LUPILLO RIVERA

Urban Ranchero
With Bentley's, mansions, and platinum records, Lupillo Rivera is living the life we all dream about. How does he stay hungry...and humble?

WORDS Abel Salas
PHOTOGRAPHY estevanoriol.com

Lupillo Rivera is dressed in his trademark pin-striped, double-breasted suit, a silk tie knotted perfectly between the starched white collars of his shirt. His three bling-bling Bentleys are arranged in a fan behind him on the street in a posh Los Angeles neighborhood where LA Laker owner Jerry Buss keeps a palatial Mediterranean residence. Alternately donning the felt, pearl-colored cowboy hat then removing it to reveal his now familiar shaven head, he is all smiles and patience, an almost adolescent glee evident in the round face sporting a neatly trimmed mustache as he turns for a barrage of photos.

“How’s that?” he asks, crouching in front of a Bentley bumper, the shot almost a nod to the East LA homeboy stylebook. For another shot, he sits at the wheel of a Bentley convertible or stands just behind an open door as if preparing to hit the road.

All around LA County and on several Metro buses, larger than life billboard images currently picture Rivera, a multi-platinum artist, with the keys to a bright red Ferrari in his hand.

“Win Lupillo’s Ferrari!” exclaims the text on the highly visible signs. A local radio station, appropriately named La Raza, has been enlisted for the giveaway. On the street, he is amiable with a Telemundo television crew on hand for an interview.

According to Rivera, the giveaway is a celebration of his new deal at Univision Music, now the most prominent Latin music label in the industry, a muscular giant that touts synergy as it leverages the number one Spanish-language television network and now the nation’s largest Spanish radio network behind its talent.

“That was the second car I ever bought,” says Rivera, “I got a pretty big contract from Univision, and I decided I owed it to the public as a little reward to them…like a thank you.”

If you haven’t heard of Lupillo Rivera, you have no business claiming even a remote familiarity with Latin music in the U.S. You suffer from extreme “tapado” syndrome and are immediately ordered to seek a remedy. We recommend three tall shots of $50-a-bottle tequila, not difficult to find since the Mexican elixir has become so fashionable among the rich and famous. Try Don Julio for starters.

For those unfortunate enough to have been living with their heads under a rock for the last several years, Rivera is Southern California’s answer to the famed corrido kings of Mexico, among them Vicente Fernandez, Pedro Infante, and Jose Alfredo Jimenez—classic south-of-the-border, singing cowboy, matinee idol equivalents to Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis, Jr.

Of the aforementioned Mexican icons, hard-drinking lady-killers with hearts of gold and a soft spot for the common folk without whom their career would not have been possible, only one—Fernandez—still lives. And Rivera, not by choice, is his heir apparent, outshining—in both record sales and media profile—even the aging Fernandez’s actual son, a pretty boy pop star once trumpeted by music producer Emilio Estefan.

If Rivera has a lock on musical stardom in an industry that straddles two countries, it has not come overnight, but has instead been earned, the fruit of dedicated efforts stretching across two generations. As a child, Rivera worked closely alongside his father at the family-owned Cintas Acuarias, a fledgling record company that recorded Mexican artists direct to cassette in a humble neighborhood studio and distributed the product at local swap meets in Long Beach, California.

“I think it prepared me because I was able to see what singers were going to make it based on their attitudes,” says Rivera, recalling the lessons he absorbed while shadowing his father in the family enterprise. “In this business, you have to have a good attitude.”

Hard work, sheer determination, a genuinely friendly disposition and an honest appreciation for his fans have made Lupillo a household name in homes from Chiapas to Wisconsin, a favorite among audiences of all ages. The attitude he refers to is more than evident. Today, for example, he is posing for the cameras of this magazine—moving his collection of vehicles back and forth—being photographed for his new CD, and driving a female host around the block in the topless Bentley for a television interview.

