You're alone at dusk, rolling down some desert road in your 1965 Chevy El Camino, when your tire bursts. You slow down and pull to the side of the road. Snakes rattle their tails. Jumping chollas prepare to pounce. The eye sockets of a sun-bleached cow skull watch as you examine the spare tire. Then, suddenly, you notice a man walking toward you. Is he playing a guitar? No, wait—it's dozens of men walking in line, playing guitars and drums and mariachi music. You can hear their distinctive Sonoran Desert sound clearly. You turn to look again, and they're gone, melted back into the scenery from which they came. You fix the tire and rush home to tell your friends about the ghost band marching through the saguaros. "Just another wives' tale," they say. "Everyone's got one about Calexico."