Date Night: The aspirational vision of Mustache Mondays’ Ignacio “Nacho” Nava Jr.
I’ve got a date tonight.
The work day was oh-so-long, so I’ve come home, microwaved a frozen meal, took a disco nap and it’s nearing 11 pm, but instead of getting ready to sleep, I’m getting ready to go dancing with Jackie and Jonathan, Collette and Carlos. I’ll probably sleep for four hours. I’ll surely be to my office desk tomorrow morning no later than 9:00, well 9:15, if we’re being honest.
I’ve got a date tonight — and it’s with Mustache Mondays.
That was me in 2008, on many Monday evenings dipping down the 110 freeway from Avenida Cuarenta y Tres in my champagne-colored Honda Accord headed to my standing “date” at La Cita. In Spanish, La Cita translates to date — both literally and romantically, and La Cita was the same name of the bar that housed Los Angeles’ defining party night, Mustache Mondays for so many years.
When I first began to shake a tail-feather on those sweaty Mondays, I hadn’t known many of those involved and had never met Ignacio Nava Jr., or Nacho as he is known by so many. I was too shy to speak with Nacho and the others in the beginning, but over time I was slowly introduced to the DJs, Total Freedom (Ashland Mines) and Josh Peace, who also had played over at Peanuts in West Hollywood, which Jay Z shouts out in “I Just Wanna Love You (Give it 2 Me)”.
Back then, my former boyfriend, Martin, now turned dear friend, called me — back when people used to call each other — and let me know there was a new club night booming in Downtown Los Angeles. Him, knowing me, led me to a promised land. We showed up. And we most certainly showed out. That next week, he and I grabbed some friends and rode on down to Charlie O’s at the Alexandria Hotel. I walked through the door and the music grabbed me and my crew instantly. There was no other queer club dropping such eclectic sounds, all in one night in such a way — house, hip hop, soul, cumbia, original remixes? We made our way to the black and white checkered dance floor of Charlie O’s after a brief interlude at the bar. The whole scene was a vision.
And since that moment, my queer identity, and the lens in which I saw myself was never the same again.
I’d been to so many of the West Hollywood queer clubs, which would often have theme-nights. And not the fun type. But, these nights would often cater to various racial groups and “urban” audiences, placing us in our boxes (and for the men who “loved” us), such as “Gameboy” for the Asian community or “Papichulo” for the Latin kids, thuggish-nights for the Black brothers and hip hop enthusiasts, and yet the Ken dolls and The Broken Hearts Club look-alikes were privileged above anyone else in this pre-Proposition 8 era. And not much, or any of this, was catering to body respectability or the lesbian community. I had grown tired, and none of those spaces matched my core. It was simply fetishized and popularized racism afoot, cloaked in the business of “nightlife.”
But, Mustache Mondays was the antithesis.
So many creatives and LGBTQ folks made the club pilgrimage to 4th and Hill Street. Quentin or Miss Barbie-Q were often at the entryway along with Nacho. And Barbie-Q always made me laugh, greeting me with that wide and beautiful smile, and big hair collecting the $5 entry — our tithes. Sometimes you’d catch the Temptress of Ceremonies, Fade-Dra, at the door talking shit, taking names, and making you laugh before you got in. I’d see Danny Gonzalez, tall and dressed in black boots and military pants and a tank top, and Justo Leon, cutting up the dance floor and changing costumes throughout the night as a Mustache Mondays resident.
And Nacho was the curator of this all, as Josh Peace calls him. There was always Nacho, heading around the party greeting folks to make sure everyone was good and taken care of — bartenders, performers, the other hosts, and patrons alike. Like Jewel Williams of Jewel’s Catch One on Pico Boulevard, Mustache Mondays changed the course of queer identity for multiple generations of clubgoers. Scores in Los Angeles had closed and there was no critical mass of people willingly going downtown after the sun had fallen.
Before Ongina graced our screens as an original cast member of Ru Paul’s Drag Race, we awaited the coveted performances at midnight, which were usually a little after. Ongina would strut the stage with a cleanly shaven head ornamented in chic headpieces. Maurice Harris, of Bloom & Plume Coffee, would hit the dance floor and every time you heard his large handheld fan crack and whip on the beat, you knew where it was coming from. Sam Sparro introduced us to “Black and Gold” that same year. Brandy, G, Hector, or Jason Xtravaganza would vogue the floor down, and Brandy Xtravaganza eventually made her way to London as a performer, like she told us she would. Franc Fernandez, the creator of the renown Lady Gaga “meat dress” who also donned the pages of LA Weekly clad in red evening gloves framing his visage was often seen standing side-by-side with Nacho. Gabe De Dios popped it and dropped it in his dance performances, you’d see Raja as the make-up artist on America’s Next Top Model and then towering over everyone with grace in front of you at Mustache, and the long-time couple Roberto Ramone and Jonathan Rashad, now known as NEWBODY always had a smile on. I heard, and watched, Jonté’s “Bitch You Betta” for the first time here. From Maluca to Puja Singh Titchkosky to Nicola Formichetti to Rik Villa to DJ Victor Rodriguez to Victor Jonas to Kelela to Sir Ryan Heffington to Wu Tsang to Adam Lambert to the amazing guest DJs — the list goes on and on. So sorry I cannot name you all. Mustache Mondays, was and is everything. And in those days, photographers like La Madre and Gabe Ayala were there to capture it all. There isn’t enough space here to name the people who graced that stage, burnt it down, and filled that space to the brim with a queer reckoning like no other in Los Angeles at the time.
