In the late 1940s, Edmundo Martinez Tostado, a.k.a. Don Tosti, recorded "Pachuco Boogie," the unofficial anthem for those Mexican American cultural outsiders. The song started a musical craze that made Tosti the king of zoot-suit cool. A much-in-demand bass player, Tosti was a fixture in the early Palm Springs nightclub scene, and he moved there in the 1960s. In the summer of 2003, I visited him for an article I was writing about my Jewish grandparents, who also lived in Palm Springs. Tosti died there last August at the age of 81. This was one of his final interviews.
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The Homeboy Boogie
When Don Tosti died last summer, he left behind a crucial piece of Chicano music history.
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Walking through what's left of the Biltmore Hotel in Palm Springs is like walking through the ruins of a lost civilization. Walls are crumbling. Fallen stop signs and clipped wire fences block driveways covered in shrubs and broken glass. They lead only to empty lots dotted with anemic palm trees where luxury suites and crowded cocktail bars used to be. The marquee is still there, though--its colors faded, its VACANCY sign missing part of its second C, inviting visitors to imagine what used to be.
Built by Robert Levin in 1948, the Biltmore was once one of the desert's most popular resorts. Don Tosti used to play the upright bass and vibes with his trio in the dining room during "the season," that holy period of tourism and vacation bustle that ran from early fall to late spring. For 10 years starting in the late 1950s, Tosti's trio banged out Latin jazz and swing for the Biltmore crowd seven nights a week.
"The biggest change is that Palm Springs has become main street," Tosti laments. "Look at what's happened to downtown. They got souvenir shops!" The most notorious casualty was Irwin Schuman's Chi Chi, a legendary nightspot on the Palm Springs strip where groups such as The Caballeros kept Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner entertained with Latin favorites.
Tosti lives around the corner from the Biltmore in the house he bought in 1961 for his wife, Ruthe. He rarely drives anymore, but his white van, emblazoned with "Music by Tosti" on its side panels, still sits out front. Inside, his house is an intimate museum--portraits of Tosti and Ruthe, photos of Tosti's most beloved icon, Tito Puente, and shelves overflowing with Mexican artifacts.
