Texas Troubadour Mines Glam-Punk Past

"Bowie, Iggy, T. Rex — they formed Alejandro," says Visconti. "He's never had a real chance to express that so clearly until now. David doesn't make records like this anymore, and Marc has passed on. Somebody has to carry the torch."

Escovedo also sings for those who fell along the way. Johnny Thunders, the Gun Club's Jeffrey Lee Pierce and Escovedo's second wife, Bobbie (who died in 1991), are among the departed spirits passing through the roaring "Chelsea," based on Escovedo's stay at the New York hotel in the late Seventies, and the beautiful pleading of "Sister Lost Soul." Talking about "Chelsea," Escovedo describes a memorable elevator ride with Sid Vicious, Nancy Spungen and British dandy Quentin Crisp, all long gone. "You gotta understand," Escovedo says. "I'm not talking like an insider. These were not my best friends. They were characters in my story."

Born in San Antonio and raised in Southern California, Escovedo comes from a large, prominent Mexican-American musical family. His older brothers Coke and Pete are legendary percussionists, the drummer Sheila E. is Alejandro's niece, and he played with another brother, guitarist Javier, in the True Believers. But Alejandro didn't seriously pick up the guitar until he was 24. Before that, he drifted through school and an early marriage, spending more of his time with Bowie and Mott the Hoople records, going to shows in Huntington Beach ("Golden Bear," on Real Animal, is named after a famous local club) and dressing like a rock star. "To be Chicano, walking around in a green velvet suit and shag haircut, was pretty out there," says Escovedo proudly. He also remembers his nights in Los Angeles during the glitter era, hanging outside clubs with "my best Johnny Thunders look going, always the guy trying to get in somehow."

"The thing I love about Al," Prophet says, "is it's always been about the regal and the street. He's got $800 shoes he bought on his last trip to Paris. At the same time, he has an encyclopedic knowledge of the Stooges."

Escovedo's life in rock has come at a high cost: A 2003 attack of hepatitis C nearly killed him. But, he insists, "I'm the lucky one, because I'm still playing music. I learned the hardships of falling short. But I can look back and not be ashamed by any of it."

[From Issue 1058 — August 7, 2008]

• More From Issue 1058