The Inheritor

Tino Vaca looks at Lincoln Heights, Los Angeles.

Tino Vaca is a thirteen-year-old record collector from Lincoln Heights, Los Angeles. A thin mustache grows above his lip and a Dodger cap sits on his head. He seems tall for his age. It’s six p.m. on a Saturday and we are in Elysian Park. The stadium rests just behind us, to our east. The sun is setting. There’s a home game tonight.

This lot is on a hill that overlooks Lincoln Heights. We are here making a documentary for 3Res Vinos Pictures about Tino, his family, their passion for soul music, and East L.A.’s history with soul music at large. Tino’s father, Frank Jr., also a record collector, is here and so is their friend Ruben Molina, the author of the book Chicano Soul and The Old Barrio Guide to Low Rider Music. Yes, Ruben is a record collector as well.

So far it has been a day of interviews with Tino at the Vaca house on Mozart Street. He is the spine of this still-forming film about the Chicano record collectors that came out of his neighborhood in an earlier generation. Tino is a noticeably young apprentice on this subject, the inheritor of a tradition, a cinematic springboard into a bygone era. The crew is here to capture a shot of him holding his record case while looking down over his neighborhood.

The director David Trevino gets the camera equipment out of his car and begins setting up the shot. Cars already parked in this lot before our arrival drive off. One, two, three of them leave in quick succession.

“Looks like we messed up the lover’s lane,” Ruben says. Lover’s lane — I don’t say anything but this term strikes me as out of touch, like something you’d hear in a sitcom from the sixties. Ruben, who was also born in Lincoln Heights, lived through the sixties, so this makes sense. But I could easily see either of the younger Vacas using similarly dated language. Ruben and the Vacas intentionally live in history. They are deliberately and proudly old school.

The magic hour is approaching. David is waiting for the right light. Over by the metal railing, Frank Jr. has a conversation with his son about some building they see in the distance on the other side of the L.A. River. I cannot hear the details.

A few years ago, when Tino was nine, his grandfather Frank Vaca Sr. was seriously wounded by a stray bullet in a drive-by shooting. Frank Sr. survived but was paralyzed. In the aftermath of this event, Frank Sr. put away his music. Forever unable to drive his prized 1960 Apache or his 1936 Packard, Frank Sr. retreated inside himself. He gave up his passion for fixing old cars. He sold them and lost hope.

Frank Jr. considered the possible ways he could help his father heal. His search brought his mind back to the past, to his childhood in Lincoln Heights. Frank Jr. remembered the weekend family parties, full of doo-wop, oldies, and soul music. Frank Sr. always had a smile on his face then.

Frank Jr. and Tino unpacked Frank Sr.’s records. Together, father and son began music therapy sessions. They started seeking out more records to expand the possibilities of Frank Sr.’s therapy. Over time, this routine proved to be successful — the records brought Frank Sr., step by step, out of his depression. He became himself again.

Tino tells me that Chicano soul music started to “pop up” for him when his grandpa was finally coming out of his shell, after the shooting. Elliptical bursts of soul were there, entering his young life, forming his outlook. Tino needed to learn about the artists he was listening to. He needed to own as much vinyl as he could. The first 45 he bought was Tony Allen’s Night Owl. Today, three years later, Tino owns four hundred and seventy more. He plays them all the time.

Tino will protest if you call him a D.J. The term D.J., to him, is a practically a sin. Tino is a record collector. Like I said, deliberately and proudly old school.

The Vacas and Ruben crossed paths. They became friends. I’ve overheard a lot of insider conversations about their world today: The L.A. record collector scene is full of drama and competition. Enemies are made. Passions run high. Alliances like theirs can be important. The concept for this documentary was born. Ruben, a producer of the film, thinks young Tino’s passion needs to be shared. In a short time I’ve seen enough to determine that Tino is wise beyond his years. Casually, in between takes, Tino describes himself as “his grandfather’s legs.” I make a mental note to remind David to make sure that line ends up in the film somewhere.

It’s almost six thirty now. The light is right and the shot is ready. There’s a space of flat land on the hill before it starts to get steep. David tells Tino that this is his mark. The rest of us step back. Tino holds his small record carrier. He calmly steps over the metal railing to his mark.

“Action!” David calls.

Tino looks down at the city.

Ernest Hemingway said, “All stories, if continued far enough, end in death.” Frank Jr. and Ruben are idealistically fighting against this maxim to keep a place for Chicano soul in the American lexicon. From this high vantage point it’s as if the two older men can see the bombs rolling down their old streets and hear the music from the dance halls refracting out and wafting up the hills toward us, being carried by the wind. They stand behind Tino Vaca, watching him quietly, ready to gift an intricate history over to him. He looks ready to inherit it.