Back in 1976, a popular daytime hangout for students at the University of Guelph was the coffee shop in the basement of Massey Hall, the art and drama department at the university.  For most students, it was a place to relax and unwind between classes. To chat about what you planned to do the next night or what you had done the night before. But there were some students who thought the place was an extension of the library, a quiet spot to study and read. For the most part, these were the students who were the target of our little plot dreamed up by me and my friend Michael Henry in a moment of ennui.

    In the coffee shop’s jukebox was Freddy Fender’s hit song “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights.” Not the most popular song amongst the student body back then. But on the flip side was a less well-known Spanish number that we had discovered was even less appreciated than his hit song.  Titled “El Rancho Grande” or The Big Ranch, it was known in English as “I love my Rancho Grande.”

     Having inadvertently stumbled upon the knowledge of just how unpopular this song was, particularly amongst those quiet, serious students who were intent on hijacking the casual, relaxed atmosphere of the coffee shop, we used to enjoy throwing it into the jukebox mix just to watch their reactions.  

     This little game came to a head one day when I decided to shoot for a record number of consecutive plays. There was some kind of restriction built into the system. You couldn’t put two quarters in and choose 4 plays of one song. So my first attempt only resulted in two Rancho Grandes, followed by a Wasted Days and Wasted Nights, then one more Rancho Grande.

     When I saw one of the more diligent students become so agitated he put down his book, stood up and start rummaging around in his pocket for some loose change, I jumped up and declared to Michael in a loud voice, “What’s going on with that juke box?”, then rushed over to the machine. This satisfied the nerd who immediately sat down satisfied that someone else was dealing with the problem and he could hold on to his precious quarter.

    But his sense of relief was short-lived as he found himself listening to three more performances of El Rancho Grande. After which he obviously had a class to go to. This little game continued for a couple more occasions until one day I discovered that Freddie Fender’s beloved big ranch had been completely extirpated from its sacred spot at R8 on the juke box.

    Upon enquiry with the middle-aged ladies that served the coffee, they had arranged to have it removed by the juke box distributor due to a complaint from some of the students. Some of the students, Marge? Well, one of the students. Was it that chubby guy who always sits near the exit? Her sly smile told me all I needed to know.

   I knew this was serious. It was the first time I ever heard of the juke box man coming to the campus with a new 45 (rpm record) in the middle of a school year, let alone halfway through a semester. This pompous overzealous aggie (the University of Guelph has a large agricultural college) had declared war and he was soon going to learn a valuable lesson. You don’t mess with the Arts students cuz our main reason for being at university is to have a good time.  

Within a matter of minutes following this indirect declaration of war, I was orchestrating our response.  Heading upstairs to one of my art studios, I gathered up some large pieces of art board, stapled them to wooden slats, grabbed some coloured markers and headed outside where Michael and I along with some friends who were just exiting the coffee shop, scribbled some slogans on the placards – R8. R8. It’s Fender we appreciate. and We Love Our Rancho Grande amongst them.

     I then borrowed a camera from the College’s weekly newspaper, The Ontarion, and had someone take photos of our little protest group in front of the coffee shop entrance. Then I returned the camera together with a quick report on what had just been photographed. The editor, Chris Joule, promised to publish it in the next paper and a few days later, this is what appeared.  

Armed with the newspaper, I headed to the Coffee Shop for a chat with the ladies – all of whom were my friends. Did you see this, Marge? Oh goodness me, Hugh, I had no idea it was so popular. Why do you think it gets played so often? Well, I’ll see what I can do.

    It didn’t take long to get an answer. The juke box man would be back on Monday to put Freddie back in the machine. So, plans were made to celebrate its return. A sign was created to go beside the cash register offering free coffee to anyone who said I love my rancho grande. And we bought bouquets of flowers for the ladies.

     Around 11 am the following Monday, we arrived with our sign and the flowers, and we waited. There was no way we were going to start the party until our enemy combatant arrived and was firmly ensconced with his pile of agricultural science books in his favourite seat by the exit. And as expected, it didn’t take long for him to appear, grab a coffee and sandwich and smugly settle into his imaginary fortress.

    Quickly, the sign was set up at the till and people started collecting their free coffees, flowers were handed out and a delighted Marge came over to the juke box for a photo op.

It was only then that a coin went in, R8 was pushed, and we sat back in our seats to quietly observe our foe’s reaction.’    

     As the music started up with those familiar Mexican mariachi sounds, we could see him raise his head and look around as if he had heard the voice of a ghost. It sounds like it, but it couldn’t be. I just had it removed a little over a week ago. The look of confusion, gave way to fear, gave way to horror-filled confirmation, then full on rage.

     Slamming his book down on his table, he marched furiously up to the till and demanded an explanation.

    I’m sorry sir but we had too many complaints from students who like that song (not true), so we had no choice. We had to put it back in the juke box.

    There was nothing he could say or do, and he knew without a doubt that he had just lost the war. We watched him pack up his books and head to the library where he belonged. After that, and for the remainder of the semester, I don’t think he ever came into the coffee shop and stayed longer than it took to collect his cup of joe and leave. And I don’t think we ever played R8 again after that day. There was no need to.

     Three years later, before leaving campus for the last time, I noticed the juke box was full of the latest hits, but occupying the slot labelled R8 with the confidence of a tenured professor was I Love My Rancho Grande by Freddy Fender.

     And now it’s time to wander back to March 1976, to the Massey Hall Coffee Shop juke box with Michael, Marge and me and enjoy, not Freddie’s version, but the original El Rancho Grande. Enjoy.

Hugh Harrison

2025