Melissa Dueñas: Mysteries of a Record’s Past
Melissa Dueñas made her first mixtape in elementary school, staying up late to record her favorite songs on a San Diego “Oldies” station. When she played the tape on a Walkman for her dad at a local park, a jolt of pride went through her as she watched him enjoy her mix. It was a spark that lit a long-burning fire.
In the intervening years, she lived in a punk house, did a brief stint in a band, founded the long-running San Diego dance night Sleepwalking, moved to the Bay Area and got hip to its boogie scene, then co-hosted the interview/music podcast “Lowrider Sundays.” All the while she DJed everything from soul to house music as DJ Sonrisita.
Today, Dueñas is a podcast producer, DJ, collector, and cultural journalist living in Los Angeles. She still DJs regularly but might be best known for her work unearthing the stories behind the beloved East Side Story oldies compilation series.
The 12-volume series is well-known to fans of oldies and soul music, yet the stories behind the creation of the compilations were long untold. Even lesser known are the stories of the mostly Brown and Chicano people whose images graced the covers—slices of life from Los Angeles and beyond; images of friends and lovers, cars and city parks; a brief glimpse into the lives of unknown faces in the 1960s and ’70s. Since starting the East Side Story Project circa 2016, she has managed to identify all but four people.
“There was an art show in San Francisco called The Q Sides and they had reinterpreted all the East Side Story covers and reimagined them to be members of the LGBTQ community,” recalls Dueñas, who DJed the opening.
Dueñas began driving around L.A. on the hunt for familiar-looking spots and later posted one of the cover images to Instagram asking “Is This Your Tío?” She got a lot of responses: “All of these people were their own little local legends because of that. But at the beginning of the series, there was no documentation of who these people were.”
With the help of social media, Dueñas painstakingly tracked down the people and places gracing each of the 12 covers. Dueñas plans to self-publish her book in the form of a “community memoir” soon. The research and connections Dueñas made while working on the East Side Story Project highlights the long history of female collectors.
“Women have always been in music. Women have always been collecting records, and just because they haven’t dominated public spaces and not been included in a lot of narratives, doesn’t mean they haven’t always been here,” she says, pointing to a 1950s collective of female record collectors called the Rhythm-aires. “I fucking love that there were some badass Chicana collectors in Azusa throwing record parties. They were a known hub of women that would throw these parties and people would come from all over.” But while oldies like the tracks on East Side Story were omnipresent in Dueñas’ world growing up, she first began collecting records to support her local punk scene before she even had a turntable.
In our interview, Dueñas dives deep into her genre-spanning, era-defying collection—and explains how some of her most prized possessions survived living in a San Diego punk house.
Tell me a little bit about your background and how you came into this world of records.
I grew up in San Diego, and I came into the world of records by way of being super into punk. I played drums in punk bands for a long time and recorded some 7-inches. I remember having records before I had a record player because I’d go to shows. There’s a spot in San Diego called The Che Café on the campus of UCSD, it’s famous for its alternative culture. I lived all the way in South Bay San Diego, and we’d make the trek to go to shows up there. That was pretty much my refuge growing up.
I’d buy records at these gigs to support local music. I started accumulating a handful of records and then my first record player was one of those shitty three-in-ones that looked old and everything sounded like it was kind of underwater.
I worked at a record store for a short amount of time, but it all involved punk music. When I was first into punk I didn’t even realize—I’d go to see these San Diego l hardcore bands and I didn’t even realize that there was earlier hardcore music. And I would just remember hearing Minor Threat for the first time and I was just blown away that there was all this music that had preceded the music I loved. I think at a very young age, I was always interested in that: music I like now is referencing stuff from the past.
Like My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless. Just the sound of it is timeless in the sense that it sounds like it could be now. There are so many people who have tried but failed to imitate My Bloody Valentine. Especially this album! The production, the meticulous sound, and everything. For the time that the record was made, they used an insane budget; and that got them dropped from Creation Records. So a lot of excess—I think that’s why I like it. There’s also this emotional tether; I love how abrasive but tender it is. I mean, the album art itself is very much that intimacy and vulnerability. Oh man, it just makes me want to curl up and cry!
Is that what got you into oldies as well?
Oldies is more of like a family thing; it was kind of always around. I didn’t even think about it as a digging-deeper thing. The digging-deeper into soul music came way later actually. I just always heard the classics growing up and I always associated it with lowrider culture.
The Ambassadors’ “I Really Love You” came out in 1969. I got it maybe six years ago and it’s a great example of one of my favorite oldies records. I’d always play it on “Lowrider Sundays,” and my co-host Moniloca and I would argue about which is the better version—this or the DeeDee Sharp version. There’s this part that, anytime we DJ together, we always mimic because they go “Uh! I miss your tender kiss” It’s so corny [laughs]. I think the DeeDee Sharp version’s a little smoother and this is kind of quirky. It also gets a bit classic Philly soul. I love that. The poster behind me is from my first gig.
