He holds one up. It’s an album of norteño music, a style native to Northern Mexico. On it is a line drawing of what looks like the Frito Bandito holding an AK-47 in one hand and a half-naked woman in the other. The title says “Canciones Chingones”—Badass Songs. Saenz darkens. “You see this?” he says. “This is why conjunto is dying. This is why our culture is dying. It’s because of this garbage.” He notices the cashier, a woman in her 20s, staring at him. He turns to her. “Do you know what conjunto is?” She eyes him nervously. “It’s … you know. It’s conjunto.”
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