To Selena, With Love (35 page)

Selena’s mainstream album,
Dreaming of You
, was released in the summer of 1995. The album combined songs in both Spanish and English. It was Selena’s biggest musical success yet, debuting at number one on the U.S.
Billboard
200 chart—the first time for any Hispanic singer. The album sold over 175,000 copies on its release date, a record for any commercial woman singer, and it sold two million copies in one year alone.

I heard songs from that album everywhere I went, and it was torture. Anytime I heard Selena’s voice come on the radio, I had to change the station. If I heard one of the songs in a restaurant, I wouldn’t want to make a scene by walking out, but I’d pretend not to hear it. I got really good at just sitting there and acting like I couldn’t hear any music at all.

Watching the music video for “I Could Fall in Love,” one of the hit tracks from that album, was even worse. It was like slashing the wounds open all over again.

It took me over a year to really begin clawing my way out of that trench of despair. For a long time, I had kept everything in the house just the way it was, including Selena’s belongings, but little by little I started putting a few things away. Some days, walking by them made me feel good, because I had such fond, loving memories of Selena. Other times, though, I would see something of hers and sink into a depression that lasted for days, consumed as I was by grief. I had to find a way to move on.

With John, I decided to finally pursue a dream that would have made Selena proud: I formed a rock band that included my old friend and former La Mafia member Rudy Martinez on bass; Joe Ojeda, who had played keyboards with us in Los Dinos; and Jesse Esquivel on drums.

Abraham and A.B. would probably have helped me out with producing, but I decided that I needed to make the album independently. I was finally going to try to create the record that I had been hearing in my head, and I was determined to work with people who could get me that sound. I put the band together. In 1998, the Chris Perez Band—not my idea to name it that, but the guys insisted—went to Los Angeles to record our music at Henson Studio.

The most unlikely song on the album was one that I had written about Selena a few months earlier. Called “Best I Can,” that song cataloged a lot of the despair I was feeling and my struggle to go on.

I remember that I was sitting alone in the living room when I wrote it, barefoot and in my sweats. It was during that time of day that Selena loved so much, when the sun was setting and it hit a certain spot on our living room floor. We always put our feet in that spot of sunlight to warm them.

I picked up my guitar and the music just flowed out of my fingers. Part of me knew that it was a good song, but another part of me didn’t want anyone else to hear it. I was reluctant to reveal my emotions to the world, much less use my personal tragedy to sell a record. It was bad enough to be known as “the widower of the slain Queen of Tejano Music,” or whatever the media was calling me. I didn’t want to also have to hear people saying, “Yeah, well, that record got made only because he wrote about Selena. He’s just pulling on heartstrings by putting that one out.”

When I finished writing the song, I felt okay but bad at the same time. I was split in two; great songs deserve to be heard, but this one would be mine alone.

I put down my guitar and then started writing the lyrics. Those, too, came out fully formed, which is rare—not just for me, but for any songwriter. Usually I have to sit and think about a song before I can start writing, then rewrite the lyrics over and over again until they seem perfect. With this song, however, it was as if Selena’s spirit was there to guide me as I wrote,

After I’d finished writing “Best I Can,” I worked on the music for another of our songs, “Solo Tu.” Joe had written the words and left them on a sheet of paper on my mixing board. He had been thinking of turning it into a romantic ballad, but I picked it up and decided to make it into a rock song.

By the time John and Joe came over that night, I had two songs to show them. I played “Solo Tu” for them first, and we worked on that one together for a while.

Then I said, “I also wrote this other thing. But, before I show it to you, I want you to know that I don’t want to ever put this song out.” I got out the lyrics, sat down with my guitar, and started playing “Best I Can.”

“Wow,” they both said when I finished. “We’ve got to at least do a demo, even if you don’t want to release it.”

So we recorded “Best I Can” with studio gear, but with no intention of including it on the album. When we arrived in Los Angeles and started recording, however, I was outvoted by the other band members and by the people at our label, Hollywood Records, who had accidentally heard the demo and loved that song more than any other. Together, they all managed to talk me into it.

“Selena always supported you one hundred percent,” Joe said. “She would love it that you wrote this song for her, and that you’re going ahead with your dream to have a rock band.”

There was another song about Selena on the album called “Another Day.” I don’t know why I was cool with sharing that song, but not “Best I Can,” especially since “Another Day” was about how much I loved Selena. It was just one of those personal, maybe irrational, feelings.

The thing is, making music has never been about making money
for me. I had never tried to see the road in front of me. I just wanted to write songs that people could hear and relate to their own experiences, whatever situations they’re going through. I ended up deciding to release “Best I Can” not only because it was a good song and the other band members wanted it on the album, but because I thought that hearing it might help others who had lost loved ones. That’s what music has always been about for me, as it was for Selena: connecting with other people in ways that you can’t through words alone.