But anyway, my mom and my dad split when I was in sixth grade, and my mom became crazy into born-again Christianity. So, music was banned in the house; I had to sneak to listen. She’d be like “Turn that music off. That music is so depressing.” We used to listen to oldies all together and now it was just associated with bad memories and she didn’t want to hear it. It was pretty heavy for her, but it was cool with my dad.
She’s way chilled out now. I have a lot of empathy for her path and why she had to be so devout to Christianity. My parents were crazy into street life, gangs, drugs. My dad kind of stayed that way, my mom didn’t. I was kind of caught between these two extremes. So it made sense when I got into punk, I was just like, “Fuck all y’all.”
It was something that could be yours.
That’s what I thought. My brother was a gang member and was really into rap, house, reggae. He had all these genres that were his and I learned a lot about music from him. Oldies were culturally around, but punk definitely felt like something that was mine. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was rebelling against everything that was around me.
As you point out, oldies were always culturally significant, but are there any figures from the scene that have been lost along the way?
Yeah, I would say so. Huggy Boy was contemporaries with Art Laboe and was on different radio shows in L.A. KRLA was a big one. He toured with Thee Midniters once. Huggy Boy doesn’t get enough shine. It seems like he wasn’t as business savvy as Laboe, but if you look in books about oldies culture, there’s always this thing about him being more beloved in the early days. I think we think of Art Laboe as more beloved because he outlived [Huggy Boy]. The group Lighter Shade of Brown had Huggy Boy on one of their tracks. When you think about nodding to the culture, Lighter Shade of Brown were huge in ’90s Chicano rap, who did they choose? When I moved into my first punk apartment, my grandma let me have her old furniture—in this old record credenza, I found this record and a Midniters 45. Huggy Boy’s daughter told me that he would hand deliver these records. So, at some point, this ended up in San Diego. She was likely in the car at the time.
Is there anything out there that’s coming out now that fits into that kind of sound?
Royal Jester’s “I Want You Around” is a cover of Marvin Gaye. I love the Royal Jesters; I love Sunny and the Sunliners and all of West Side Sound from San Antonio. It’s amazing and powerful, specifically the horns in Texas soul and Chicano soul. The groups from San Antonio combined more Mexican traditional music, like conjuntos, whereas here in L.A. like Thee Midniters, they incorporated more soul, garage, rock ‘n’ roll. I just love how brown it feels. I think you can hear more of the Mexican border in the orchestration of the group itself, with the punctuation of the horns. I wanted this record for a minute. I found it on Discogs and the rating was like VG. I was like “this is so cheap, what’s the worst thing that can happen?” This is an expensive 45 and it was like a fraction of the cost. I think it was like $30. I glued it with Elmer’s glue and peeled it off and I was like “whoa, it sounds very much like an old record but not where it’s annoying to play.”
When did you officially start DJing and collecting in the way that somebody is a capital C collector?
Pretty early because when I was in punk bands, part of our after-band practice ritual was going to the record store. I was more of a completionist and very serious about having all these classic albums. I had the Ramones’ first five albums, like all The Smiths discography, I have New Order, Talking Heads. I sold all of those, by the way.
That’s interesting, becoming a part of punk was also happening alongside collecting more new-wave stuff.
I mean, before I was into punk, I was more into ’80s stuff like New Order, The Smiths, and The Cure. I would sneak down to this club in Tijuana called Porky’s that played nothing but ’80s music; I was 16 and sneaking across the border with my friends to this club, where they’re playing The Specials, Madness, New Order and it was just like a dream come true. New Order always puts me back in that time. I know every single freaking break and stretch of dance music time. It’s a record that’s so ingrained because I listened to it so much. “Bizarre Love Triangle” is my favorite song.
Also, a kind of bridge between the two is Marquee Moon by Television. It has elements that could almost be accepted by classic rock fans, but there’s a quirkiness to it. That punk energy doesn’t fit a mainstream market. It’s from my early days of collecting. I remember getting the record right when I joined my first band. I remember driving around and hearing it for the first time, being too embarrassed to ask what it was; I didn’t want to look lame in front of my new bandmates. I don’t know how I found out the name–I might have just snuck and looked at the CD cover. I’m more into proto-punk or post-punk than punk-punk. I loved all that early New York stuff; Velvet Underground and the New York Dolls. I felt there was diversity in this scene, which was so cool. I was so obsessed with reading all the oral history, learning about their weird, crazy, wild lives, and wanting to live my most extreme weirdo life. I still love this record; there’s a lot that I’ve gotten rid of but I’m too nostalgic [to get rid of that].
