"To its opponents, public housing was communism," Cooder says. The tussle over Chavez Ravine came at the height of McCarthyism, he says, and the red scare was used as a tactic to halt the public housing plan. The final residents were removed from Chavez Ravine in May 1959; the stadium opened in 1962.
For Cooder the story is a warning, a premonition of the perils of following the mighty gods of progress and development. "Chavez Ravine was always apart because it was up on a hill and rural and poor," he says. "We don't care about poor people and we don't like where they live. They left the poor alone until they needed the property. Once you say they are bad Americans and potentially subversive you can do all you want, you can cut freeways through their communities."
From the fate of Bunker Hill, another area adjacent to downtown that is now only seen in old films, to the loss of innumerable examples of the quirky architecture that so distinguished the city, the havoc wreaked on LA by developers exasperates Cooder. "They knock down the famous coffee shops, and the restaurants that looked like pigs or barrels, which should have been precious heirlooms. The Brown Derby would have been worth a billion dollars if you had kept it but they didn't. How do I hate these people."
The only safe spot for Cooder is the airport, just a few blocks from where he grew up. "I like this airport but this is all that's left. I mean, Jesus Christ, but I'm old. I like the weather, I like the moisture, I like the light in the trees. I'm sad. California was heaven on earth but they fucking ruined it, the bastards."
He has few hopes for the new record, although he is still surprised by the success of the Buena Vista Social Club. "What will the public care about this? They liked Buena Vista, they ought to like this. Ten people should have liked Buena Vista, these old beat-up Cubans. Something clicked. It's free-standing, this album, they're not being asked to buy the Chavez Ravine natural fiber clothing line.
It stands for something that the public ought to be interested in, but I don't know the mind of the public. Do they even know their own mind? Although they're starting to play this in Starbucks and for this I have hope. It's the most focused commercial venue in the world. This is three-and-a-half years of serious work. I say, therefore, we could do business in Starbucks."
The irony of the Seattle-based coffee giant reminding the world of the plight of Chavez Ravine and of urban blight is not lost on Cooder.
His next project is already mapped out, with eight of the songs written. "I started thinking about the white people across town, the factory workers," he says, telling the story of farmers from the Midwest, lured to California by the promise of abundant agriculture, who found jobs in factories building aircraft during the World War II. But then the factories went elsewhere and the workers went jobless.
"Failure of the American dream is the story," he says. "The story of American pop music is the story of failure. The blues, country music, it's not the story of success. People don't win, they lose."
He looks up at a 1940s map of Chavez Ravine. "These songs are brimming with disappointment," he says. "It's terrific."
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