Love/Hate: Carlos Santana

Why I love Santana

My first concert ever was Santana at the Universal Amphitheater just outside of Los Angeles. I was seven or eight years old. I went with my friend Chad and his parents. At that point I could recognize Black Magic Woman or Oye Como Va, but I didn’t know much more than that about Santana.

I had a very good time at the show—it was very exciting. But there are only two memories from that show that have survived the test of time. In no particular order:

Santana, in case you’re weird and don’t know, is a talented guitar player—he can play a mean solo. Memory number one is Chad’s dad, immediately parroted by Chad and me, yelling something along the lines of “Blow up your amp!” Chad and I later noticed smoke rising from the neck of Carlos’s guitar. I cannot effectively relay the excitement we felt upon seeing this smoke, as we elbowed each other and marveled about how Santana’s guitar playing was so awesome and fierce that his guitar was smoldering and about to combust. To say I was somewhat let down when I realized that Santana simply stored his lit cigarettes between the strings of his guitar’s headstock would be an understatement.

Let’s just say, without incriminating anyone, that at this point I knew what marijuana was and what it smelled like. There was a ridiculous amount of marijuana smoking going on at this Santana show. Memory number two is this: As we’re enjoying the show, Chad and I notice this gargantuan joint making its way around the row in front of us. This was an absolutely colossal joint, like the one from that scene in Cheech and Chong’s Up in Smoke. It was the size of a medium banana, both in length and girth (without the curve). So this joint is getting passed around. Eventually it makes its way to the lady sitting next to me. She takes a hit and then—keep in mind I’m seven or eight years old—gives it to me. I’m dumbfounded, so I give it to Chad. This is the image that will stay with me for as long as I exist: tiny little Chad in his denim jacket with the Corvette patch, holding this massive joint—his fingers don’t make it all the way around the monster J—looking at me with this “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” look on his face. Then…then Chad tries to pass it to his MOM, who is horrified and probably had a mental seizure right then. Chad ends up giving it back to me, and I give it back to the lady next to me.

I will forever treasure my first concert experience. Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Grothe.

Why I Hate Santana

He unleashed Rob Thomas’s “Smooth” on the world, which became arguably the most popular song in Billboard charting history. I loathe Smooth. Mood, moon, cool, and groove, do not rhyme with smooth. Maybe they’re assonant rhymes, but I hate it nonetheless.