10 years after Selena's murder, her father tends her memory

Mar. 27, 2005 12:00 AM

CORPUS CHRISTI, Texas


Inside a leopard-carpeted recording studio, Abraham Quintanilla Jr.
opens a cabinet that guards his family's most intimate memories. His
thick fingers rummage through cassette after cassette. Past Selena -
The Early Years, past Selena - Tribute Instrumental, to Selena -
First Recordings.

Abraham pops the old tape into a stereo and straddles a chair. A
little girl's voice fills the room, straining toward a note just out
of reach. Those are his fingers strumming the guitar and his 5-year-
old Selena singing Feelings. advertisement




"Listen to her little voice," he says, arms wrapped around the
chair, staring down at polished tan shoes. Behind tinted glasses,
tears well in his eyes.

Abraham is a stocky man. Dressed in a short-sleeve, button-up shirt,
a Rolex and diamond pinky ring, he looks the part of a savvy music
manager. The tears are from the parent. He rode that mix of ambition
and tenderness for 20 years as he made his daughter the world's most
successful Mexican-American singer, only to see her murdered at the
height of success.

He revisits this private father-daughter moment often. So much so,
the 1976 home recording is worn thin. Her voice still captivates
him, even 10 years after she was shot in a motel room just down the
street.

For Abraham, March 31, 1995, marked the beginning of a life filled
with more memories than hope, more solitude than laughter.

"Sing that verse again," Abraham hears himself say. His stern face
breaks into smile.

"OK, Daddy," Selena says. A beat passes, then she belts out
again: "Oh, is it any wonder, I'm in the mood for love. Why stop to
think of whether this little dream might fade?"

Back then, almost 30 years ago, Abraham was not a man who let a
dream fade.

Just a couple of years after he made this tape, Abraham bought his
children instruments and taught them how to play. He made them a
band, with Selena as the singer, and drove them to tiny Texas towns
to play parties and dance halls.

His dreams were always one step beyond the moment, ever bigger,
until Selena became the biggest name in Tejano music, sold millions
of albums and became an idol to an emerging generation of Latinos
throughout the Southwest and Mexico. Her music and her success fused
the Mexican and American cultures, proving to Hispanics they could
fulfill their dreams without abandoning their roots, just as Abraham
had shown her.

Selena's death devastated Abraham and his family. But over the past
decade, he has built a recording company, Q-Productions, on Selena's
legacy and tends her memory in the Selena Museum. He finds solace
among the thousands who pass through pointing at her microphone
still stained with fuchsia lipstick, her fiery red Porsche, the
glass cases filled with Grammys, Billboard awards and shiny platinum
plaques.

None of this started as Selena's dream, Abraham says. It started as
his.


Musical family


Abraham fell in love with show business as a poor teenager growing
up in Corpus Christi. His cousin taught him to play the guitar, and
as a young man he fronted a Mexican doo-wop band, Los Dinos, or the
Guys.

In 1968, Abraham quit Los Dinos and left music. He was 29, married
and a father. He moved his family to Lake Jackson, just outside
Houston, where he worked at an oil refinery.

Abraham gave a guitar to his son, A.B.; drumsticks to his oldest
daughter, Suzette; and encouraged them to play. Selena, then 5 years
old, was too young for music, he thought. But then one day she
started to sing.

Her voice surprised him. That was when he decided to have them form
a band with him as manager.

"It was a way to get back into music, through my kids," he says.

After school and work, Abraham gathered the kids in the garage to
play Tejano, a thumping mix of ranchera, polka, country, pop and
Mexican conjunto. But there was a problem. Selena didn't speak
Spanish. As the music took shape, Abraham realized she would have to
learn Spanish to really sing the lyrics. He taught her at the
kitchen table.

"I had to sit down and help Selena with the pronunciations and tell
her the meaning of the songs so she could get a grasp in her mind of
what she was singing about," he says. "Where the accent was, where
she would put emotion or emphasis."

