When the New York rock band The Strokes announced they would play at El Paso’s Abraham Chavez Theatre in the fall of 2025, the steady bass beat of my heart quickened. While live music was not scarce in the city, a band of this magnitude playing in El Paso was historically rare. The Strokes have always been one of my favorite bands, but on the day of the show, my emotions were like a badly mixed song. Anticipation vibrated along my skin like rapid-fire fingers on guitar strings. But at the same time, my heart hummed the low static from an ill-connected amp cord with the recent news of my sister Angie’s cancer relapse. Again.
There is something magical about music. Maybe it’s the vibrations, the notes a tuning fork for our souls, because that night, inside the theater, with its plush burnt orange seats and gold stage curtain—shimmering like a Chihuahuan Desert sunset—the static fell away as I sang along to Julian Casablancas’ gritty, gravelly voice. I forgot about everything but the words to songs that had been with me since young adulthood. Arms in the air, I screamed and swayed to the familiar chords. I gazed up into the darkened ceiling and said a silent thank you to the musical gods for allowing me to live suspended between the notes, unafraid of what was to come for me, for my sister.
In a downtown defined by an international border, palo verde trees, and orangey pink sorbet sunsets, sits the Abraham Chavez Theatre, a building once dubbed the “sombrero” for its hatlike shape. It is one of the most distinctive landmarks of the city’s skyline. Within the Borderplex, a region comprising 2.5 million people in El Paso, Ciudad Juárez, and Las Cruces, New Mexico, the theater serves as an oasis. Many residents might be surprised to learn that in its 2026 midyear rankings, the concert and live music trade publication Pollstar recognized Abraham Chavez Theatre among the top 200 theater venues in the world based on reported ticket sales, and Billboard magazine ranked it among the top 50 venues with capacities of 2,500 or less. There is no doubt that the theater is a fountain for music lovers.
One of my earliest memories of the theater dates to the 1980s, when I was an elementary student and my mom received free tickets to what she thought would be a flamenco performance. We arrived late and there was no line, yet my mom’s tug on my small, clammy hand told me I had to scurry faster. As we shuffled into the large brutalist-style building, the raw concrete’s curved shape invited us in. I wanted to drink in the immense, sparkling chandelier hanging in the entryway, but my mom pulled me toward the cavernous performance space.
Inside, the audience stared raptly at two long-haired barefoot men strumming guitars. Once in our seats, I exhaled and gazed up at the brightly illuminated stage. I didn’t know what they were playing, but it was the closest I’d ever been to a musician in a theater like this. I watched in awe as their fingers moved up and down the strings, but two songs in, we scooted out. The music had not been rhythmic flamenco riffs. In its place were spaghetti western tunes, which my mom didn’t love. Now, I chuckle at this memory and at the wrinkled brows and audible sighs as we quickly shuffled in and then swiftly made our exit.
The theater’s opening date is fuzzy in El Paso’s history, with some sources stating 1973 and others 1974. The venue was originally part of the El Paso Civic Center, a sister performing arts space, and was later named after the esteemed conductor Abraham Chavez Jr. A talented violinist, Chavez joined the El Paso Symphony Orchestra at the age of 13. His extensive career as a soloist, conductor, and master teacher embodied his life philosophy: “Take the music to the people,” as he once told an interviewer. Film lovers can catch a glimpse of the theater’s construction in Steve McQueen’s 1972 heist classic, The Getaway. Following its opening, the space was mainly inhabited by the symphony. Over the years, it has evolved into a venue that hosts a variety of musical acts, including Clint Black, Café Tacvba, Megadeth, Bob Dylan, and Beck.
This is vital to the borderland community because while the combined sister cities are impressive in size, musicians often travel directly from other major Texas metropolitan areas to Los Angeles or Phoenix. El Paso’s geographic isolation—hello, minimum 10-hour drives to other cities in the state—can put a damper on seeing one’s favorite band. Residents often question why Albuquerque, a smaller city by population, frequently hosts larger musical acts than the Sun City, but the question goes unanswered. That’s why El Pasoans seek refuge in the curved sombrero and warm lights of the Abraham Chavez Theatre. It’s where desert dwellers from both sides of the border can quench their thirst for entertainment.
In February 2024, I had four VIP tickets to see Colombian rock-pop singer Juanes. My husband and I debated whom to invite. On a whim, I called Angie, who had recently gone into remission, and asked if she and my brother-in-law wanted to come. I almost dropped my cell phone in shock when she said yes.
The night of the show, we carpooled. Even though traffic slowed our momentum near the theater and we worried we’d be late for the Juanes meet-and-greet, we swiftly found a space in the underground parking garage. Angie’s smile wobbled as we were ushered into the brightly lit venue, buzzing with chatter, to the VIP line to meet the headliner. She hadn’t been out with such a large gathering of people in a long time. She fingered the beanie she now always wore, even as we laughed at a joke I don’t remember. I saw concern cloud my brother-in-law’s face, but it evaporated as quickly as our infrequent rain when we were ushered up narrow yellow stairs. There stood Juanes, effortlessly cool with shaggy hair and a broad smile.
He gave each of us a warm, genuine hug before posing for a Polaroid. He thanked us for coming, signed my husband’s jacket, and as quickly as we were ushered in, we were swept away into the auditorium. Seated, we snapped a group selfie and then one of just Angie and me, our smiles bright and toothy. When the lights dimmed and the crowd cheered, her eyes momentarily darted around the shadowed crowd, and I reached to hold her hand in the darkness. She didn’t know all the songs, but during the one she did know, “La Camisa Negra,” she swung her hips gently, her body recalling its rhythm.
Sometime in the spring of 2042, a time capsule packed in 1992 inside a marble pedestal beneath a bust of Chavez will be opened. “It’s a reminder that while the performances on the Chavez stage may last only a few hours, the impact of the theater on our community spans generations,” says Brooke Underwood, president and CEO of Destination El Paso. I don’t know where I will be when it’s opened, but I know it will be 17 years after Angie left us. She died before I could finish reading this story to her. Music can soothe the soul, but it can’t cure cancer.
The Abraham Chavez Theatre now offers about 40 events a year when it’s not hosting standup comedy shows, plays, musicals, or local events. That means, conservatively, 700 more musical events will take place before the capsule is opened, and more than a million more patrons will walk past Chavez’s brassy face. Future music lovers who want to find respite in a melody will rush past without a second glance at the man who gave the theater its name, in fear of missing a single note. They’ll be unaware that his life’s mission of bringing the music to the people has continued longer than he could have imagined. They’ll sway their arms high above their heads, and their hips will swing like a metronome as they sing along, easing their troubles and heartache in the lyrics and chords. Maybe music is one of the ways we keep the ones we’ve lost alive.