Were you DJing at this point too, or predominantly in bands?
I was DJing randomly in between bands at shows. I played at the Che Cafe a few times, and then I would go to some bars. I lived in a punk house—the long record player credenza that I inherited from my grandma, I trashed at this punk house but I would DJ on this credenza with one turntable. I just liked playing punk records and also ‘60s garage and early power pop like The Nerves.
I started this night in San Diego called Sleepwalking; it was an old-school funk night. And that was when I first realized, “oh shit, I love all this other stuff, too.” I love punk. I love all this shoegaze. I love all this weird stuff. But I also just love all these classic jams that I grew up hearing and I have a lot of friends that like this stuff too. But there was no space for this.
I think I was, like, 20 with my fake ID. I was getting my first tattoo and I was saying I wanted to start playing this kind of music. [The tattoo artist was] like, “I’m DJing a night like that. You should DJ with us.” Then it became me forming a night with some friends at this other bar called Whistle Stop in San Diego. That night went on for a long time even after I moved away; I think it still exists in some form. It did create a lot of community and space for people who love this music. This isn’t just cholo gang music; this is community music that’s all a part of our upbringing in some way.
I had another friend in San Diego who showed me deeper Brazilian cuts, which also shows this sense of community. When I heard Clube de Esquina, it reminded me of hearing The White Album for the first time, it’s so diverse. You hear them referencing traditional Brazilian music, but also using heavy guitar distortion. There’s a poeticness of it too, really somber moments. It’s two records too, and something feels very bold about “We have so much to say we need to put it on two records.” I fuck with that bold energy. My friend told me that [Nascimento and Lô Borges] had their own collective. I love that the design of the cover is so minimal—they were trying to emphasize the collective nature of the music. I sent [Sweater Funk founder and Pressed Cafe owner Jon Blunck] a list of my top Brazilian records—classic shit that Jon has for sure. This was on the list. And he sold it to me for a very reasonable price.
How did this sense of community influence the way you DJ?
I didn’t do any mixing; I didn’t know about bpm. It’s more casual, just selecting and curating a space or a vibe. I didn’t get into any of that other stuff until I moved to the Bay Area, where I got way nerdier about my collecting. The Bay Area schooled me on rare oldies, rare funk, dance music, disco. I had been so heavy into punk and all these different branches that I didn’t realize in dance music and soul music, there were all these other little obscure artists that never made it.
For example Mr. Fingers has such a great sound in terms of house music; he’s up there in the house Gods. He pioneered what became more of a deep house sound—if you listen to his music, you can hear the foundation of disco in house music. It doesn’t feel rigid; you get more soulfulness. When I started getting into house music, he was someone I gravitated towards, I didn’t realize that Mr. Fingers and Larry Heard were the same person. “What About This Love” is not a happy song, but it makes you want to dance. I think my favorite songs have this kind of juxtaposition happening, either in the lyrics or the tone or whatever, it’s about this person saying, “Dude, like, did I mean anything to you? What about this love? Why are you acting all stupid?”
Were you at Daniel and Primo’s oldies night or Sweater Funk when you were in San Francisco?
I was at Sweater Funk a lot and Lost & Found at the Make Out Room. I loved living in San Francisco because, at the time, for every niche genre you could find a night. Anything you really wanted to dig into, there was a scene and there was a night for it.
I have so many memories of Sweater Funk and the music that was played there, particularly “Estrelar.” I don’t know much about Marcos Valle’s background other than he has a prolific career making Brazilian music. He evolved—he had more traditional samba/bossa nova kind of sounds, and this is a boogie banger so he changed and adapted with the times. He’s amazing live still; I saw him live twice at the Lodge Room in LA. This song was played at Sweater Funk a lot—I know there are other Brazilian boogie tracks, but this was the staple. It was one of my first entries into Brazilian music without being like, “this is Brazilian music.” The two guys who founded Sweater Funk, Jon and Jacob, are heavy Brazilian collectors; I have so many memories of singing to this song there.
All of those guys were kind of mentors to me. I think the technical stuff was a really long time coming. I feel like technical skills can’t make a good set–it can add to a set–but it doesn’t replace someone curating a set.
Are there any more good anecdotes from that time that you’d like to share? Sounds like good fun!
