Most people my age think of The Love Boat or Fantasy Island when they hear the name Charo. Those are my earliest memories of María Rosario Pilar Martínez Molina Baeza – shaking what she got, making dumb jokes, and playing the “Coochi-Coochi” card for all it was worth on ABC Friday night TV. I think it was an episode of VH1’s reality shitshow The Surreal Life in 2004 that serves as the real beginning to this story, however, when she took Flavor Flav, Brigitte Nielsen, and the rest of the C-list cast to see her play guitar in a fabricated Las Vegas concert setting. My wife Noreen, known mostly (and hereafter) as TrooperGirl22 in internet circles, and a sucker for some great Spanish guitar playing, was sold on the spot and the quest to see Charo was…..casually..…underway.

Three years later we were researching potential destinations for our annual wedding anniversary getaway when I came across a one-off Charo concert at the Rochester Opera House in Rochester, New Hampshire of all places. At the time TG22 and I were both closing in on visits to all 50 states, and this was our opportunity to tick N.H. off that list. I called the theater and spoke to a nice elderly woman who happened to have front-row center seats available and was thrilled and amazed that someone would fly in from Michigan to their little theater to see - of all people - Charo. She was more excited than I was about our visit (and about Charo). Our friend Rachel would drive up from Boston that day to join us. We got rooms at a small, historical inn nearby, booked our flight, and it was on!

We flew into Boston on Friday afternoon and drove up to Rochester. We walked around the quaint downtown of the city that is perhaps best known as Ground Zero for the Democratic Party Presidential Primaries and grabbed a slice of mediocre pizza and a beer to celebrate the 11th anniversary of our vows. The next morning we hopped in our rental and drove the 2 hours west to visit VINS – the Vermont Institute of Natural Science Raptor Sanctuary, not only a great excuse to see some New Hampshire countryside, some incredible animals, and support a good cause, but also to add Vermont to our growing list of visited states. We grabbed a sub-par lobster roll at a roadside stand on the way back, and had time for a quick meal at the inn before the concert. Rachel got a flat tire on an off-ramp just north of the Massachusetts line that set her back, and a lesser woman would have turned around and headed home right there. Not one to bail on a commitment, she made it to Rochester in time to help us finish our small plates before we headed down the street to the Opera House.  

The excitement was palpable as we walked into the theater. It seemed like everyone working there was a volunteer, and I’m not sure any of them were younger than 70. It was a very different scene than seeing the Butthole Surfers at Saint Andrews Hall in Detroit some 15 years earlier, I assure you. We were running late (because we were partying like it was the Butthole Surfers in Detroit, of course) and quickly skirted up the left-side aisle to the front row to find a scruffily-dressed and manicured, guilty-looking family sitting in our seats. They weren’t moving, we weren’t leaving, the lights were going down, the music was starting, nearby audience members were getting uptight; shit was about to get real. That’s when we called Ethel over (name is assumed, she may not have actually been called Ethel, and I doubt she’s available for clarification today, if you get my drift) and I realized, again, these aren’t the black t-shirt clad Detroit biker-gang bouncers at Saint Andrews. This is someone’s great-grandmother, helping other great-grandparents find their seats in their quaint little theater a few nights a year. We all stood there looking at each other awkwardly for a few moments, ticket stubs in hand, when Rachel took charge. “There’s a `B` on your ticket! You guys are in the BALCONY!” she declared sternly. with every bit of Boston-transplant attitude she had in her. The opening music had started, and the imposters meandered away, heads hung low, defeated and disgruntled, embarrassed among their own people by some city-slicker tourists, but to their true and assigned destination – the lonely balcony.

A less-than-deafening Latin beat filled the hall as the curtains opened to a completely empty stage – no props, no drums, no horns, no band. From Stage Left (that’s the right side as you’re facing it) out bounces Charo, chest-to-toe in a bright red sequined dress, matching shoulder-length gloves, and bolero jacket - microphone in hand, ear to ear smile, greeting the crowd. For the next 45 minutes it was “Hoochi-Coochi” this and that, a couple ABBA songs she’d covered earlier in her career, and the occasional between-song joke or banter, mostly keeping it light and relatively in time with the backing track she was singing to. She even jumped down and sang to and shook hands with the front row near the end, a real thrill for the locals.

Around that time, her assistant (Manager? Partner? Handler?) brought out a stool and a nylon stringed guitar as she removed her sequined jacket. The lights dimmed and there was suddenly a much different vibe in the room. She said a few words about Andrés Segovia, one of the world’s all-time leading Spanish/classical guitarists, whom she tutored under in her pre-Love Boat days. The last 15 minutes of the show were an incredible showcase of her talent as a guitarist, with jaw-dropping precision, emotion, feel and technique. It was amazing to witness and remains the most incredible playing I’ve seen to date. If only it were longer…

Sixty short minutes after the lights went down…it was over. We headed back to the inn (looking over our shoulders as we left, half expecting to get jumped by the balcony family) and ordered doubles in the tiny bar in the lobby. Just as our drinks were delivered, we found ourselves awkwardly crammed shoulder to shoulder with about 20 people participating in a monthly whodunnit interactive theatrical dinner event the inn was hosting. The crowd soon moved into the parlour to see if it was Mrs. Plumb with a candle stick and eventually wrapped up their little charade. By then we were hip to the fact that Charo was staying there too, TG22 finally understanding why there were no washcloths available to civilian guests like us. Before long, as things quieted down, she came through the door, same manager/partner/handler in tow, same bubbly smile and welcoming demeanor – making quick eye contact and unsolicited, proactive greetings with us and the couple other guests still up and around. After some compliments about the show and some regrets that it wasn’t longer and with more guitar (she completely and very graciously agreed with me - “Everyone just want the coochie-coochie!” she said in a serious tone with her thick Latin accent), she held court – telling stories about the old days, answering questions, and taking photos with the very few of us there listening. Eventually, her shadow escorted her to her room.  

By now it was getting late, it had been a very long day, and we were ready for bed too. TG22 had been mildly over-served, as we all had, I suppose, and Sunday would be rough. The next morning we saw Rachel off after breakfast and departed not too long after, stopping for some Taco Bell in Connecticut on our way to Boston’s Logan Airport.

Jeremy Porter lives near Detroit and fronts the rock and roll band Jeremy Porter And The Tucos. Follow them on Facebook to read his road blog about their adventures on the dive-bar circuit.
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