Okay, let's unpack this. We throw around the
word king in music all the time, right? Yeah,
you've got the king of pop, the king of rock
and roll, king of country, but usually, I mean,
that's just a marketing term. Right, a nickname
from a fan club or a really clever PR agent.
Exactly. But today, for this deep dive, we are
looking at someone who literally holds the title
like officiated, stamped, and certified of King
of Kings. It sounds like hyperbole, doesn't it?
Yeah. But in this specific corner of the music
world, it is a literal, almost military rank.
We're talking about the high stakes world of
Valleonato music. Yeah. And the man sitting on
that throne is Gonzalo Arturo Molina Mejia. Better
known to the world and honestly to anyone who
has ever hummed a Colombian folk song as El Cocha
Molina. Exactly. And to really understand El
Cocha, you have to understand that he didn't
just sell records or get a lot of streams. He
conquered a very specific, very brutal competitive
circuit to earn that title. It's a distinction
held by very, very few people in history. And
I want to get into that competition because looking
at the research for this deep dive, it looks
more like a gladiator match than a battle of
the bands. It really does. But before we get
to the arena, let's set the stage for everyone
listening. We're pulling from festival archives,
biographical records from the Department of Caesar
in Columbia, and a discography that basically
reads like a phone book of Latin music legends.
It's a massive catalog and our mission today
is really to connect to very different worlds.
On one side, you have the hyper -traditional
folklore of rural Columbia. Very strict. Very
purist, like where you lose points if you play
a single note wrong. And then on the other side,
you have international pop stardom, Grammy Awards,
and, well, Gloria Estefan. Which is just a wild
combination. It is. And El Cocho Molina is the
bridge between those two universes. He's the
guy who can please the grumpy judge at the Folklore
Festival and the dancing crowd in Miami. at the
exact same time. So let's start at the beginning.
We are in Petillo, Colombia. It's June 1965.
Right. A small town in the department of Cesar.
This is the absolute heartland of Valle Natto.
If you throw a stone in Patial, you're probably
going to hit a composer or an accordion player.
Right. And for Gonzalo or El Cocha, the nickname
actually comes first. It wasn't some stage name
he invented later to sound tough. I was going
to ask about that. El Cocha sounds a bit mysterious.
Is it slang or something? No, it's actually just
a pet name from his mother, Estella Mejia. Oh,
really? Yeah, it's one of those childhood things,
kind of like being called Junior or Bubba that
just stuck. But, you know, while the name was
soft, the environment he was born into was incredibly
intense. His father, Arturo Molina, was a professional
musician. A guitarist, right? Yes. And not just
a strummer in the background. He was the guitarist
for Jorge Oñate's group. Wow. For context for
our listeners, Jorge Oñate is one of the absolute
pillars of the genre. He's often called El Higuero
de America. So Cocha grows up watching his dad
play guitar for a living legend. Naturally, you'd
expect the kid to pick up a guitar. Like father,
like son. You would think. But at age six, the
trajectory changes completely. His uncle, Evaristo
Gutierrez, hands him an accordion. Ah, the classic
cool uncle intervention. Changed everything.
And we should note, this uncle, Evaristo, wasn't
just some random relative. He was the father
of Gustavo Gutiérrez Cabello, a famous songwriter
known as the Poet of Valianato. OK, so no matter
where this kid turned, he was bumping into a
musical prodigy. Exactly. It was just in the
DNA. I think it's important to clarify for you
listening right now. When we say accordion here,
we aren't talking about polka. We aren't talking
about like a guy in Liederhosen or a French cafe
atmosphere. Trucial distinction. In Vannanato,
the accordion is the lead guitar, the synthesizer
and the vocalist all wrapped into one, is the
aggressive driving force of the band. It's a
loud, demanding instrument that requires incredible
physical stamina. So he gets this demanding instrument
at six. Does he immediately drop out of society
to become a hermit monk of the accordion? Surprisingly,
no. And this is where the story almost went in
a completely different direction. He followed
a very traditional educational path at first.
OK. He went to primary school at Collegio Parochial
in Valdupar, then secondary school at Collegio
National Loparena, and finished up his high school
years in Bogota at Collegio Chikinkira. So he's
a good student. He's educated. He was. In fact,
he actually enrolled in university. He studied
business administration for three semesters.
Business administration. That is the ultimate
plan B. We almost had Gonzalo Molina, the mid
-level manager. Or an accountant, yeah. Yeah.
Imagine him sitting in a macroeconomics class
trying to focus on supply and demand graphs.
In his head, he's hearing the clave rhythm. He's
just thinking about the festival in Valladupar.
And eventually, the pull was just too strong.
He dropped out to play full time. It's that classic
crossroads moment, the safe path versus the dream.
And in his case, the dream wasn't just, I want
to be famous. It was, I want to compete. And
that brings us to the Velenado Legend Festival.
