A French chanteuse, dressed in black, sways. A quartet of violin players move in sync, the silver buckles on their Mexican mariachi uniforms shining. A slide guitar moans above a country rhythm, and in the distance the sly sound of maracas rattle like a snake slinking into view. This is the exotic world of Calexico, where bonanza meets beatnik and the spirit of adventure flourishes in a dusty, expansive landscape.
A cherished side-project of Joey Burns and John Convertino, the rhythm section of alt-country heroes Giant Sand, Calexico is a border town where plastic California meets passionate Mexico. And it is the anything goes opportunism of Hollywood and the fiery Latino temperament, along with some icy jazz, that Burns and Convertino experiment with.
But innovators aren't always charismatic. As Burns and Convertino, along with tousled-haired trumpeter Martin Wenk, double-bass player Volker Zander and slide guitarist Paul Niehaus run through their new album, Feast of Wire, their widescreen, often instrumental, songs make the impact, not the band. Burns, small and humble, hunches over his guitar as his vocals - David Gray's weariness with Kris Kristofferson's twang - hover over Not Even Stevie Nicks, Convertino brushing his drums, his quiff moving in time to the hushed melody.
Calexico are full of enough careful observation and twisted mistrust of humanity to satisfy David Lynch, but a shaft of the desert's, burning sunlight floods the stage when mariachi band Luz de Luna appear. With beaming smiles, bursting with pride, Luz de Luna pack lively personalities along with their punchy rhythms. Like a disenchanted posse of hard-bitten prospectors stumbling across a tequila-fuelled festival, Calexico layer the huge mariachi brass sound with their brittle tales of heartbreak, and their songs burst into vibrant Technicolor.
"We hope we'll give you something to remember," says Luz de Luna's leader, Jacob Venlenzuela. Across the Wire could be a lost Ennio Morricone epic, the stage, now bustling with 16 people, awash with warmth and spirit. "I thought you guys were gonna go disco!" Burns smirks appreciatively. Sombreros are removed for the Ballad of Cable Hogue, Francois Breut playing a Gaelic Nancy Sinatra to Burns's Lee Hazelwood, her guttural sweetness playing against his dry throatiness. As two trumpeters break ranks - one player appearing on a balcony, another amongst the stalls, playing to a third on stage - Burns looks on like an indulgent father figure, his vision of frontier life brimming with possibilities.
