MEMORIES OF ESTEBAN "EL PARCHE" JORDAN

By Juan Montoya
It was the summer of 1986 and I was working at the Saginaw (Mich.) News when a coalition of local Hispanic groups sponsored a dance to raise fund for student scholarships.
Would I help spread the word through the News?
"We're bringing Esteban Jordan, the accordionist for the dance," the spokesman said.
Now, having worked at the Corpus Christi Caller before I went off to San Antonio and then off to grad school, I was well acquainted with "El Parche," or alternatively, "El Alacran."
He was one of those virtuoso accordionists like El Flaco Jimenez, Ramon Ayala and the younger crop like Jaime de Anda y Los Muchachos and Michael Salgado.
The contact then got me in touch with Jordan when he and his band rolled into town. They were staying for a couple of days at a local motel until the Saturday night benefit. I called ahead of time and we met that afternoon.
Upon entering the room the first thing I detected was the unmistakable smell of burning cannabis. His son Esteban Jr. came into the room from the bathroom with some band members. All were red-eyed and laughing as they emerged.
Esteban turned up his eyes at them and shook his head humorously.
We introduced ourselves and then Jordan started telling me about what he was doing. I told him that I had heard him play some Cajun-influenced zydeco tunes when I was in Corpitos and later in San Whilmas. He perked up when he heard the slang for the towns and spoke at length about what he was doing musically.
Then, there, in the motel room, he called his son to get on the bajo sexto and he got one of his accordions to demonstrate.
"I have about 10 whole albums recorded and ready to go," he said between songs. "I just don't want to saturate the market."
And there, in the middle of the mitten (Michigan), he played his version of Los Dos Canales for me years before Los Cuatro Batos Locos and the Garcia Brothers released their versions.
Played to the tune of Los dos Amigos, it tells the tale of two barrio dudes who robbed an HEB after leaving a bar.
"Estos eran dos carnales, que venian del 1, 2, 3
Que por no venirse d'ioquis, robaron el HEB..."
He then launched into the El Corrido de Johnny El Pachuco, again, a creative version of the Mexican standard Juan Charrasquiado.
After the impromptu concert at the motel room, I invited them over to local Mexican congal and we downed a couple of cold ones periquiando about El Tejon and remembering former conjunto greats. Being, as I was, a former migrant worker, we hit it off at once. Then, after hooking the boys up with a local purveyor of mota, we parted ways and I went to write the article.
The press room guys were intrigued by the accordion music and invited Esteban the next day to get a studio-quality photo and listen to a few strains of the music. Mid-Michigan was settled in the early 1800s by German and Polish farmers and many of them were acquainted with traditional accordion music played by the numbers.
What they heard was anything but. Jordan twisted and turned throughout the performance on the push button and delved into blues and jazz melodies as they watched and listened in amazement.
After a few tunes and photos, he put the accordion down and invited the news guys to the concert. Following the performance that Saturday night, I was leaving the hall when Esteban waved me over and handed me two cassettes with his music.
"Gracias por todo, bro," he said and shook my hand. "Ay te wacho."
Esteban Jordan passed away last weekend after a battle with cancer and cirrhosis of the liver. It is risky to say that we'll never see another one like him come our way because talent is prevalent in the Hispanic community. But I probably won't ever get to meet someone as unique as Esteban and for that I feel sad but at the same time fortunate for having had the opportunity to meet him.