is that, like last year, for example, we almost had to cancel because, sort of at the last minute, the border patrol called me and said, "hey, we’re concerned that you could be smuggling drugs or some other contraband inside your instruments." And so we had to convince them like ‘Hey, we’re musicians, we’re not smugglers.' So overcoming those has become a growing challenge. And so we hope that we’ll continue to have it as long as we need to have it, as long as the border is there.
The border divides a lot of people, and it divides a lot of families. Is it ever the case that families are reunited musically across the border? That a family that’s divided geographically can be reunited musically across this fence?
Every year we invite musicians from Veracruz to come to the event. And one of the musicians we invited actually two years ago was a man named Camerino Utrera who is a master musician from a very small, rural town in southern Veracruz. And five years ago, six years ago now, his son left that town, crossed the border and settled in Milwaukee where he's working as an undocumented worker in a kitchen. We were able to bring Camerino. His daughter-in-law also came, because she plays this music too, with her newborn baby, so Camerino met his grandson at the Fandango Fronterizo for the first time.
So this is largely a very celebratory event, but at the end of this year's gathering, there was some counting, in Spanish, from 1 to 43, what was the significance of that number?
So 43 is the number of students from the rural college in Ayotzinapa who disappeared. Many Mexicans won't accept that they're dead until there's sort of absolute proof, right? And so, there's still this idea that these students are missing, and they are. Sort of the trauma of that event looms heavily, I think, over a lot of Mexican families. And that sort of just happened spontaneously, someone in the fandango, at the very end, just as we were starting to usher people out, because the border patrol makes us leave by 2 o'clock, just started counting to 43, and it was actually a really powerful, really powerful moment.
Comedian Quincy Jones: 'There is no cancer when I'm on that stage'
UPDATE 6/01
Here's a link to Quincy's stand-up special, which hits HBO on June 2.
UPDATE 3/21
HBO has announced that it will air Quincy Jones's stand-up special. Jones recently went on the "Ellen" show and host Ellen Degeneres called out for a network to pick up his special. Looks like it worked!:
On July 3, 2015, L.A.-based comedian Quincy Jones received the kind of phone call that many of us have nightmares about: he was diagnosed with terminal cancer and given about a year to live.
Jones has been going through chemotherapy, but he's also embarked on another journey: he wants to tape an hour-long special of his standup comedy, explaining that "would be [his] opus."
Friend and fellow comedian Nicole Blaine volunteered to produce it along with her husband, Mickey Blain, and to help with the production costs they started a Kickstarter campaign. Their projected goal was $4,985. To date, with 21 days left in the campaign, they've already received pledges exceeding $35,000.
Originally from Seattle, Jones came to Los Angeles four years ago to further his stand-up career. He worked as a barista while pursuing comedy gigs at night. When he got the cancer diagnosis he'd just booked a comedy tour on the East Coast. Jones spoke with The Frame's John Horn to talk about his goal, and what it's like pursuing a lifelong creative dream while simultaneously battling stage 4 peritoneal mesothelioma.
To hear an extended interview with Jones in which he talks in more depth about his diagnosis, his childhood and Chris Rock as an influence, click on the play button at the top of this post. Below are some interview highlights.
INTERVIEW HIGHLIGHTS
I want to talk a little bit about your diagnosis of mesothelioma.
I have peritoneal mesothelioma. There are three types of mesothelioma: peritoneal is in the lining of the stomach wall, where mine's at. It's the second most rare; [there's] the lung, which is most common; and then the heart. And so they all get in a lining and they block the vessels so fluid can't travel through it. It has to get backed up somewhere.
And what have the treatments been like? Is there a lot of chemo?
A lot. I just had chemo on Monday.
How are you feeling?
Nauseous. It comes and goes in waves.
Have the things that you've found funny changed since you got your diagnosis? And has comedy changed in terms of what it means to you — what you're able to laugh at and what isn't funny anymore?
For me, I still find things funny. I love comedy. I love the art of it. It's pure joy for me on that stage. I love the ability to perform. And one of my biggest fears when I was in that hospital — I thought I wasn't going to be able to perform again. And so when people asked me, What do you want to do?, I said, Well, the next step in my career would be a special. An hour special. I have over an hour of material.
Is the whole idea, that you can leave behind a document, a testament, the version of your comedy that can live forever?
Yeah, that was the thing. When you're faced with your mortality, like — most of us lived life before the documentation of the Internet and Instagram. I don't have any pictures of when I went to Paris or anything like that online. I don't have any kids. I don't have a wife. What do I have? You start thinking about it. At 31, you're like, What do I have? What have I done? You start looking at all your friends who are getting married and having kids. Because I'm at that age now. I'm like, I gave up on that life to be at an open mic? You know what I'm saying? You start questioning — Oh my goodness, did I make the right decision? Is this really what I want to do? And then I was like, Alright, well, I do comedy. That's what defines me. That's what I am. I'm a comedian. So I want to leave a special behind.
