The History of Lowrider Magazine

 

What a Long, Low Trip It’s Been

Originally printed in the January 1997 20th anniversary edition of Lowrider magazine

 

When Chicanos started cruisin’ the calles in their cut-down cars, celebrating pachucismo on wheels at the onset of World War II, none would have guessed that their style would ever earn an international audience. The beauties on the boulevard and admiring glances from the rodders and customizers were enough to inspire what we now call lowriders.

 

And, once some of the vatos from the streets hit the college campuses, different gears started grinding. In 1977, after a lot of hard work and creative enterprise, these innovators created a magazine worthy of Aztlán’s finest rides. It’s been a long and bumpy road since ATM (A Toda Madre) Communications’ debut twenty years ago, but who can handle those ups and downs like Lowrider?


Cruising Off the Streets and onto Campus

The story begins a decade earlier, when Washington’s war with Vietnam resurrected the draft, pulling thousands of homeboys out of their lows and into the jungle. “Were the Viet Cong really a threat?” asks Sonny Madrid, Low Rider magazine’s first publisher. “Were they really going to invade America in bamboo canoes? Well, most of the guys went. I didn’t.” Instead, Sonny and his compadres enrolled in colleges across Northern California, fighting on the front lines of the Chicano Movimiento instead.

 

The year 1968 was a time of upheaval across the world, and the barrios of Aztlán were no exception. The Civil Rights Movement was in full swing, with liberal leaders like Robert Kennedy, Martin Luther King, César Chávez and others doing their best to bring hope to a disillusioned nation. The Brown Berets were on the march, and Chicanismo had awakened something in young Mexican-Americans, on campuses and in the streets. La Chicanada who wanted to get an education could finally get their foot in the door, through affirmative action and work-study programs.

 

“El Larry” Gonzalez and David Nuñez, two of LRM’s founding fathers along with Sonny Madrid, were working for la Raza in their own way. Inspired by the Latino political publication like Con Safos – which featured a slammed 1947 Chevrolet cruisin’ on Cragars back in 1969, perhaps the first lowrider centerfold in history – they produced a string of low-budget magazines for the growing Chicano consciousness: El Machete, Bronze, La Palabra.

 

Getting funding for Chicano publications wasn’t easy on San Jose State’s conservative campus, however. So the young publishers decided to infiltrate the student council. An endorsement by César Chávez helped El Larry and the “Third World Council,” a loose confederation of like-minded friends, get elected by the increasingly Hispanic student body. El Larry was eventually put in charge of more than a half million dollars designated by the school to fund special projects, and he used his position to finance Chicano-themed magazines and other activities for la gente.

 

Newly flush with funds, their latest publication, Trucha, began moving away from collegiate concerns, instead examining broader community issues like gang violence and police brutality. The Low Rider Associates, as Sonny, El Larry and their friends had begun to call themselves, was beginning to realize that many magazines of the Movimiento ignored business basics. Advertising, for example, had never been included in their idealistic plans. But, as Trucha’s popular but unprofitable year-long run came to a close, the Low Rider Associates faced the end of their funding. They realized that a truly successful magazine would have to support itself.

 

Sonny had been approached by United Farm Workers (UFW) organizer Richie Ross, son of Fred Ross, César Chávez’s mentor, about promoting music events. As chairman of the San Jose State MEChA (Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan) chapter, he had access to all campus facilities – dance halls, convention centers and stadiums. Together, MEChA and the UFW organized and promoted concerts featuring big name acts like Santana and Tower of Power, charging admission at the door. Soon, Low Rider Associates began promoting their own events, and created a free, independent publication to help advertise them.

“We called it the San Jose Community News,” remembers Sonny. “If we used the word ‘Chicano,’ the stores wouldn’t touch it."

 

“This was when they didn’t have Cinco de Mayo events, 16th of September fiestas,” adds Low Rider magazine photographer Salvador Casillas, remembering when Northern California's primarily Anglo state and local governments discouraged these types of "ethnic" activities. “Sonny was the guy who would knock on doors and say, ‘Hey, Raymond, why don’t you bring you and your tia and all your homeboys and come out to the park – we need to support this guy who’s running for assemblyman. If he gets in, he is going to back us up with this kind of stuff.” It was real American grass-roots organizing, and it worked.