In the early 1980s, Abraham moved the family back to his hometown,
Corpus Christi. He took the kids out of the garage, gave the act a
name, Selena y Los Dinos, and took to the road. He piled them into
an old family van and drove to rodeos, quinceañeras and clubs
throughout Texas, Arizona and northern Mexico.

Remembering those early tours, Abraham's eyes narrow.

"There wasn't a hall in Texas we didn't hit," he says.

Remembering is not easy for him. His voice shakes as he explains how
the shock of Selena's murder suppressed many memories of her. He
says it hurts to share what's left of them with strangers.

He remembers her more vividly as a child than as an adult. Selena at
6 singing I'm in the Mood for Love. Selena at 9 learning how to roll
double r's in Spanish. Those early years, he says, roll by like a
movie.


Reaching higher


As the 10th anniversary of Selena's death draws closer, the phones
at Q-Productions ring through the day, speakers blare Bidi Bidi Bom
Bom and other Selena hits. The whole world, it seems to Abraham,
wants to know how his family's coping with her death.

They ask how he feels. "Preguntas necias," he calls that. Foolish
questions. How do you think it feels? He understands there's an
insatiable hunger for anything Selena.

"I know the public loves Selena," he says. "But sometimes it's just
overwhelming."

Abraham has come full circle. At the beginning he was consumed with
promoting Selena when there was little demand. His kids were
talented. He realized they were onto something. He threw himself
into selling the band.

He landed their second gig in 1983 by asking a promoter friend for a
favor.

Abraham says, "I asked him, 'Why don't you let my kids open for this
group?' " The friend set it up.

Abraham had been out of the music business for many years and didn't
realize he had just gotten the opening spot with Groupo Mazz, the
most popular Tejano band at the time. The concert was set for
Angleton, Texas.

"So we went over there to set up our rinky-dink stuff, our
instruments," he says.

As he unloaded their small Ford van, he looked over and saw the
biggest sound system he had ever seen.

"I freaked. I thought that we were in the wrong place, maybe this
was the wrong dance. A rock-and-roll dance or something. I had never
seen equipment like that. It was monstrous," he says, waving his
hands. "There was a wall of speakers on either side. And they had
lights and fog."

After the dance, Abraham pulled his kids aside.

"I told my kids that night, I said, 'You heard that sound tonight?
If you want to make it in this business, we're going to have to get
something like that,' " he says.

Through the mid-1980s, Abraham pulled Selena, Suzette and A.B. out
of school at times to pursue the dream. He drove them to jobs in
Texas, Arizona, Illinois, Idaho. Sometimes they played dances that
shut down early because so few people showed up.

But Abraham continued to hustle. He worked for airtime on the radio.
He pleaded with business contacts to give his kids a shot. Slowly,
an audience grew, and the band began opening for bigger regional
Tejano groups, like La Mafia. By 1986, there were lines at the door
where they played, often as the headliners. And Abraham bought a
monstrous sound system.

In a few more years, Abraham led his children to the top of the
charts and radio playlists. Selena y Los Dinos was the hottest act
in Texas; the group lit up radio request lines and dazzled tens of
thousands of fans across the region.

In 1987, Selena was named Female Vocalist of the Year in San
Antonio's Tejano Music Awards. In the machismo world of Tejano
music, no other woman had ever been as big. With her sexy bustiers
and Tex-Mex meets pop meets salsa beats, Selena took over the Tejano
industry. She would go on to win several more Tejano awards.

In 1989, Abraham pulled off his biggest deal, a contract with EMI
Latin, one of the largest international recording labels. The
contract was for a group simply named Selena.


New Selena


Abraham walks into an editing room at Q-Productions. A team of
employees is working on promotional labels for an April 7 Selena
tribute concert, ¡Selena Vive! in Houston.

Abraham pops in a video of a high school graduation party in
Galveston, Texas. A 17-year-old Selena, dressed in a black ballerina
skirt, sings and slides across a balloon-filled floor.