Help us understand the stakes here. Because I
hear the word festival, and I think of Coachella
people wearing wristbands, walking in mud, listening
to bands in a field. No, this is much closer
to the Olympics. Yeah. Or maybe a very intense
chess tournament with loud music. OK. The Valiant
Auto Legend Festival began in the late 60s specifically
to preserve the traditions. They have categories,
child, amateur, and professional. You go up on
stage, and you are judged by a panel of absolute
experts on your technique, your timing, and your
adherence to the roots. So if you mess up, you
don't just have a bad gig, you actually lose
your ranking. Exactly. And Kocha entered the
fray early. In 1978, he competed in the child
accordionist category. He had his little band,
Ovani Gomez, on vocals, and Wilder Gomez on the
kasha, which is that traditional hand drum. Did
he win? He came in second. Oof. Who beat him?
his own cousin. No. Yes, Chi -Chi Meister. That
is rough. I mean, losing is one thing, but losing
to your cousin at the family reunion is another
level of awkwardness. Like, pass the potatoes,
Mr. Second Place. It probably fueled the fire,
honestly, because he didn't give up. He came
back in 1982, now a bit older, and entered the
amateur category. And this time, he won. OK,
so he's climbing the ladder, channeled prodigy,
then amateur champion. Next step is the big leagues,
the professional category. Exactly. And this
is where he hits another major speed bump. He
enters the professional competition in 1989,
and he comes in second again. The always the
bridesmaid vibe is starting to set in. Who beat
him this time? Omar Jealous. Omar Jealous. That's
a name that looms pretty large in this genre,
right? Huge. Omar Jealous is a titan of Aonado.
He's a singer, songwriter, and accordionist.
So losing to him is no shame, but for someone
as competitive as Molina, it had to sting. It
really set up a rivalry. So what does he do?
Does he retreat? No, he doubles down. He comes
back the very next year, 1990, and he brings
a powerhouse team with him. He's got Yvonne Villazon
on vocals and the Guacharaca. Let's explain the
Guacharaca for a second, just so everyone listening
can visualize it. It's a percussion instrument,
essentially a wooden scraper, often made from
a cane -like plant. It provides that driving,
scratching rhythm, chuka -chuka -chuka, that
cuts through all the noise. How about it? So
he has Vilazanon on the scraper and vocals, and
Augusto Guerra on the caja drum. He wasn't messing
around this time. Not at all. And to win, you
can't just play one good song. You have to demonstrate
absolute mastery of four specific rhythms. Which
are? Paseo, morang, sun, and puya. It's like
a triathlon. You have to be good at swimming,
biking, and running. You can't just be a good
runner. Precisely. And looking at the archives,
his setlist for that 1990 victory was impeccable.
For the Paseo, which is a narrative mid -tempo
style used for storytelling, he played El Paulo
Vaillanato by Luisy Martinez. Okay. For the Meringue,
which is faster and has a distinct 6 '8 feel,
he played Rosita, also by Martinez. Keeping it
in the same wheelhouse, yeah. Then for The Sun,
he went with a classic. The Sun is slow, mournful,
almost bluesy. It requires real soul. He played
Penny Delor, which means pain and sorrow by the
legendary Alejo Duran. Oh. And finally, for The
Puyah, which is the fastest, most technically
demanding rhythm, he played Dejala Venir by Naffar
Duran. Just listing those names, Alejo Duran,
Naffar Duran, those are heavy hitters. He was
clearly channeling the deep history of the genre.
And it worked. In 1990, Alcocha Molina was crowned
the Vallenado King. So he did it. He reached
the top of the mountain. He did. But in the world
of Vallenado, there's a peak higher than the
mountain. The King of Kings. The Rey de Reyes.
This isn't an annual event. It's a special competition
held only periodically, often every 10 years.
or for special anniversaries. And it is open
only to past winners of the professional category.
So it's the Champions League. You can't just
walk in off the street. It is the ultimate test.
In 1997, the festival held a King of Kings competition.
Melina threw his hat in the ring. Who was he
up against? The best of the best. Chiche Martinez,
Juan David Herrera, Freddie Sierra. and Omar
Jaisley's. The guy who beat him in 89, the nemesis.
The narrative arc is perfect. It was a rematch.
And this time in 1997, on the biggest stage possible,
El Cocho Molina took the crown. He defeated Omar
Jalis, who came in second. Sweet, sweet victory.
That has to feel good. It's cemented his legacy.
He's often referred to as the second King of
Kings in the history of the festival, marking
a major milestone. He proved that 1990 wasn't
a fluke. So by 1997, he has proven he is technically
the best accordion player in the land. But we
also know that technical skill doesn't always
translate to selling records. You can be a festival
darling and nobody buys your albums because you're
too, I don't know, academic. That is the other
side of the coin for sure. But Molina had that
covered too. While he was battling it out in
the festivals, he was simultaneously building
a massive recording career. And he wasn't recording
with just anybody. No. In the 1980s, before he
even won the King title, he had a hugely successful
run with Dainites Diaz. Dainites is arguably
the biggest Valleanato singer of all time, right?