Moments later, he is in his home—an impressive Sante Fe style structure just a few houses down from Jerry Buss—discussing the car crash in Mexico several months ago that could have been much worse.

“It could happen to anybody, you know,” he explains. “I’d been working for six days and just decided to take the wheel. I fell asleep… and wrecked.”

The accident, which occurred on the way from Juarez, Chihuahua to El Paso—where he would have boarded a flight to Miami for yet another interview—left him with a number of fractured ribs and a severely sprained ankle.

Raised on the west side of Long Beach, he is gradually adding to his new home, a café con leche colored stucco embedded steeply on a hillside perch with a spectacular view. His “chante” is a testament to terrazzo tile, hand-carved wood, and a proud Mexican heritage. On the walls, gold and platinum records are complemented by rustic images and the trappings of “el folklor,” guilded mariachi sombreros and mementos from an exhausting life on the road as a troubadour who bridges contemporary Mexican American culture with the greatest traditions of Mexico.

A parade of hits such as “Despreciado, El Rey”—among many others—and a string of successful albums already under his belt, the young thirty-something vocalist has set his sights on new frontiers. Responding candidly to a question on his silver screen aspirations, he reveals that he is currently in an acting class.

“But… I don’t want to come out like all the Mexicans…you know. They use us as gangsters and that type of thing,” he says decrying the dearth of leading roles for Latinos in Hollywood. “I want to be able to come out, say… maybe as a detective, maybe as a hero in the movie.”

By Rivera’s standards, oft-ignored performers such as Esai Morales should get more credit and greater opportunities. “I think he’s a hell of an actor. He’s demonstrated that he’s got what it takes,” says Rivera of Morales. “He deserves a major role… he should be on par with, say a Richard Gere.”
On his own comparisons to ranchero legend Vicente Fernandez, Rivera is equally frank, practical, and no-nonsense.

“It feels good, but then again, it feels like a big responsibility. I’ve got to act a certain way around certain people and sometimes I’ve got to be myself. And sometimes it’s hard to keep up that way,” he confides. It is all part of the price he pays to achieve his goals, Rivera notes.

“Vicente Fernandez was the fourth idol of Mexico and I want to be the fifth,” he adds with his signature honesty. “If the public gives me the opportunity. And thank God, we’re working a lot in Mexico. We’re actually working more in Mexico than here in the United States.”

If audiences for Lupillo in the U.S. generally number upwards of 20,000, his draw in Mexico is twice that. He recalls one particular show in the working-class Mexico City suburb of Ecatepec.

“The promoter hired about 15 security guards. They put wooden roadblock barriers around the stage. He was expecting maybe 18,000,” Rivera says. “More than 42,000 people showed up. They tore down the barriers. They had to call the cops.”

As the godfather of what is now touted as “urban regional Mexican” music, that is—traditional Mexican ranchero, norteño, and banda interpreted by artists raised in urban environments with hip-hop and rap influences—Rivera accepts the mantle and the euphoric “desmadres” that accompany the calling with a good-natured shrug. Describing a Wal-Mart grand opening in Palm Springs for an expected crowd of 1,000 to 2,000 people, he assumes responsibility for the melee that followed.

“I said, ‘Just put up a small stage and I’ll sing for an hour.’ And, I mean, they weren’t prepared. I wasn’t prepared. There was like 11,000 people,” he says. “Police showed up. They had helicopters flying all around us. Supposedly, they wanted to arrest me ‘cause I was causing a riot.”
The photographer and make up artist signal impatiently from his dining room. Lupillo nods and apologizes for having to cut the conversation short. His first album for Univision Music ships in May and they’re here for publicity stills as well as album cover images. For Lupillo Rivera, it’s all part of the job.

“Actually, that’s the way my whole career has been,” he says as he settles into the tall director’s chair, resigning himself to the make-up girl’s careful hands and studied artistry. The happy grin and the electric sparkle in his gaze communicate the obvious: he enjoys what he does; there is nothing more he would rather be doing.