"Selena became a different person when she got on stage," Abraham
says with a chuckle, unable to take his eyes from the video. He
rewinds the video. Watches again. Rewinds. Watches.

"You know, there's people that have that soul in their body, that
whatever they do looks cool. Selena could dance, do the robot. And
she looked great," he says. "Selena would become another person when
she got on stage, even when she was little. She was shy, kind of an
introvert. But when she got on stage, she would change."

After the recording contract, Abraham watched the stage version of
Selena grow up quickly. Denim overalls were replaced by gold-studded
bras and leather pants. She plucked her eyebrows, filled them in
with pencil, and danced in the highest heels.

His daughter a star in the United States, Abraham still had a dream
one stop further down the road, this time in Mexico.

"If you make it in Mexico," he says, "it opens up the door to all
the Latin world."

In 1991, Abraham arranged for Selena to co-headline an all-night
concert in Monterrey, Mexico, five hours south of Corpus Christi.
Abraham knew the move was a huge risk.

Selena's Spanish was still a second language. She wasn't light-
skinned and green-eyed, like most popular Mexican singers. Abraham
was terrified they would call her pocha, slang for a Mexican who has
lost the culture.

"I worried they would shred her up," he says.

The event began with a news conference a few hours before the show.
Abraham's fears soon faded as he watched Selena greet dozens of
reporters, kissing each of them hello.

"She had them here," Abraham says, cupping his hand. "They really
liked her."

And she kept the audience there in the concert that followed.

The next morning, the newspaper headlines called her "Selena,
Artista del Pueblo," Artist of the People.

"They even commented about the color of their skin," Abraham says
proudly. "That she represented the color of the people. Even though
she was from Texas, they claimed her. They claimed her."

In Selena, Latinos on both sides of the border saw themselves.

Through the early 1990s, Abraham helped Selena release a flurry of
albums and hit singles. The title track of 1991's Ven Conmigo, (Come
With Me), became the first Tejano record to go gold. Her songs, Como
La Flor (Like a Flower) and Baila Esta Cumbia (Dance This Cumbia)
shot to the top of the charts. On tour, La Mafia and Groupo Mazz,
bands she once opened for, opened for her.


Stardom


A techno version of El Chico del Apartamento 512 thumps from
Abraham's car stereo speakers as he drives down Leopard Street. He
passes the Days Inn where Selena was shot and turns up the volume
until the car shakes.

Abraham is reviewing songs submitted for Selena's upcoming tribute
concert. Artists from around the world, including Lucero, Thalia,
Alejandra Guzman and Pepe Aguilar all want to perform. He expects
80,000 for the April 7 concert in Houston's Reliant Stadium.

"Selena touched a lot of hearts," he says.

In the midst of superstardom, Selena fell in love. In April 1992,
just shy of 21, she secretly married Los Dinos' lead guitarist,
Chris Perez. They later broke the news to Abraham. He blames himself
for the pair running off.

"I guess I went a little overboard in protecting my kids," he says,
shrugging his shoulders. "I don't remember boys ever going to my
house. I kind of forced my daughter to elope."

In 1994, Abraham watched Selena take the Grammy Award for Best
Mexican American Performance for her Selena Live album. That same
year, Amor Prohibido (Forbidden Love) knocked Gloria Estefan from
No. 1 in the charts. Abraham was also there when Selena opened a
clothing-manufacturing business and two boutiques, Selena Etc., in
Corpus Christi and San Antonio. Her penciled designs, framed and
detailed, still hang outside his office at Q-Productions. He works
among her five sewing machines, needles still threaded.

Still, Abraham was dreaming another step or two down the road. In
1995, when Selena performed in front of a record-setting crowd of
61,000 at Houston's Astrodome, he knew "the next door was mainstream
America." He even wanted to cross the Atlantic and tackle England.

Abraham worked with Selena as she recorded four songs for what was
to be her first English-language album, Dreaming of You.

