Lowrider
Ergo Sum
The
code and creed of the Ranfla tribe
To ride very low in a very fine car is a need, a
statement and an homage that goes a long way back ÐÐ back even you might
say to 18th-century Spain, when
GoyaÕs paintings depicted the varied
grandeurs and extreme attitudes of what were then called the majos, todayÕs
machos. The majo was a young man obsessed with honor, the defense of which
entailed an overt expression of peacock style in his manner of dress and in
his accouterments.
The majo lived by a
code dating back even further, to Spanish-Moorish culture. The code, rooted
in Roman CatholicismÕs basic requirement of punishment for crimes committed
against the self or friends of the self, said that thou shalt not take what
is mine (a woman, perhaps), thou shalt suffer dire consequences if you do
(a knife wound ÐÐ and the plaintiff shall acquire a more devastating frock
coat), and these intense clothes IÕm wearing indicate that IÕm not a man to
be trifled with.
For a certain portion
of humanity, located here in Southern California and increasingly across
the country and around the world, the code hasn't changed all that much
these last few hundred years, though the modes of its expression have. IÕm
talking about lowrider culture, majo's descendant, a self-contained,
self-generated and codified system of beliefs, values, rewards and
punishments, with its very own form of artistic expression to honor it.
Ranfla is how the
homies refer to their tricked-out rides. YouÕve seen them bouncing Saturday
nights down Whittier Boulevard, around Elysian Park on a picnic Sunday,
here, there ÔnÕ everywhere in East L.A., Montebello, Pico Rivera, out in
San Berdoo, Chino and Riverside ÐÐ anywhere (almost) with large populations
of Latinos (more specifically Mexican-Americans) and those drawn to the
aesthetics of Latino culture.
ÒItÕs called style ÐÐ
you wouldnÕt understand.Ó Thus some suave guy in an old movie once put an
inquiring lady down. Cold. Definitive. That about sums up the appeal of the
major lowrider convention put on by Blvd magazine at the Sports Arena the first
weekend in November. A friendly, familylike affair with nevertheless a
satisfying hint of threat clogging up the air, the event catered to those
who know, aficionados; the main vibe was like ÒFeel free to ask. But if you
do need to ask, maybe you donÕt belong.Ó
And thatÕs fair. As for
who does belong, lowrider society seems open to anyone with the will to be
down with it. Not too surprisingly, the first thing I saw on entering the
outside display area was racks filled with Japanese lowrider magazines,
featuring their very own bonita chica-chans in bikinis, draped all nastee
Õcross their homeboysÕ ranflas. Scattered about the lot too were homies
representing such faraway exotic locales as Sweden, Germany and England,
sporting that kinda glazed look of car-lust, feverishly taking notes.
You just have to
imagine: row upon row of the most utterly fantastic kustom machines ever
assembled, proudly representing such crews as Club Techniques Inland
Empire, Shotcallers South Califas, Club Klique, Club Dukes, Strictly
Family, Club Forever, Clown ÕN, Dynasty Club Inland Empire. Each club has
its own variety of preferred rides with which to recombine and redefine.
And while almost any car has the potential to assume a real primo lowrider
attitude (mini-trucks and larger flatbeds have been on the rise in recent
years; I even saw a lowrider SUV in El Monte the other day), there are
several ultimate classics in the lowrider world, and they would be: the
Olds Cutlass; the Rivi (Riviera), almost any year; and most especially
choice, the Õ63 or Õ64 Impala.
These cars, strangely,
are often not themselves anymore, not after having been completely
dismantled, each and every part ÐÐ from the tires to the suspension to the
body itself to the seats, windows and steering wheel ÐÐ replaced with
something far, far better or lavishly refashioned to satisfy the ownerÕs
highly personal artistic vision. Eventually, youÕll have a ranfla that
fairly drips testosterone. And you are invited to inspect its every pore;
indeed, that is almost the ranflaÕs raison dÕetre. ThatÕs Òalmost,Ó because
a ranflaÕs reason for being is the homieÕs need to say ÒI am.Ó
I am. Sounds just like
me and you. Yes, you are invited, in fact impelled, to look at the ranfla,
and to express your admiration. You are not, however, invited to touch.