Permission from local officials was eventually granted, temporarily anyway, Low Rider Associates began looking for ways to advertise their events. “Let’s say we were going to have a dance in three months,” explains Salvador. “We would go to all the little dances and take pictures of some guy’s car, of him and his girlfriend, of the people who always had parties afterward. Then we would put out posters and flyers.” The gente got excited – no one had ever published photos of them before. And the events were always packed.

Car clubs began getting involved as well. Lowrider “happenings” – a combination of concerts, cruises and car shows – were attracting the hottest rides across Califas. This new movement was growing, and had even garnered some attention from the regular press. Mainstream automotive publications seemed mystified by the hydraulic technology, interiors involving chandeliers and velvet swivel chairs, and those unique custom paint schemes. After Rolling Stone visited the celebrated cruise at Story and King streets in San Jose, Low Rider Associates began planning their next publication.

 

On July 3, 1976, some 8000 lowriders cruised to the Chicano Bicentennial in San Jose. “The dance at the Santa Clara County Fairground provided the seed money for Low Rider magazine,” remembers El Larry. Along with David Nuñez and promoter Eddie Torres, they put together a memorable – and profitable – event.

 

“To me,” said Sonny, “It signaled the conception of Low Rider magazine.”

 

Low Rider Magazine Hits the Stands

Sonny Madrid, El Larry Gonzalez and the rest of the Low Rider Associates got down to business, networking with different lowrider clubs, taking photos of the hottest cars around and passing out flyers for the event of the season: The Gilroy Low Rider Happening, which would inaugurate Low Rider magazine.

 

With the help of Trabajadores Adelante, a self-help farmworkers collective, the Associates had scored a great place for a party. Christmas Hill Park in Gilroy, California, halfway in between the two important cruising boulevards of San Jose and Salinas, became the destination of two immense lowriding caravans.

 

“The Salinas police were puzzled at the sight of so many lowriders this early in the morning,” reminisces Sonny. “The seemed especially baffled by the different club colors communicating, getting excited, rather than sparring with each other. The confusion must have kept then from overreacting.”

 

As the peaceful lowrider happening cruised into the evening, la gente from the different car clubs began making their way to the exit. “As I was leaving the park,” remembers Sonny, “I saw this woman flying ‘New Image.’ That said it all. Lowriding was going to have this new image.” The Soledad, California, beauty graced the cover of Low Rider’s first 1000-print-run issue, hand-delivered to barrios across Northern California. The first editorial was entitled, “Low Riders vs. Chico and the Man.”

 

“The popular image of what la Chicanada is has yet to be televised, written or published. The United States and the world have yet to discover the gente called Chicanos, especially the younger generation known as low riders.” This became the unofficial mission statement as the magazine embarked on a 20-year odyssey to present the lowriding lifestyle and its finest rides to the nation and world.

 

Reaching Out to Chicanismo Across Aztlán

It wasn’t always easy, as the staff found out on their delivery rounds. “You would come into this [store] and say, ‘Look, people are going to be hungry for this,” remembers Salvador Casillas. “They would open up the magazine and say, ‘This is in English. I have mostly Mexican customers.’”

 

Low Rider was reaching out to an as-yet-undiscovered audience. “‘These are young Chicanos,’ we’d tell them. ‘They speak English, many of them don’t even speak much Spanish. They’re going to want this.’”

 

Eventually, Low Rider found its way to a comfortable spot between Alarma and Hot Rod, becoming one of the most popular titles in the barrio. Most memorably, Majors Liquors in San Fernando, right off one of the region’s most storied cruises, sold more than 600 copies per month. But the magazine still faced unusual obstacles as they made inroads, especially in Southern California, where they had fewer personal connections.

 

The Low Rider Associates sales team needed to go into small, “protected” neighborhoods and connect with the tienditas. Barrio Cucamonga, for instance, was one area of California’s Inland Empire that had yet to be penetrated. “Don’t go in there,” one resident warned Sonny, on a mission of distribution. “They’re puro vato loco.”

 

Nevertheless, Sonny surmised, the magazine had to be there. As he pulled up to the graffiti-covered market, a cluster of perhaps ten young men started checking out his rented four-door Chevrolet from across the street. Sonny was undeterred.

