Kent: La Música

I love music.

All kinds of music—but especially live music.

One of the reasons I was drawn to this lakeside community is the sheer number of opportunities to hear it. On any given day, you might find a jazz trio at a restaurant, a rock band in a plaza, or a musician playing on a street corner.

Some groups are made up of locals. Others are a mix of Mexicans and expats from the U.S. and Canada.

There’s a father-and-son string duo that plays classical arrangements of popular songs. Some musicians seem to play in a different band every night—jazz one evening, rock and roll the next.

A few of them feel like local rock stars.

I’ve had the chance to talk with some of these musicians, and Judi and I often get up and dance like nobody’s watching.

We’re not great dancers—but we’re having a great time.

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Then there’s banda music.

Brass instruments, a little rough around the edges, a lot of energy.

You’ll hear it in parades—sometimes for a wedding, sometimes a funeral, sometimes a religious procession. A statue of the Virgin Mary or a saint moving through the streets, accompanied by music that feels both chaotic and joyful at the same time.

It’s not polished.

But it’s alive.

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Music has always been part of my life.

My mom raised us on Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals. My dad played saxophone and clarinet in swing bands and orchestra pits.

I’ve dabbled in music myself—never mastering anything, but always enjoying the process.

Before moving to Mexico, I donated a room full of musical equipment to a local high school. I kept only a bass guitar and a ukulele.

My hope is that somewhere in this next chapter, I’ll find time to play more—and maybe even put together a band of enthusiastic older folks who just want to make some noise together.

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Lately, with so much change in our lives, music has been hitting me a little differently.

Certain songs bring memories right to the surface.

Gratitude.
Sadness.
People we love who are far away.

And often, the person right next to me—Judi—who has spent many years patiently putting up with my occasional grumpy old man moments.

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But music here isn’t just something you listen to.

It’s something you live inside of.

The call of birds—like the kiskadee that seems determined to compete with the roosters each morning.

The sound of ranchero music drifting from a passing car.

The neighborhood trucks announcing propane, water, or trash pickup as they roll through the streets.

At night, there can be silence.

But when the sun rises, it’s like someone turns up the volume on the entire town.

The walls, the streets, the people—it all comes alive.

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I’ve even felt a pull to visit a local Latter-day Saints church, just to hear the hymns in Spanish that I learned years ago while living in Bolivia.

I’m not currently active in any church, but the music—and the people—still mean something to me.

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And then there are the unexpected moments.

We recently went to a sing-along event at a local gay bar.

The room was filled with musical theater lovers—many couples who looked a lot like us.

The songs ranged from Disney to jazz standards, and the pianist could play just about anything by ear.

Between sing-alongs, a few talented vocalists stepped up to perform.

It was joyful, welcoming, and just a little unexpected.

We loved it.

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To our friends and family reading this—

I’d like to dedicate a song to you.

It’s one Judi and I listened to on the flight to Mexico—both of us quietly crying with headphones on.

You probably know it.

“Dreams” by The Cranberries.

Love and hugs,

— Kent

READ JUDI’S APRIL 19, 2026 POST