Interesting thing about the cars at the Blvd show is that all of them do appear to be genuine
works of art, but in a pinch each could conceivably make the emergency run
to the hospital or maybe Jack in the Box. (That is, theyÕre drivable but
not street legal, strictly speaking; also, you wouldnÕt want to risk theft
or vandalism parking your work of art at Kmart, for example.)
And now letÕs play the
pointy-head art crit and mention the fascinating phenomenon of people
devoting hundreds of hours and their most pitched, purple passions to
turning a piece of utilitarian equipment into a virtually functionless hunk
of visual splendor. Why would someone do that? You donÕt ask why.
Meanwhile, inside the
Sports Arena, theyÕre bouncing. This is where cars compete to see which one
can, with the aid of sophisticated hydraulic equipment, thump and fly off
the ground to ultimate height. This height is measured by crews with
scaffoldlike measuring frames, and the winner will also have reached his
winning height by resting his bumper on the floor, jutting the hood of his
car proudly toward the planets. The massive hydraulic systems installed in
the back of the lowrider cars were originally used to raise and lower the
ranfla on the street according to the proximity of the police, whoÕd issue
citations to those incorrigible homeboys ÔnÕ girls riding too low to be
respectable. But in these systemsÕ increasing power homies discovered the
art and sport of bouncing for height (which is reminiscent of some ancient
Scottish Highlands game, couldnÕt say why) and suaveness ÐÐ lowrider cars
can actually dance, too, by way of these hydraulic manipulations, solo
funky bump ÔnÕ swang or choreographed shit by an entire crew! Kinda scary.
Totally hilarious. And back on the fine-art tip, conceptually itÕs really
something to witness how, as the cars bounce higher and come down harder,
many of them get simply trashed in the process ÐÐ wheels bend in and fly
off, fenders pop out, windows shatter, engines pour smoke. This is some
exciting nihilism: Beautiful things built for the purpose of putting their
very survival at risk.
Your ranfla at one time
shouldÕve had a name, such as ÒGypsy Rose,Ó the original Chico and the
Man lowrider on display here at
the Sports Arena (over 1,000 painted roses and a cocktail bar in the back).
In the old days it wouldÕve been, like, ÒMy Cherry Amour,Ó ÒLittle Red
RoosterÓ (my casper bro MattÕs Õ57 Ford, red w/ spiderwebbing, 45 rpm
record player and VibraSonic sound system); youÕd see a thousand rides
called ÒMoody Blue.Ó And this is another story, but then there was my
debonair friend EddieÕs classy ÒVan Gina.Ó (His girlfriend refused to ride
in it.)
Life goes on (slowly);
car clubs even have Web sites now (OGrider.com, Truucha.com). These days
you donÕt have to name your ride, but itÕs still a nice touch: ÒMore Ta
Bounce,Ó ÒForeplay,Ó ÒForever Rollin.Ó Outside, a lot of the really vintage
rides still make the effort: ÒTouch of LoveÓ is a Õ58 Chevy wagon, purple,
with angels ÔnÕ fine ladies painted on the front; ÒIllustriousÓ is a niiice
Õ70 Monte Carlo, black, clean lines, no fuss; thereÕs a Õ50 Chevy Deluxe
cab truck called ÒGold RushÓ; a Õ48 orange-sparkle Chevy, ÒBlvd Bomber.Ó I
notice a lot of guys in wheelchairs here today. Sad, maybe, but you oughta
see their eyes light up when they gaze at these cars. I imagine them
imagining their glory days. I imagine myself bumpinÕ down the boulevard in
my very own custom ride: ÒWinds of ChangeÓ or some corny shit engraved on
the windows ÐÐ no hoody rat, just another American dreamer on top of the
game ÐÐ and other wicked-ass forms of Cali swangin. (CanÕt front, but I can
dream.) ItÕs a tribe thing.
Best be bumpin your
ride, homie. You may want to practice the lowrider riding style in your
2001 gray Volvo. Try to picture that your steering wheel is either 10 times
too big or too small, and made of gold-plated chain or covered with
butterscotch fur. Look around you and check your Volvo ranfla, with its completely
orange or leopard-skin fuzz-lined walls and ceiling ÐÐ the Òwall-to-wall
pussyÓ stylee ÐÐ looking good, man. You are riding low, very, very low.
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