“We all wanted a place where we could belong,” Josh Peace told me many years ago as we talked in a downtown loft about why his roommates at the time, Danny Gonzalez, Nacho, and Dino Dinco, had gotten together to begin this party. And that’s what Mustache Mondays was, a place you could belong, especially if you were a misfit, a person of color, non-binary, trans, a vagabond, or just needing place in the world where you could take up space and not be “judged for it,” Josh told me those years back. And as that became the new mood, you’d see the same familiar faces at A Club Called Rhonda, Full Frontal Disco, Mr. Black, Shits and Giggles, SUMMERTRAMP and realize the community had grown abound.
Mustache Mondays may have been a weekly in La Cita’s historic, Mexican edifice, but it was a community and we felt edified in that space. And that was important. Maybe you didn’t know each person in whole, but you knew they’d likely be there next week and you’d always say, “Hello!” or “Hola!”, and maybe share a dance, or continue that energy at an after party in the nearby lofts, maybe in between someone’s sheets, around the way for a bite at LA Café, or next door at Taco House. You could walk into La Cita with a lavaliere tied around your neck. Military jacket. Tights. 10” heels. Damn-near-naked in a satin robe. Why not? Or just in a quintessential Los Angeles look: t-shirt, denim or Dickies, and Chucks. There was no fictitious line outside of La Cita beckoning passersby to fill the space. It filled, it was welcoming, and if you knew, you knew.
Every week, without delay, Nacho would welcome us into his house. He’d wave to you at the door. Smile. Give you a hug, at times a kiss on the cheek, and tell you to enjoy your night. Getting out of the bed that next morning was always a bit rough. But, as I tiredly got dressed for my office job, I always thought to myself, “Last night a DJ saved my life.”
Only days before I found out that Nacho had passed away at the age of 42 on January 19, 2019, I was scrolling my social media feed, and someone posted: “I think some people are in this world to give more love than they’ll ever receive in return.”
That stayed with me.
And then on January 19, I saw the first post from DJ, Josh Peace, then another, and another, then many posts announcing to the world that Nacho had transitioned from this land. His family and close friends who stood by his bedside had known he was ill for some time already, but now, it was written. What Nacho did, was in many ways service to the Los Angeles community, especially for queer folks and queer youth.
I went to Mustache Mondays to get saved, to be inspired, to be free, to see the diversity of folks covering the dance floor — and the DJ was our shaman.
When I moved away to New York City in 2010, Nacho and I had started growing a friendship as we worked on a project together and he treated me like we had known each other since childhood. That was the love, not the hate, he gave. Nacho and I had not seen in each other in quite some time when I heard this sullen news, but he was always in my heart, and like many of us, he left a lifelong inscription. You could easily fill an anthology with letters from friends, patrons, and admirers about Nacho, and many did at the altar during his Celebration of Life at The Resident in Downtown Los Angeles, the day after he had been laid to rest at Fairhaven Memorial Park in Santa Ana, California.
One evening Nacho and I discussed the tragic death, in 2008, of the teenage Lawrence “Latisha” King form Oxnard, California, which had influenced us both. He told me it was one of Mustache’s co-founders, Dino Dinco, who brought it to his attention. After attending King’s funeral, Nacho made an announcement asking the clubgoers to attend Mustache in blue eyeshadow, a favorite of King’s. He was taken aback at how many how people heard the call and showed up in support of this young, queer, Afro-Latinx 15 year old who was shot twice in the back of their head by another young boy after asking him to be their Valentine.
All things Nacho did had great intention behind them.
During Nacho’s Celebration of Life, I connected with friends, familiar faces, and old dance partners. A dear friend of Nacho’s, Teddy, and I reminisced over it all and his memory. I had just missed Brandy Xtravaganza before she boarded her flight back to London. Artist, and friend, Sam, invited me into the banquette to meet Nacho’s mother for the first time who gave us all such loving embraces as she watched in gratitude at the outpouring of love in the crowd for her son. I ran into her later at Nacho’s community altar where she was especially moved by the letters from so many. I said a prayer for Nacho and bid her farewell as I left for the airport. I was unable to attend his memorial service the day before, but fortunately during his Celebration of Life, a friend gave me an imprint from the service. Inside, it reads:
“I am Free”
Don’t grieve for me, for now I’m free […]
If my parting has left a void,
Then fill it with remembering joy,
A friendship shared, a laugh, a kiss,
Oh yes, these things I too will miss
Be not burdened with hearts of sorrow.
My wish for you is the hope of tomorrow.
In 2019, we celebrated the 50th anniversary of New York’s Stonewall Rebellion, and in 2020 we’ll celebrate fifty years since the first-ever Pride march, Christopher Street Gay Liberation Day, in 1970. And as we continue to celebrate queer freedom, it is important to note the many who gave their life for our liberation, and Ignacio “Nacho” Nava Jr. is truly one of those liberators.
I say to Nacho, a community leader who dared to witness us all, we bow in unison to your legacy.
Rest in power.
