Interview with Ozomatli

The first time I saw Ozomatli, at South by Southwest in 1998, the band switched between musical genres and tempos and instruments with such velocity that it was pretty much impossible to keep up. This was exuberant Latin rock, this was politically charged hiphop from the streets of Los Angeles. This was trumpets and saxophones and turntables and guitars and drums and a tabla. This was blacks and Mexicans and Asians deep in the heart of Texas, teaching what seemed like a meeting of the UT-Austin Young Republicans how to have a good time.

Every few minutes resulted in a climax, a climax that made you forget almost everything that had just happened. There was no time to reflect, because Ozomatli had already moved on to the next crescendo. There was no time, no reason, to stop.

Ozomatli, named after the Aztec god of dance, told the crowd to put their fists in the air, but the point wasn't to wave them around like you just don't care. The point, Ozomatli implored, as they sang and rapped about unity, was that you were supposed to care.

Get rid of that smirk, kid. You weren't there. You don't understand how infectious Ozomatli's energy was. You didn't see all the goofy cowboy types pumping their fists, bouncing up and down, rapt, converted. You didn't see all the joyless rock critics and A&R types actually smiling. You didn't see the 10 guys in the band leap off the stage and into the crowd. You didn't see them form a huge circle and get almost everybody to dance and sweat and yell.

The second time I saw Ozomatli, they were playing Seattle's Bumbershoot Festival in 2000. They started their show by marching into the audience alongside a 12-foot black knight that symbolized the LAPD. Then they played an electrifying set in front of a post-WTO-protest crowd that loved every second.

"A lot of different people show up to Ozo shows," saxophone player Ulises Bella tells me. "Part of our philosophy is that we never got bogged down to one particular scene. We would play a hiphop show, we would play a salsa show, we would play a funky punk show, we would open up for reggae artists. Not getting bogged down in one musical scene has given us a really eclectic audience. You get a little bit of everything."

Ozomatli's politics are what you might expect of a black/Chicano/Cuban/Japanese/ Jewish/Filipino collective who got together after a community arts center formed in the aftermath of a labor dispute. They've marched against police brutality. They once dedicated a set in Philadelphia to Mumia Abu-Jamal. (That was one of the rare times that the crowd turned against them.) They like to tell the story about how cops shot them with rubber bullets when they tried to perform during the 2000 Democratic National Convention. They think the United States is guilty of numerous atrocities. They are obviously very antiwar.

But as their 1998 set in Austin proved, you do not have to agree with or care even a little about the band's politics to have a good time at their shows. They simply have vitality and talent to spare (in fact, two former members, Chali 2na and Cut Chemist, are the backbone of Jurassic 5). They, like the Polyphonic Spree, are so unabashedly joyful that you can't help but grin too. It's evangelism that goes down like sugar.

But the other thing is that Ozomatli is one of the finest live bands you will ever see, even if?maybe even especially if?you don't quite get what they're saying. And given that much of their lyrics are in Spanish, many people haven't.

Bella downplays the band's political leanings when I ask him how people have responded to Ozomatli's message since their last record, Embrace the Chaos (Interscope), was released on that awful Sept. 11, 2001.

"You know what? The biggest thing we've given in that sense is that we stand for the antiwar movement," Bella says. "A lot of people come up to us and thank us. A lot of people feel almost alone in their choice. There's a sense of community, like, "Wow, I ain't the only one, and it's growing."

Ozomatli is not on tour to preach. Bella says they just want to throw a big party and have everybody join in however they feel like. Bella tells me that big black knight wasn't even their idea. It was WTO-protest kids who made a huge prop and asked Ozomatli if they could take it onstage. The band said sure. Ozomatli have also said yes to people who've asked if they can play with the band.

"I get that all the time," Bella says. "'I want to be in the band. I want to play that.' Our philosophy is inclusion instead of exclusion, so we always will let people jam out. There's this one guy who brings an accordion to our shows, and we let him play with us."

The Bowery Ballroom this week will be a cozy setting for Ozomatli, who have won a Grammy and played dozens of huge venues with acts like Santana, the Dave Matthews Band and the Offspring. Bella says his favorite kind of venue is a "nice, midsize club," because he wants everybody in the crowd to feel his band's energy.

"We're used to playing the clubs where the contact is really obvious between the performer and the crowd," Bella says.

There are currently eight members of Ozomatli, and the stage might get even more packed. Ozomatli is a musician's band, and these guys have made many high-profile pals in the last few years. Last time they played the Bowery, rapper Common joined them onstage.

"We always have a lot of friends and different artists who share the stage when we play New York," Bella says. "Who knows who's going to show up, who knows who's going to come and jam out this time. It's been a while since we've done a club show in New York. The last couple times we were here, we opened up for somebody. Our fans were a little disappointed. They want the full Ozo. It's about time we came back."

Ozomatli plays Sat.-Sun., Nov. 16-17, at Bowery Ballroom, 6 Delancey St. (betw. Bowery & Chrystie St.), 533-2111.