“I noticed a man, about 60, looking at me like, ‘Boy, are you lost or are you a parole officer?’ I got into my rap about how popular Low Rider was and how the homeboys across the street would really support the magazine being sold there.’

 

“Yeah, I believe you,” the store owner replied, flipping through the publication. “But those are the characters I’m trying to keep out.”

 

But with a little more smooth talk, and a little help from said “characters,” who by this time had come into the store to see what was happening – and who did like the magazine – Low Rider was soon available in Cucamonga and in stores throughout Aztlán. Within two years it had become easily the most successful Chicano publication in US history – but still couldn’t shake that bad boy image. Lowrider car clubs were often accused, sometimes with reason, of violent activities, while regular columnist Teen Angel’s stories on gang history were criticized as “discrediting the [lowrider] movement.” And then, there was Mona.

“Bad girl numero uno,” as she became known, Mona was simply an especially striking young fan who ended up on the November 1979 Low Rider cover wearing only a bikini and high heels – something that had never before been done. The young woman was kicked out of high school for the transgression, and the magazine started receiving letters. “It wasn’t just the politically motivated Chicanas,” explains Salvador. “Even the guys in the car clubs got upset. They took it personally, saying, ‘This is a nice homegirl and you’re trying to make her look real trashy. You’re making this a cheese magazine, not a car magazine."

Despite this criticism, still leveled at Lowrider and many other automotive publications today, Mona and the models who followed gave the magazine a 15% to 20% boost in sales, which of course supported the struggle staff. Controversy or no, scantily clad cover models became a make-or-break addition to Low Rider’s editorial mix, and publishers from across the men’s magazine spectrum understand that removing the expected attractive woman from the cover could easily cost the company already razor-thin profits.

 

Playing the Peacemaker

As Low Rider began cruising into full gear, it was clear that the reason why the magazine had found such success in relatively mellow Northern California, rather than fractious Southern California, was because gang violence was less of an issue. Certainly, Southern California had more – and arguably better – cars, and anyone who had witnessed the legendary Whittier Boulevard cruise knew that this, the main artery of overwhelmingly Latino East Los Angeles, was the pulsing heart of lowriding.

 

“The magazine should have started in East Los,” Sonny surmises, “but the onda was too violent.” Club rivalries (often code for what could have been classified as “gang violence”), battles over plaques and colors, and the constant and often violent oppression by LA County Sheriffs led to an atmosphere of distrust and “discourteous behavior” on the cruise.

But for the magazine’s continued success, there had to be Southern California lowrider shows – which required peace. In their quest for carnalismo, the Low Rider Associates hooked up with Julio and Fernando Ruelas of the Duke’s Car Club, known for its immaculately restored older cars, known as “bombs.” With their help, Sonny started communicating with area car clubs, particularly those who also resurrected the classics.

The first opportunity to test these attempts at unity came in 1978, when NBC was filming a segment on Low Rider magazine and the cruising scene. “None of the car cliques could refuse the invitation to have their carruchitas appear on national TV,” laughs Sonny.

With the Duke’s’ help and a little music from club member and popular recording artist Willie G, the event was a success and word of Low Rider magazine – and the growing Movement – began to spread. Soon, the Associates were given carte blanche in even in the most difficult neighborhoods. Except one.

 

On March 23, 1979, the movie Boulevard Nights, about East LA’s famed Whittier Boulevard lowider cruise, hit the silver screen. Low Rider political editor Roberto Rodriguez was on the beat after the show, watching as car clubs from all over the city cruised their gleaming rides up and down the well-lit road. Los Angeles County Sheriffs were, unsurprisingly, out in force.

 

“Sheriffs deputies thought of raza as less than human,” wrote Roberto of that night. “[They] thought that justice was being able to beat raza on the street, in back alleys, in the back of police vehicles or in police stations.”

 

There was nowhere for cruisers to turn for help. East Los Angeles to this day remains unincorporated, which means that it is not a city, and threfore has no mayor or city council for the overwhelmingly Latino population to elect, no one accountable to whom raza could appeal their cases. East LA’s leadership is appointed by county officials; services from garbage pickup and street repairs to, of course, the sheriffs department, answer not to the people of East LA but to people who are elected by residents of much-less-Latino Los Angeles proper.