The comedian Nicole Blaine started this Kickstarter campaign for you. Who is Nicole and how did you meet her?
Nicole Blaine is a good friend of mine. She's an amazing comic and producer. I met her at an open mic and we just hit it off. She and her husband Mickey, they're a production team. They [said], "We want to help you film a special." Then the Kickstarter [campaign] dropped. But I was in chemo when the Kickstarter dropped.
So you had no idea that not only had you met your goal, you went way past it.
I had no idea. I didn't know until Tuesday afternoon. I had chemo on Monday afternoon and I was just out of it. And then Tuesday afternoon I posted on Facebook, and I was like, Whoa! The love has been amazing. It's an amazing feeling, that all humans have come together. It almost restores faith in humanity. Because these people don't have to do this. They don't have to donate.
What do you imagine it will be like when you step to the microphone during that special? It's been your life ambition to have a one-hour comedy special. You're going to be onstage with the microphone at the same time that you have a stage four cancer diagnosis.
There is no cancer when I'm on that stage. I don't feel anything. I give myself so much to the craft. I'm so in love with it that [I] don't feel any limitations. The only thing you're restricted by is time. But you have these people — they're there to watch. They're supportive. And this is any performance. So I imagine in the special, it's going to be people who also want to support. And they're there to laugh. They're there because maybe my story inspired them.
The special is dedicated to anybody who has been through cancer, lost someone to cancer, or has cancer. It's not about me. This is bigger than me. This is literally about a disease. It's not even just about peritoneal mesothelioma. It's about cancer.
Chalk Repertory Theatre raises the garage door on a site-specific play
A Los Angeles theater company is taking its latest production to the streets — actually, a driveway. "In Case of Emergency" is the newest offering from Chalk Repertory Theatre, and instead of a curtain being raised, it'll be a garage door.
With the cluttered interior of a garage serving as the stage, the play is about the relationship between two sisters and a professional disaster preparedness expert. They find themselves dealing with what might be a real crisis when the city seems ready to explode and they’re stuck in the over-stuffed garage.
Playwright Ruth McKee says the idea came from imagining what she could do with such an unconventional space for a play. Well, that and some reality TV.
I watched "Hoarders" right when I started writing, and I watched "Doomsday Preppers." It was a big inspiration. I start with the setting and how a confined space affects characters and what kind of tension emerges. Conflicts arise when people are stuck inside a confined space.
With street traffic and wandering dogs worked into the performance, the idea is to make theater for a film-and-TV-obsessed town by offering a more unique immersive experience. This is Chalk Rep’s thing, if you will. The company also has mounted plays at the Museum of Natural History, a downtown high-rise and a realtor’s open house.
Amy Ellenberger plays a character named Emma in the production. A Chalk Rep member, she says you can call it a gimmick if you like, so long as it works. As proof that this is what people want, she points to the popularity of escape rooms and interactive haunted houses at Halloween.
We do recognize in this play, and in many of the things we do at Chalk, we’re using site-specific [elements] to get people there. But once they’re there, we hope what they get is a really good play.
Director Deena Selenow says, logistically, a location-based production is in some ways easier than working in a traditional black box theater. The set is already mostly dressed, the rent is cheaper, and people seem willing to accept the trade-off of fewer theatrical flourishes for the hyper-realistic feel.
Selenow says actors have to introduce an element of improv into their work, or at least what you might call situational awareness.
They need to respond. If a large plane goes overhead, they can’t pretend they don’t hear it. How many times have you had a conversation and a siren goes by, so you [both] just wait? Because the whole conceit is the audience is a voyeur looking through the garage wall, so they have to [wait].
But it’s not just the people on stage who have to be ready for anything. Joe Hauler will offer his home for the show, one of three residences being used in different neighborhoods over four weekends. And he’s already planning on how to alert the neighbors that, no matter what they hear, he and his wife are fine.
I’m going to warn them. I’m told there are a few tense moments when people are speaking very loudly, so I’ll tell them, anything they hear, Don’t call the cops, please!
But for all the pluses and minuses working in the real world can bring, for McKee, it all comes down to one word: intimacy.
Those are the experiences I really love. In a theater space, I never completely lose myself. But when the actor is three feet from me, saying, This is my garage, and it really looks like that, I find that I get emotional, wrapped up in the action that no other storytelling does.
"In Case of Emergency" runs Friday-Sunday from June 3-July 3 at homes in Montrose, Atwater Village and Pasadena. For more information, visit chalkrep.com.