Hey Danny, why are you shirtless?

I'm working on an ultra-low budget movie, The Darkness Descending. I play Angel, a cult leader, who lives in the underworld. I have more lines in this movie than I've ever had before.

But what about your trailer? Your entourage?

I don't need any of that. I've done a lot of projects that are student films or from first-time producers or directors. I'd always rather be working – and you know what? My kids would rather me be working. If I stay at home, I'll only buy another car or spend their money.

Your agent must despair.

She gets so mad with me, but it's an honour to be an important part of someone's career when they're starting out. I'm like: "Just pay for my gas, give me $100, buy me lunch, whatever." I bring my A-game whether I'm doing this or a Michael Mann movie (1).

You don't seem like a movie star.

I got here by accident. When I got out of the penitentiary (2) in 1969, I became a drug counsellor, and dedicated my life to helping other people. We all find our path.

Weren't you facing the death penalty?

I went to the hole looking at three gas-chamber offences. After the Cinco de Mayo riots at San Quentin, in 1968, they said I threw a rock and hit the lieutenant in the head but you know what? I did hit him in the head with a rock. But I wasn't throwing it at him, I was throwing it at a group of guys and he happened to be hit. So we all had gas-chamber offences, and we were taken to the hole and I remember saying: "God, if you're there, everything will turn out the way it's supposed to. If you're not, I'm fucked."

What is it like in solitary confinement?

I dedicated my life right there, and it wasn't to get out of it because I knew there wasn't any getting out of it. I just wanted it to end with some dignity. I'd seen movies of guys going to gas chambers screaming for their mothers. The charges were later dropped on a technicality.

Then you became a drug counsellor?

After I was paroled in 1969 I discovered AA and Narcotics Anonymous. My sponsor took me to a programme called RIF – Recover, Independence and Freedom – working with teen drug addicts. Even now, kids come up and say: "Trejo, what's up? You helped me years ago." So that's been a blessing.

Then suddenly you're a movie star?

One night in 1985 one of my kids I'd been working with called me and said: "Hey, there's a lot of blow down here at my job. Can you come down?" Back then cocaine was rampant. So he gave me the address to a warehouse district in Dogtown. I went down thinking he worked in a warehouse, that we'd sit out in his car at break, smoke cigarettes, drink coffee and afterwards he would go back inside. I walked on to this movie set [Andrei Konchalovsky's Runaway Train] and it was the cutest thing I'd ever seen.

Didn't the screenwriter recognise you from prison?

That's right. I was asked if I could act like a convict. When I took my shirt off, this guy comes storming across the set. He said: "You're Danny Trejo!" He recognised my tattoos. He'd seen me box in San Quentin, so they hired me to train Eric Roberts how to box. I learned how not to behave on a movie set from Eric Roberts. He was very demanding.

How do you go from being top dog in a prison to taking movie direction?

I know how to get my ego out of the way. I call ego: "Edgy Gets Out." You need an ego but also I've heard actors boast about being tough and on the streets. Two weeks on Broadway is not the street. The stunt co-ordinator on Runaway Train, who had to teach me how to throw a movie punch, thought he was going to have trouble because of the way I looked. The old Danny would have said, "Get the fuck out of here", but now I'd rather be paid to be the bad guy.

Your phone just beeped.

It's a text from Lady Gaga. I met her at the Shamrock Tattoo shop on Sunset Boulevard. Mark Mahoney, one of the best tattoo artists in the world, did the tattoo I have on my back of my three kids playing on Venice Beach. She was getting a tattoo at the same time and we hit it off right away. She said she wishes she could be on set with me today and she'll see me soon. She's a great girl.

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After Runaway Train, you didn't stop working.

I was paid $320 a day for that job. I went from movie to movie but for five years I didn't have a name. I was either "Bad Guy" or "Inmate No 1". I was happy.

Can you recall your first credited role?

Death Wish 4 with Charles Bronson. The first thing he said to me was: "Were you really there?" I said: "Yeah." And he said: "I can tell." That was it. After that, we were super buds.

Did you dream of being in the movies when you were a kid?

No. I started getting in trouble at a really young age. My uncle Gilbert was my mentor and he was a drug addict and an armed robber – so no, I didn't watch a lot of movies.

You're an LA native, from Echo Park.

I can't get too far from Mum. She's 84. She was a typical Mexican housewife who made sure dinner was on the table at 5.30pm. She lives in a three-bedroom house and it's now the nicest house on the block. The only problem is that when my friends stop by on their motorbikes, her neighbours call the police. She has to tell them that they are Danny's friends.

And you still work as a drug counsellor for kids. (3)

I do a lot more public relations now but I love to see the hope in their eyes. The blessing that this film business has given me is that when I walk into a school I automatically have everyone's attention. They want to hear what the guy from Con Air and Desperado has to say. Teachers come up and say to me: "You did in 45 minutes what we've been trying to do all year long."

What do you say?

If you take drugs and alcohol out of your life, your life will get better.

Foot notes

(1) Trejo played 'Trejo' in Heat. Back to article

(2) He spent most of the 1960s behind bars for armed robbery and drug offences, including spells in the three most terrifying prisons in California's state penitentiary system, Tracy (1963-65), San Quentin (1965-68), and Soledad (1968-69). Back to article

(3) He works for the Western Pacific Medical Corps in Glendale, LA. Back to article