It’s hard not to delve for the clichés when considering Calexico’s signature sound. Based close to the Mexican border in Tucson, Arizona, they make music so redolent of its place that you can almost smell the tortillas, taste the chillis and see the cacti beneath a burning desert sun.
Drums pitter-patter like desert rain and percussion instruments rattle and hum like small reptiles scuttling across the rocky landscape in search of sanctuary. Guitars twang, a carnival organ wheezes, and mariachi trumpets float in and out, adding a colourful Mexican flavour. This is, to cite another unavoidable cliché, widescreen music – a soundtrack for a roadtrip in an old car through Death Valley, perhaps, or for a yet-to-be-made violent western. A violent one, judging by song titles like Bloodflow, Gypsy’s Curse and Bag Of Death.
Calexico’s second album turns 20 this year and sounds as vital today as when it first arrived in 1998, the patina of nostalgia only adding to the appeal of its world-weary sound. Meanwhile, its lyrical concerns – preoccupied with crossing physical and metaphorical borders – have never been timelier as a river of refugees gathers on the western border of Mexico and the USA, held at bay by a tinpot dictator who wants to keep them out with guns and a wall.
Born when the rhythm section of Joey Burns and John Convertino left Howe Gelb’s band Giant Sand to pursue their own cross-cultural path – similar to the one being pioneered by Los Lobos – The Black Light was a turning point in Calexico’s nascent career. It introduced new elements – mariachi trumpets, Latin rhythms and pedal steel guitar – to their dusty desert sound, creating the hybrid that would become their signature.