Qui ce ça?

Monsieur Justin Léger
Photo credit: Madmoiselle Maggie Milke

Take the Scott exit, go until the first legitimate road to the left. Turn. The house with a line of cars parked in the front yard with the garage door open, you found it. Fiddle-plugged in. Accordion-plugged in. Guitar-plugged in. Bass-plugged in. Drums-miked. The jam lined the back wall. Plastic lawn chairs lined the other side, all filled with little white headed ladies and ole' grey haired men. In between stood a dance floor. Bare for only a moment. When a waltz was played, those little ole' ladies and those little ole' men got up and danced. Where I was, I was able to see the musicians, I was able to see the dancers. I was able to hear the music and I was able to hear the little ole' ladies and the little ole' men talk. They all talked in french, the old french. I listened carefully. It was amazing to think that all of these people have a history, all of them have a story. Some sort of story. Their ancestors survived and overcame this oppressive society. But all I could do was listen, I couldn't talk with them- I couldn't communicate. But my friends could, they did. Jamie Lynn and Jacques Boudreaux. The generational gap that was prevalent was bridged by the simple words of our cultural language. I grazed my eyes over the musicians again, my stare fixated on the fiddler. My eyes stayed on him, on that fingerboard, on that bow hold. The way he held it with his pinky finger under the screw and the rest gracefully placed on top of the stick. No tension, just comfort. He bowed with his forearm and wrist. Smooth-never a scratch. His left hand cradled the neck within the webbing beside his thumb. His left arm braced the body with a curved limb and an arched wrist. First, third, second, first. Back to third next string over, second, fourth. Chords. G to D. Grace it. C to G. He glances at the accordion player, he nods back. Fiddle ride. 

Qui ce ça?

Walter Mouton. 

 Now, Mr. Walter is legendary when it comes to dance hall music. Born in 1938 and responsible for putting together the first rendition of The Scott Playboys when he was 15, which included Rodney Miller, John Allen Guillot, and Leeman Prejean. In 1970 he and his band recorded "The Scott Playboys Special," his music is also heard on the sound track to the film J'ai êté au bal. The 1998 Festivals Acadiens et Créoles was dedicated in his honor. But his principle fame extends from his 35 year relationship with Breaux Bridge's La Poussière Club. Every Saturday he and his band performed. "I consider myself a dance band as (opposed) to an authentic Cajun band," Mouton told Dominck Cross for a 1998 article in the Baton Rouge Advocate.

After the fiddle ride, the accordion took it. As the bellows started to breathe heavier and louder, it pulled my attention away from the fiddle. The waves of the wailing notes grabbed my eyes. Right hand spread across the ten buttons. Left hand on the bass notes, the arm pushing and pulling. The accordion is the lung, it is the breath. The way is breathes. In, one pitch. Out, another. I always watch musicians and how they produce their art. Every one is different. Everyone has their own style, their own form. I make those observations and I notice those differences. When I look at the younger generations and their approach to the traditional music, many of which have those old tendencies, it is never completely lost. It is never completely gone. They know and understand the importance of preservation. Their culture, my culture, our culture and heritage. And to totally disregard the way of what once was would be disrespectful. We come from the people and the land of what once was. There is one younger gen in particular that has intrigued my mind. Mr. Justin Léger- a Church Point boy. I recorded him and his friends the other night, of which I posted. His lyrical tone, the way he articulates the traditional songs- the stories of our people. Watching him close his eyes while he sings. He feels. The pain and sorrow in the words. When he cries out, he hears. I hear. I feel, it penetrates my soul. It tears, my vermilion blood seeps out and melts my senses. It takes me back. Them damn prairie boys. It's there. The appreciation, the understanding. The knowledge of what once was, the history of his people's struggles. I want to know his story. 

À plus tard, 

Zoë Louise Huval