 

As Boulevard Nights flickered to a finish, the action on Whittier Boulevard was heating up, in more ways than one. While photographing the particularly brutal arrest of an apparently mentally incapacitated homeless person – just one of more than 500 arrests made that weekend – Roberto was taken into custody and beaten by two sheriffs in the police car. His camera was confiscated as evidence and the film destroyed, and Roberto charged with assault on a police officer with a deadly weapon – the camera itself.

 

The legal drama that followed was chronicled in the pages of Low Rider, and Roberto’s saga came to symbolize the harshly enforced anti-cruising laws in place across Aztlán. When Whittier Boulevard was closed to cruising later that year, ostensibly to stop the violence, Los Angeles’ violent crime rate skyrocketed anyway. Regardless, fine rides continued to cruise across Southern California and throughout the United States. The Lowrider Movement was on a roll.

 

From Califas to All Aztlán

The magazine was gaining popularity throughout the Southwest, and Sonny Madrid started seeking out local representation in far-flung lowriding hot spots. “I met Sonny at the Chicano Film Festival in San Antonio, Texas,” remembers [LRM publisher 1988-2000] Alberto Lopez. “He was handing out copies of the magazine. I had done a short film on lowriders in college, so we hit it off right away.” After two hazy weeks of partying, Sonny offered Alberto a job.

 

Alberto was a roadie for the group Little Joe y La Familia, and had taken time out to lend his talents to the Chicano activist political party La Raza Unida in Crystal City, Texas. Although Alberto was hired as an account executive, he and his partner (and later, wife) Dina Loya were soon writers, photographer and delivery people just like the rest of the harried staff. “El Beto de Tejas,” soon teamed up with staff photographer Johnny Lozoya to put on Low Rider magazine’s first big show outside California.

 

Jimmy Borunda, a hardcore lowrider and University of Arizona student, had approached Sonny months before, asking about an Arizona lowrider show. Jimmy agreed to help the magazine locate an appropriate venue, which was surprisingly difficult. The Phoenix Civic Plaza refused to host what they called a “gang-culture event,” and other area facilities soon followed suit. It seemed like Low Rider’s dreams of cruising across Aztlán would be headed off by Phoenix authorities.

 

Then, the Gila River Indian Reservation came through: Just ten miles south of the city, they were willing to work with Jimmy and the magazine. The tribe’s council even agreed to build a grandstand, special car hopping platform and make arrangements for entertainment.

 

“The best part was that the reservation was off limits to Phoenix and Arizona authorities,” laughs Sonny. “It was its own nation!” The Phoenix police announced that gangs from California were converging on the reservation for a convention, then watched, annoyed, as the peaceful event went off without a hitch.

 

San Antonio, Sacramento and other Southwestern cities were soon hosting their own regular Low Rider magazine “supershows,” attracting more and more cars from the cruise. These events showcased the nation’s best lowriders in an entirely new forum, then gave them national exposure on the pages of Low Rider. But there was one city that had yet to host such an event: Los Angeles, where the Lowrider Movement was born.

Sonny hired an attorney, Kip Stratt-McClure, “who went ahead of me and opened doors where they would stereotype the rest of the staff.” Soon, no less a venue than the Los Angeles Convention Center was booked for Supershow ’79. Lowriders cruised in from as far as Oklahoma to compete, and more than 20,000 fans – not to mention five separate news crews – showed up to check them all out.

 

Although there had been serious resistance on the part of the city (which tried to cancel the show just days before), the event went off without a single problem. “This opening gave us the chance to prove two things,” read the show coverage. “That lowriders can put on a first-class show in a first-class place and, second, that we can make it a success.” Phil Blazack’s chopped and flaked 1965 Chevy took top honors, and a standard for excellence was set.

 

Show Time for Lowriding, even as Low Rider Takes a Bow

In the early 1980s, it seemed like nothing could stop the Lowrider Movement. Cruisers from as far away as Chicago, Hawaii and even Sweden found their way into the magazine. Back home in Califas, the scene was changing dramatically, cars undergoing modifications and improvements that had never before been dreamed of.

 

Before, the boulevard had been about the only place to show off your hard work, but anti-cruising laws had multiplied with the rides. Thus, lowriders began to be built specifically for competition at the shows, homeboys investing thousands of dollars on elaborate paint schemes, chrome, immaculately detailed engines and undercarriages most wouldn’t have even risked on the road.