Well, me and Daniela (Xica Soul) used to DJ together at Sweater Funk when we lived in San Francisco. We went by Cookie Crew—we didn’t know that there was a famous rap duo called Cookie Crew! Daniela would make cookies, I would help and just get drunk, and bring them to hand out at our DJ gigs. It was just a fun, cute thing, and then the Sweater Funk guys were like “You’re Cookie Crew!” And so people would bring us their records to our gigs; people would bring cookies as an offering. I remember we went on our first little tour and there would be people that would come and they’d be like, ‘Oh my god Cookie Crew, I found this!’ and give us their records. These records are more just ephemera to me, something I’m not as into, but is a memory.
What’s the story behind that Shela record?
Daniela is the first person I knew who played Shela’s “Feel Like The First Time” and it is so interesting; I don’t know where to place it. It was released in the UK, but it says it was recorded in New York. It’s 1990, but sounds earlier. It has a long intro that’s very simple, it’s a rudimentary drum machine. Also, I love a good record that has a good talking portion. She has a little sassy voice …and has her little spiel. I’m a sucker for that. It has such an interesting groove, I think that’s what attracted me to it. I would maybe classify this as R&B, and there’s another version where there’s like this rap part—it’s a cheesy version. I heard this record for the first time at Goldline [bar in LA]. I didn’t know what the record was before, but you just discover things there.
My favorite DJs are diverse; my favorite kinds of sets are diverse. All of my sets have new and old music in them. I feel like I’m building bridges between the past and present. And finding those sonic threads that you can’t do with records, because just a lot of shit isn’t released on record that is just financially not feasible for a lot of labels anymore.
What are your regular gigs and projects?
I’m working on a book about my research on the East Side Story compilations, which feels really good. I’m just self-publishing; I wanted to take a crazy bet on myself.
I wanted to make a documentary, but this felt more feasible and I think there’s something about printing a book that just feels more audacious than a documentary.
How did you get started on the East Side Story project and what interested you about the comps?
My interest in the project really came from an art show in San Francisco called “The Q Sides”. They had reinterpreted all the East Side Story covers and reimagined them to be members of the LGBTQ community. I DJed the opening. It was very emotional and very cool to see queer folks included in that narrative because lowrider and Chicano culture is very heteronormative.
But then I was like, “what do we know about these people from the covers?” I think that’s sometimes like a missing step. Because these histories weren’t deemed as important, the foundation, the ground zero is just not there.So it was just kind of a little hair up my ass. I just started calling some veteran record collectors–Ruben Molina, and Nick Aguirre–they didn’t really know much. Ruben Molina has a short paragraph about it in his first book, The Old Barrio Guide To Lowrider Music. I literally looked through all the books about Chicano soul, and nothing.
I was curious who the people were. Then my friend was like “Why don’t you post a meme: Is this your Tío?” The funny thing is, it worked. People responded. It was very much just a grassroots investigation.
To me, they’re not just a face. It’s someone’s uncle, someone’s mom, someone’s sister. That’s the park they hung out at. I just knew that they were like local legends. How could they not be, right?
The thing about these compilations is that I met the curator, and he said this was just a business venture for him. It was very well calculated, curated—he called it his “product.” I wanted him to tell me all the stories of all the covers; he just didn’t remember because sometimes he wasn’t there and because these weren’t his friends. He’s very much on the outside—he’s Greek and Lebanese—but it’s his own kind of immigrant story. His family were swap meet kind of hustlers, so he started selling records at the Starlite Swap Meet, selling oldies and bootlegging his own 45s. Then someone’s like, “Oh, make a compilation.” And he made one, which turned out to be a jackpot.
That’s so interesting. These things are such precious objects to so many people and so indicative of a culture, of a place and a time, and that he’s outside of it.
My mind was blown, but then I realized, “oh shit, I have my work cut out for me.”
How did you first encounter the East Side Story original compilations?
My brother actually had the cassette; I’d always go into his room and rifle through his music. At that time, I wasn’t like, “oh my god, what is this?” It didn’t seem weird in that context to me; the imagery didn’t strike me as something so different in terms of the context of the community I grew up in. I didn’t get a full collection until I did the project; someone tipped me off to it and sold it to me at a good price. They’re all original.
What’s your go-to comfort record?
Kansas City Express “This is The Place” 45 is one of my top five most beautiful records ever in the world, my comfort record. For a 45 it’s pretty long, so there’s lots of time to feel in an emotional space. There are long instrumental parts; the vocals harmonize with each other and layer up. It reminds me of a bird, the way the vocals flutter flutter up. This record was reissued by Friends of Sound in San Antonio; only a handful of originals exist. When they sing “this must be the place,” it’s a declaration. There’s a feeling of ‘this is our space’ that can be translated to so many different things. Playing this out on “Lowrider Sundays” with my friend Moni, felt so much like an affirmation for our show. I’ll listen to it alone and anytime I play that song it feels like an affirmation of “this is it, right here this is your life as it is.”