It took us a couple of months to record the CD. In the final production, I ended up working with another childhood friend, bass guitarist Adriel Ramirez, and drummer Alex Tamez, as well as with my friends John and Joe. I also brought in musicians from other genres to conquer the unique sounds I was after. These included percussionist Luis Conte, horn players from the Voodoo Glow Skulls, Mariachi Sol de Mexico, and even members of the band Cheap Trick. If we succeeded in the U.S. rock market, I knew we’d be conquering new territory as U.S.-born, Latin musicians.

When
Resurrection
was released in 1999, it included nine tracks in Spanish and six in English. I wanted this Latin rock album to break new cultural ground, in the sense that its bilingual mix reflected the daily reality for many Hispanic-Americans who were growing up the way Selena and I had.

In a bold move, our label released two different singles at the same time to both English and Spanish radio stations: the rock song “Resurrection” as the first English-language single, and “Por Que Te Fuiste,” a ballad that I knew would appeal to Spanish-speaking listeners. I started going to different radio stations and working with promoters in the U.S. and abroad. Oddly, hitting the road to do the
interviews and shows brought me closer to Selena, because now I was experiencing that life again. What’s more, because the Chris Perez Band carried my name, and because I had written or cowritten nine of the songs on the album, I was the one the media was interested in now.

Anytime I felt tired or irritable from marketing the music, I would remember how Selena would get up every day and do whatever it took to help her family, support and love me, care for our house, reach out to fans, and bring her music to the world. I never fully realized how much Selena was juggling, or how much courage she had, until I started going on the road and revealing my own vulnerabilities in the music I was writing.

I used to say to her, “Just ignore what people say. There’s always going to be some negativity, and you can’t worry about it or take it personally.” Now that I was feeling the sting of negative remarks sometimes, I realized how tough and determined Selena truly was. I vowed not to let her down.

Our album was aptly named: this was my personal resurrection, I decided. I would live and work in a way that made Selena proud of me from now on.

A few months after I’d returned from the promotional tour for
Resurrection
, I got a call early one morning from my friend Robert Trevino, who works for Gibson Guitars. “Congratulations, Chris!” he said.

“Dude, do you know what time it is?” I said, blinking hard at the clock.

“Yeah, but I wanted to be the first one to congratulate you.”

“For what?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re nominated for a Grammy,” Robert said.

“Shut up,” I said. “Somebody told me you can’t be nominated for a Grammy until you’ve got three or four CDs. That’s impossible.”

“Oh, man, sorry,” he said. “I guess I screwed up.”

“Where did you hear this, anyway?” I asked.

“I’m on the Web site. The nominations came out today,” Robert said.

“Well, you must have read it wrong,” I said.

We hung up, but of course I had to go and check it out for myself. Sure enough, there was my name on the list. I called Robert right back to apologize. “You’re right! We were nominated!”

He laughed. “I told you,
pendejo
.”

“Yeah, well. It doesn’t matter, because look who we’re up against,” I reminded him. “We’re never going to win. Still, it’s an honor to be nominated, right?”

I called everyone in the band and told them the news. We decided to fly out to Los Angeles for the ceremony and just watch the show and enjoy the ride.

When we walked into the theater, I saw A.B. and his bandmate, Cruz Martinez. They were dressed up in these weird outfits. I’d worn background clothes, a nice suit, and I’d brought my whole band. When I saw A.B. dressed like that, along with all of these other artists whose music I admired so much, I suddenly felt like I shouldn’t be there at all. Whoever nominated us must have made a mistake. These other people had put out lots of albums; I hadn’t worked nearly hard enough yet to deserve this honor.

But we were here, so I said hello to A.B. and then went to my seat. I was seated near the stage and A.B. was sitting up in the
bleachers on the side. As I looked at him, I wondered if A.B. was remembering, like I was, Selena’s Grammy award and her speech that night.

I wondered if Selena was watching us right now. I hoped that she was. I knew this would make her so proud to see both her brother and me in these seats. She’d be laughing that laugh of hers, too, if she saw how nervous I was.

“You see how it feels?” I could imagine her saying. “At least you don’t have to worry about tripping on your dress!”

My category came up first. When the MCs started listing the nominees for Best Latin Rock Alternative Performance for 1999, of course I knew that my band wasn’t going to win. These other musicians were so great, so artistic, and I owned CDs by every one of them because I loved their music so much. It was a pretty safe bet that they couldn’t say the same thing about my CD. They probably didn’t even know who I was.

Then they opened the envelope, and said, “The winner is…”

In my head, I heard Cafe Tacuba’s
Reves Yo Soy
. I loved that album and knew they deserved the award.

I was getting ready to stand up and clap for that cool badass band, Cafe Tacuba, when, in my peripheral vision, I saw John jump up. I looked over and saw the other guys in my band standing up as well. I was still sitting down. Then they all started clapping and gesturing for me to go on up to the stage.

“We won, man, we won!” John said.

I stood up and took my walk to the podium, knowing that, if she could see me now, Selena would be smiling.

In the end, all I did was make the best record I could with friends and musicians I admired. I never thought we’d win a
Grammy, but as Selena always told the children she spoke to around the country, “Nothing is impossible if you work hard.”

That includes picking up the pieces of your life.