The Cacique of La Junta. Without a doubt. They
released a string of albums El Mundo in 1984,
Valleanato in 1985, Brindocan El Alma in 1986,
and Incontenables in 1987. That's a lot of music.
That four -year run basically defined the sound
of the mid -80s. If you go to a party in Columbia
today, you will still hear those songs. That
is incredible output. So he's touring with the
biggest rock star in the country and then going
home to practice his scales for the competition.
Exactly. And they even reunited later in 2002
for the album Gracias a Dios. But he also had
that key partnership with Yvonne de Lausanne,
the guy who was in his band for the 1990 win.
Right, I saw that in the notes. Starting in 1988,
they put out albums like Porte Valadupar and
an Amarado de Ella. This period really established
Molina as a hit maker, not just a competition
player. OK, so he's dominating the local scene.
He's the king. He's selling records with Diomedes
and Villazon. But here is the curveball that
I found in the research that genuinely surprised
me, Gloria Estefan. This is where it gets fascinating.
I mean, Gloria Estefan is global pop royalty.
Conga rhythm is going to get you, Miami sound
machine. How does a Valleanato accordionist from
Patil fit into that world? Well, in 1995, Gloria
Estefan released an album called Abriendo Puertas,
which means opening doors. It was a departure
for her. It was very focused on traditional Colombian
and Latin American rhythms. She wanted to move
away from the synthesizer heavy pop and do something
truly organic. But surely she could have just
hired a studio musician in Miami to imitate the
sound. She could have, but she didn't want an
imitation. She wanted the authentic grit. She
wanted the real deal. So she called El Cocha.
So she calls the king. She gets El Cocha. He
played on the album. And here is the kicker.
That album didn't just do well, it won a Grammy
award. And not a Latin Grammy, a U .S. Grammy.
So we have a guy who started out losing to his
cousin in a child competition in Vela Dupar,
now contributing to a Grammy -winning album with
a global superstar. It shows the universality
of his playing. He could play Penny Delor for
the purists at the festival, adhering to rules
written decades ago. and then turn around and
lay down tracks that would be heard in Miami,
New York, and Madrid. It really bridges that
gap, and I noticed he also ended up playing with
his dad's old boss. Yes, the full circle moment.
In 1997, the exact same year he became King of
Kings, he started collaborating with Jorge Oñate.
His dad must have been incredibly proud, taking
the seat his father watched from the sidelines.
I imagine so. They released several albums together,
like El de Todos Los tiempos and Sun Universal.
And even into the 2000s and 2010s, Molina just
kept evolving. He teamed up with Pancho Zuleta
for albums like Columbia, Condevinado, and Peral
and La Raya. He just never stopped working with
the top -tier talent. Never. He's been relevant
for over four decades. Most artists are lucky
to have one good decade. Kocha has spanned generations.
So when we look at this trajectory, born in Patilio,
drops out of business school, wins the amateur
title, loses the pro title, comes back and wins
it... Wins King of Kings, records with Diomedes,
records with Gloria Estefan. What is the big
takeaway here for us? I think the takeaway is
about the balance between discipline and adaptability.
To win the King of Kings, you have to be a purist.
You have to respect the rules, the history, the
specific rhythms like the sun and the puya. You
simply cannot fake that. Right. If you try to
improvise too much, the judges will just ring
the bell on you. Exactly. But to have the career
he's had, you also have to be open. You have
to be willing to collaborate, to try new things,
to step onto a stage with a pop star. El Cucho
Molina proves you can be the guardian of tradition
and a global ambassador at the exact same time.
It's not an either or situation. You don't have
to choose between being respected and being popular.
Exactly. You know, it raises an interesting question
for you listening to Chuan. We often talk about
saving folklore or traditional music, and usually
people think that means keeping it in a glass
case, never changing a single note. Right, preserving
it in amber. That museum approach. But Molina
took those traditional sounds and put them on
a record that won a U .S. Grammy. So does true
preservation actually require evolution? Do you
have to be willing to share your Pena y Dolor
with the world to keep it alive? Or does the
King of Kings title prove that the pure, untouched
tradition is still the ultimate standard? That
is a great question to leave on. Maybe the answer
is in the accordion itself. If you want to hear
it for yourself, I'd suggest a little listening
experiment. Go find a recording of his 1990 festival
performance, listen to the raw speed of that
puya, and then go put on a Brindo Puertas by
Gloria Estefan. Try to hear the thread that connects
them. It's the same soul, just a different stage.
That's it for this deep dive on the accordion
royalty, Alcocha Molina. Thanks for listening.
Until next time.