You probably still hear that trumpet. If you grew up in a Latino household, or even if you just stumbled onto Univision while flipping channels in the 90s, the sound of a discordant, mocking blast of brass is burned into your brain. That was the sound of failure. Specifically, it was the sound of Sábado Gigante El Chacal ending someone’s dreams in front of millions of people.
It was brutal. It was loud. Honestly, by today’s "everyone gets a participation trophy" standards, it was probably a little bit mean. But man, it was incredible television.
Don Francisco—the legendary Mario Kreutzberger—sat on his throne, presiding over a chaotic variety show that ran for over half a century. But the heart of the musical segment wasn't the singing. It was the hooded executioner waiting in the wings.
The Man Behind the Mask: Who Was Sábado Gigante El Chacal?
For decades, people wondered who was actually under that black hood and those intimidating robes. Was it a rotating cast of crew members? Was it a professional musician?
The truth is actually pretty simple, though the mystery was part of the fun. For most of the show's run, the man playing the character was Leonardo Núñez Guerrero. He wasn't just some guy they found on the street; he was a musician who understood exactly how to timing a comedic "strike."
He did the job for over 20 years. Think about that for a second. His entire career was built around being the most hated man in Spanish-language variety television. He sat there, hidden, waiting for a grandmother from Miami or a nervous teenager from New Jersey to miss a note. When they did? Trumpet blast. The dynamic was fascinating because El Chacal wasn't just a judge. He was a character. He had this weird, silent chemistry with Don Francisco. Sometimes he’d dance. Sometimes he’d mock the contestant before they even opened their mouth. It gave the show a sense of "live" danger that you just don't see on The Voice or American Idol.
The Rules of the Game (Or Lack Thereof)
The segment was officially called "La Cuarta Plegaria" or simply the amateur talent contest. But nobody called it that. It was just "The Jackal."
Here is how it usually went down:
A contestant would come out, looking terrified. Don Francisco would ask where they were from. They’d start singing—usually a ballad or something high-energy like a Selena cover. If they were good, the audience would cheer. If they were bad? You’d see the camera pan over to a shadowy figure in a hood holding an old-school trumpet.
If the trumpet blew, the contestant was "eliminated."
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Usually, this meant a character dressed like a lion or some other mascot would come out and literally chase them off the stage. It was slapstick. It was loud. It was pure entertainment.
But there was a weird nuance to it. Don Francisco often acted as the "good cop." He would occasionally stop El Chacal, begging for "one more chance" for a contestant who was particularly sympathetic or particularly terrible. This created a scripted but felt-natural tension. You've got to remember that Sábado Gigante was filmed in front of a massive, rowdy audience in Miami. The energy in that room influenced how long a singer lasted.
Why We Couldn't Stop Watching
Why did we love watching people fail?
Psychologists call it schadenfreude, but in the context of Hispanic culture and Sábado Gigante, it felt more like family ribbing. You weren't just watching a stranger fail; you were watching a mirror of every family party where an uncle got too confident at karaoke.
Sábado Gigante El Chacal represented the ultimate stakes.
In modern reality TV, the judges try to be "constructive." Even Simon Cowell, in his prime, was giving critiques. The Jackal didn't give critiques. He gave you a noise that sounded like a dying elephant and signaled that your time was up. There is something incredibly honest about that.
The show also functioned as a massive bridge for the diaspora. Whether you were in Santiago, Mexico City, or Los Angeles, everyone knew the Jackal. He was a universal symbol of the "tough crowd."
The Leonardo Núñez Controversy
Nothing lasts forever, and the story of the man behind the mask ended on a bit of a sour note. After being part of the show for decades, Núñez was let go in 2013.
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He didn't go quietly.
He went on other networks, like Telemundo, to talk about his dismissal. He claimed that after 40 years of service (counting the show's origins in Chile), he was cast aside without much of a goodbye. It was a rare peek behind the curtain of the Don Francisco empire. It reminded us that while the show was all about "family" and "community," it was also a massive, high-stakes business.
When Núñez appeared on Al Rojo Vivo without the mask, it felt wrong to some fans. Seeing the face of the man who had been a faceless specter for so long broke the magic. It was like seeing a magician explain the trick while he was still on stage.
The Cultural Legacy of the Trumpet
Even though Sábado Gigante went off the air in 2015, the Jackal lives on in memes and cultural shorthand.
If someone is doing a bad job at a task today, someone in the room will inevitably make a "pa-pa-pa-paaaa" trumpet noise. It is ingrained in the DNA of Latin American comedy.
You can see the Jackal’s influence in:
- TikTok "talent" parody videos.
- The "Gong" on The Gong Show (which predated but ran parallel in spirit).
- The brutal honesty of early 2000s reality TV judging.
The character worked because he was a villain we were allowed to laugh at. He wasn't "evil"; he was just the personification of the audience's patience.
How to Find Classic El Chacal Clips Today
If you're looking to fall down a YouTube rabbit hole, you're in luck. Univision has archived a lot of these segments.
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Look for the "Clásicos de Sábado Gigante" playlists. You’ll see the evolution of the costume. In the early days, it looked much more homemade—almost like a cheap Halloween ghost outfit. As the show moved to Miami and the budget exploded, the hood became more professional, the trumpet shinier, and the antics more choreographed.
Look for the episodes from the mid-90s. That was the "Golden Age." The contestants were often people who had traveled long distances just for thirty seconds of fame, and the desperation made the Jackal’s intervention even more dramatic.
Lessons from the Hooded Trumpeter
What can we actually learn from a guy in a hood mocking singers?
First, timing is everything. The Jackal didn't just blow the horn immediately. He waited for the exact moment the singer went flat or lost their breath. In content, or performance, or business, knowing when to "cut" is a skill.
Second, mystery sells. The fact that we didn't know who he was for thirty years kept the character fresh. Once the actor behind the mask became a public figure, the character lost its teeth.
Third, don't take yourself too seriously. The best contestants on the show were the ones who laughed when the lion chased them off. They knew what they were signing up for.
If you want to revisit the madness, start by searching for "El Chacal de la Trompeta mejores momentos." Just be prepared for the nostalgia hit. It’s a reminder of a time when TV was a little louder, a little crazier, and definitely a lot more unpredictable.
To really understand the impact, you have to look at the numbers. Sábado Gigante holds the Guinness World Record for the longest-running television variety program. You don't get there without iconic characters. The Jackal wasn't just a gimmick; he was a pillar of the show's structure. He provided the "lows" that made the "highs" of the professional musical guests feel even more prestigious.
Next time you’re watching a polished, over-produced singing competition on Netflix, just imagine a guy in a black hood waiting in the corner with a trumpet. It would probably make the show a lot more interesting.
Actionable Insight: If you're a creator or performer, study the "El Chacal" segments not for the cruelty, but for the pacing. Notice how Don Francisco uses the Jackal to control the energy of the room. It’s a masterclass in audience management and knowing when a "bit" has reached its peak.