 

Soon, some of these high-quality lows began hauling trophies off lots traditionally reserved for hot rods, elevating the sport to a whole new level. Low Rider magazine, however, wasn’t making the modifications necessary to change with the times.

 

Despite growing profits and a rapidly expanding distribution network, the staff still hand-delivered the magazine. “That really put some constraints on the growth of the publication,” explains Alberto Lopez. “At least one week out of the month we’d all be distributing the magazine, which killed 25% of production.” Even that wasn’t done as professionally as possible.

 

“We would typeset things in ways you really didn’t do,” remembers Salvador Casillas. “At the time, people used wax and a roller. We used rubber cement. If you had already glued the photos down and had to pick them up, it was like, ‘Well, what now?’” The pay was month to month, and with competition magazines like Firme and Q-Vo jumping on the bandwagon, Low Rider and its overworked staff began to suffer.

 

“The magazine had hit a real valley, so I, Roland Medley and some of the other staff quit,” remembers Alberto. “There weren’t any paychecks coming in. Everything was in disarray.” Soon, Sonny went into debt and forfeited the entire operation to the magazine’s printer, TechnoWeb.

 

El Larry Gonzalez assumed the position of publisher, pulling the magazine back from the brink of bankruptcy with a new focus on lifestyle features, like a “Tia Chucha” advice column. Regardless, in 1985 TechnoWeb announced that it was shutting its doors. Crippled by the debt and simple bad management, the company was going under and taking Low Rider with it. The last issue hit the stands in December 1985, and it looked like the end of an era.

 

Rebuilding Low Rider from the Chassis Up

Regardless, as it always has and always will, the cruise continued. From El Paso, Texas, to Española, New Mexico, lowriders were still cruising low and slow. On Highland Avenue in National City and Fourth Street in Santa Ana, the switches were still being hit. A growing mini-truck scene had its foundations in the hydraulic technology and wild paint schemes developed and popularized by lowriders, and it was at one of their shows that El Larry Gonzalez and Alberto Lopez ran into each other.

 

“Remember Julio? Remember Pablo?” El Larry fumed as he and Alberto watched the brightly colored trucks take credit for “dumping,” or using hydraulic lifts to raise the bed. “Man, this is a burn on those guys.”

 

“We couldn’t sleep,” remembers Alberto. “It was like a seed being planted.” But it wasn’t until the going got tough that these two really got going. Alberto and Dina Loya’s new company, Park Avenue Publishing, had to entirely retool its technology as the publishing industry went digital; much of their expertise was becoming obsolete with the computer revolution.

 

“When desktop publishing came in, we started losing accounts,” Alberto explains. “I had to find something to keep everybody working.” That something would be a new incarnation of Lowrider – now one word – magazine.

 

In October 1987, Alberto acquired all rights to the publication. Armed with a copyright lawyer, a crew of talented designers headed by Lonnie Lopez, and El Larry’s all-OG expertise, Alberto got to work resurrecting the magazine. El Larry, who had spent his hiatus photographing California’s best lows (and hottest women) for a planned calendar, donated his best shots for the inaugural issue.

 

“Our first Lowrider magazine had a cover date of June 1988, although it came out in March,” notes Alberto. “We didn’t know whether or not it would hit.” His caution was unwarranted: That first issue shocked the automotive industry as all 20,000 copies evaporated from the newsstands within two weeks. Their distributor – Alberto hadn’t wanted to hand-deliver two tons of magazine – begged them to print more. “I told them we’d just come out with a new edition. By our third issue, our circulation had tripled.”

By October of that year, Lowrider’s new motto, “Cruising into the Future,” was reverberating across the United States. Although the 1980s were officially “The Decade of the Hispanic,” most Chicano and Latino publications of the 1960s and 1970s had folded years earlier; assimilation seemed the destiny of Mexican-Americans. That was about to change.

 

“Words like ‘Chicano’ and Aztlán’ were hardly even acceptable anymore,” remembers Alberto. “I figured, what better vehicle than Lowrider to bring them back?” The words “Made in Aztlán soon accompanied the “Lowrider Man” logo on every issue, and the magazine’s circulation continued to grow.

