Longtime musician thrills S. Texas crowds
The faithful arrived two and a half hours early at Harmon’s Barbecue in Cibolo to snag good seats.
By 5 p.m., more than 100 people settled in the rear band hall, where spinning ceiling fans swept the aroma of barbecue sauce and smoked meat across the room.
Minutes later, the birthday bash for Ruben Vela began.
The headliner took to the well-worn carpeted stage wearing sunglasses, a shortsleeved black shirt, ripped blue jeans and brown leather boots — the perfect attire for playing nonstop blues on a Sunday evening. He slipped on his white star-patterned guitar strap near side doors guarded by a lone star icon — a metallic, life-sized longhorn.
“All right, fellas!” the guitarist yelled, and the band kicked off a fast tempo.
Fans sitting at red and white cloth-covered tables nodded heads and stomped their feet to the beat of the Ruben V Band. James Pickens thumped his bass guitar. Drummer Steve Mendez banged out a syncopated beat. Keyboardist Val Cronk laid down a steady pace on the keys.
Vela downshifted from rapid-fire riffs to slow strumming within seconds. Eyes closed, he leaned forward and blazed away, singing to fans within arm’s reach. These were his people, the faithful, many who’d followed him to dance halls, juke joints and honky-tonks across South Texas for years.
“Every night, I look at myself and say, ‘I get to play the guitar.’” Vela said. “I’ve been able to do my own music my whole life.”
For four decades, he’s blazed a musical legacy as “Ruben V,” guitarist/songwriter/singer thrilling crowds with his stirring blend of blues, Latin and rock songs. With a catalog of 10 albums and 120 songs, Vela and his band draw fans of all ages and demographics across South Texas and beyond.
The band plays more than 150 shows a year.
Vela has played with legendary musicians, including B.B. King, Robert Cray, Buddy Guy and Delbert Mcclinton. He’s won the city of San Antonio’s “Best Guitar Player” award and is a four-time winner of the “Best Blues Band” and “Best Songwriter” honors.
In 1977, Vela began his journey as a student of six strings and songs.
Like most 10-year-olds at the time, Vela moseyed through life without an idea of what he wanted to do in the future until one fateful summer night. He was working with his parents at their club in Corpus Christi. His father was the manager, his mother was a bartender, and he washed dishes for extra spending money.
Then came a shock — the band wanted his father, Cesar Vela, to sing with them. The youngster was stunned. He’d only heard his father sing when he crooned Elvis songs in the truck. His mother wasn’t surprised. She knew her husband had a captivating voice.
His father stepped on stage, and the band kicked off a beat. He belted out a tune that drew cheers from the crowd. The men wanted to be him; the women wanted to be with him.
“It was amazing,” the younger Vela said, “It was the first time I saw cool. My father was cool.”
His father unknowingly unlocked the door to his son’s future. At that moment, the son knew he’d grow up and sing, like his dad, to the masses.
Vela learned to play the guitar by ear. He’d slow records on a turntable, replaying the groove over and over. With his older brother’s guitar in his lap, he’d strum the strings until he hit the same note as on the spinning vinyl.
“If I could hum it, I could play it,” he said.
Vela played the guitar without his brother’s permission. Each time he learned Vela had used the instrument, he’d thump him and yell, “Don’t touch my stuff!” That dynamic continued until their father bought the older son a new guitar and gave Vela the old one.
The self-taught lessons boosted Vela’s confidence — one day, he’d have his own sound. He mapped out his future with his brothers, who shared a bedroom. They’d shout, “Shut up and go to bed!” as he talked about becoming a rock star.
“The guitar became my best friend,” Vela said.
He recalled career day in eighth grade when professionals from different occupations came to the classroom. He told the librarian he wanted to be like the members of the rock band KISS.
She walked him past the lawyer, fireman and policeman to a Hispanic man who tended gardens. The teacher said gardening would be a good job for him.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” the gardener asked him.
“I want to play the guitar,” Vela said.
“Mijo,” the man said, “you go play guitar.”
The gardener’s counsel fired him up — he’d prove the educator wrong.
By age 15, Vela was on the road, touring with heavy metal bands and brothers, honing his skills. His band, Final Assault, landed an indie record contract, but the untimely death of his bass player caused him to re-evaluate his life.
The blues offered an onramp back to the music.
After he saw Stevie Ray Vaughan in concert, Vela was inspired to dive back into playing and writing songs. He moved to Austin and learned the techniques of blues bands. In San Antonio, mentors like Claude Morgan and Randy Garibay would correct him when he played an off note.
“I didn’t mind,” Vela said. “I can’t learn if I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
The band tore through a two-hour set on a Sunday night at the Northeast Side restaurant. After years of jamming together, the band only needs a note from Vela to know the next tune they’ll play. Several guests played with the band during the bash.
Onel “The Big O” Jimenez wailed on his saxophone. Jimmy Spacek, “the Godfather of San Antonio Blues,” matched Vela lick for lick in a blitz of dueling guitars.
Before the band’s last song, “Close the Door,” Vela vibed with the crowd. He shouted names of longtime fans. He led quick-fire soul claps. And he left them with a wailing, wah-wah solo that drew standing applause from the faithful.
Vela and the band waded into the crowd for hugs, handshakes and quick chats. He leaned in beside Hilda Salas and Cathy Fraser for a selfie, their cellphones held high. Fraser and Salas, both retired educators, belong to a group of 50 loyal followers. Fraser has followed the blues man for 29 years.
“The ambiance is like unity,” Fraser, 65, said. “He brings us together.”
Salas’ husband, Frank, 69, said Vela’s music is a stress reliever, a mixture that always feels good, “like a gumbo.”
Vela doesn’t have any regrets. He’s a working musician, doing what he’s wanted to do since he first saw his father bring an audience to its feet with a stirring song. He’s a family man, fortunate, he said, to be supported on his journey by his wife, two children, family, friends and music community.
“I want to grab your heart,” Vela said. “I’m going to give it everything I’ve got. If you don’t walk away from my show smiling or crying, then I haven’t done my job.”