On March 31, 1995, Selena was to meet her dad and brother at Q-
Productions to record another track for the English album.

But on her way to the studio, Selena stopped at Days Inn to confront
Yolanda Saldivar, founder of her fan club, about missing money from
the boutiques and club accounts.

They quarreled. As Selena turned to leave, Saldivar shot her in the
back with a pistol. Selena collapsed outside Room 158.

Down the street, Abraham and A.B. waited for her, thinking it was
just like Selena to be late.

They got the call as Selena was being rushed to the hospital.
Abraham and A.B. drove to Memorial Medical Center. Doctors tried to
revive her. But it was too late. Selena was pronounced dead at 1:05
p.m.




Broken hearts


Abraham says that day will haunt him forever.

"If Selena hadn't gone to that room, maybe things would've been
different," he says quietly, sitting behind a desk cluttered with
CDs and promotional videos.

"I went through all kinds of emotional things after Selena passed
away. I was angry. I blamed myself. You go through a lot of stages.
Everybody that goes through something like this understands what I'm
saying."

Abraham searched his soul and the Bible for answers. One verse in
particular spoke to him. " 'Time and unforeseen occurrences befall
us all,' " he says, translating it into Spanish. " 'El tiempo y la
casualidad ocurre a todos.' Meaning, if you're in the wrong place at
the wrong time, it can cause an early death."

Abraham has stayed busy the past 10 years, making more music and
managing his daughter's memory.

"I said that I was going to keep her memory alive through her
music," he says. He opens the latest copy of Billboard Magazine. He
flips through the pages and holds the magazine up. "It's dated four
days ago."

Selena Remembered is No. 73 on the Billboard's Latin chart.

Abraham buried his daughter on April 2, 1995, at Seaside Memorial
Park and Funeral Home. Then he consumed himself with running the
family business, Q-Productions, and shaping it around her legacy.
Suzette helps him, along with other family members and several ex-
Dinos. In 1997, Abraham helped make Selena, a movie about her life,
which starred Jennifer Lopez as Selena and Edward James Olmos as
Abraham.

Abraham has signed new Tejano artists to his label, including 18-
year-old singer Sesi, and the all-girl band La Conquista. He started
Enfoque Musical, a syndicated TV music show featuring performances
by Tejano bands, from newcomers to legend Ramon Ayala to his own
son's popular Los Kumbia Kings.

"We come to work here," Abraham says, preparing for an evening
taping of Enfoque Musical at Q-Productions. "Her presence is very
much with us."

So is the loss. Her family still struggles. Her sister pulls out
Selena's makeup case of eye shadows and lip liners when she's down.
Her brother, now a coveted music producer, moved away from Corpus
Christi and its bad memories. Her mother lines her closet shelves
with Selena photos and on bad days can't get out of bed.

"My wife is the one that has suffered the most," Abraham says,
folding his hands. Marcella has closets of Selena's clothes. "When
you walk in there, you can smell Selena," he says. Her clothes still
smell of her favorite perfume, Boucheron.

Selena's fans still flock to her. They buy her music. Hold
candlelight vigils in her honor. Name babies after her. Write
messages on the hundreds of bricks surrounding the life-size bronze
Selena statue overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. Like Abraham, they
talk about her in the present tense and contemplate what she'd be
doing today.

"We will always miss Selena," Abraham says. "But life goes on."

Abraham moves around the concert hall built behind Q-Productions. In
about an hour Los Gallitos will take the stage for the next Enfoque
Musical show.

Abraham checks the video cameras and fog machines and then steps
outside to check the lines. He greets friends, fans and family at
the door.

When it's showtime, he calls his wife. "Mama, are you coming?" he
asks. Not tonight.

"I miss having my whole family together," he says. "She's not there
anymore, and that hurts. The pain, it'll never go away. It'll always
be in your mind and heart. And you hope some day in the future you
will see her after the resurrection.

"Death is a very painful thing, in anybody's family. Especially when
it's your child."