 

It was time to test the waters – was the lowriding community ready for another Los Angeles Super Show? “The magazine really was like rain over the desert,” Alberto explains. Many of the car clubs that had disbanded over the years came back together, and the old cruising boulevards – much to the dismay of law enforcement officials – were more congested than they had been for years.

 

“A Super Show seemed like a great opportunity to bring all the lowriders together, to promote the magazine.” Sensing challenges ahead, Alberto called in the services of Johnny Lozoya, an original Associate who had been promoting successful Arizona shows throughout Low Rider ’s hiatus.

 

“The last few lowrider shows have been disasters,” muttered Betty Roberts, who was in charge of the Los Angeles Sports Arena's events booking. Violence hadn’t been the problem; attendance had. “You can rent the place,” she told Alberto and Johnny, “but don’t expect any credit.” After depleting the last of his savings, Alberto began looking for backers. He got no takers. Finally, Lowrider managing editor Dina Loya agreed that he could borrow against the magazine’s receipts “provided they be paid back. Promptly.” It was a gamble that paid off.

 

“We sold out the show and the Lowrider Movement got a shot in the arm,” explained Alberto. More than 10,000 people showed up to see old rides dusted off by the OG guys and sleek new cars built during the magazine’s downtime. When trophies were awarded, however, the judges nearly started a riot when top honors went to “Goldilocks” – a hot rod.

At the request, or insistence, of both the fans and car clubs, Klique Car Club president Mando Estrada’s 1978 Cadillac, “Brandy Maddness,” became the first Lowrider of the Year, now a much coveted tradition.

 

Cruising Into the Future

“It was a lot of hard work, it wasn’t about kicking back,” remembers Alberto of those first years back on the stands. “It was about loading up the Nissan with the kids in the back seat and going to every show imaginable. On Saturday, we would be at Chicano Park in San Diego at an Amigos show. The following Sunday we would be in Stockton, covering one of El Larry’s shows.”

 

Their work started paying off, and the magazine began out-pacing even its best years in the previous incarnation. Letters of support were coming in from all over the United States, from Australia, Japan and Europe. By 1991, with their base in Los Angeles firmly established, Alberto, Dina and El Larry set their sites even higher.

 

An official Lowrider Tour took the magazine across the US Southwest, even as the magazine continued to aspire to better photography, printing and editorial. “As a Chicano magazine, we had to be twice as good as mainstream automotive publications to be seen as equal in quality,” explains then director of publications David Cohen, echoing the sentiments of lowriders who long ago had struggled to win against inferior hot rods at mainstream car shows.

 

By 1993, lowriding had become an international phenomenon. Japan had been experimenting with lows for almost a decade, thanks to Cal Haus hydraulics in Osaka, which had been throwing its own lowrider shows and car hops. They had even been publishing a Japanese-language mini-truckin’ magazine.

 

“Then Geibunsha Publications came out with a magazine that really ticked me off,” remembers Alberto. Lowrider magazine had already become a big hit in the Land of the Rising Sun, but it was also a copyright infringement. “I went over there,” continues Alberto, “and we eventually worked everything out.” September 1993 marked the publication of the first officially sanctioned issue of Lowrider Japan.

 

Winter of that same year, the quarterly magazine Lowrider Bicycle hit the stands, alongside Lowrider Arte, which featured fan art that had become so popular they could no longer fit it all in the flagship publication. Another subsidiary, Lowrider Bicycle, Inc, began furnishing two-wheeled cruisers with low-slung rides and lots of accessories by mail.

This issue of Lowrider magazine marks twenty years of a publication that no one believed would ever make it this far. Once criticized as a “gang magazine,” simply because it covered the lifestyles of young Chicanos, it’s now the number one car magazine on US newsstands and has readers in more than 30 countries. It hasn’t been easy, but as long as dedicated cruisers keep building quality rides, the kind of lowriders that make heads turn and kids dream, the magazine will continue to hit the stands each month.

 

“I’ve always looked at lowriding as an art form, as cultural expression,” says Alberto. “I’ve always looked at it with pride. I try to put as much into the magazine as a lowrider puts into his vehicle. Today we are probably the best laid out, best designed automotive magazine. Hey, that comes from pride within."