The Divine Emulation

divine  (dɪˈvaɪn) 

adjective

1. of supreme excellence or worth

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em·u·la·tion  [em-yuh-ley-shuhn]

noun

1. effort or desire to equal or excel others

When we look at culture, it changes and evolves. One generation to the next- like language, like music. It can go left or it can go right. One thing that I have gathered through casual conversation within this culture is the importance of inspiration. Influence among these musicians vary from the pre-accordion era in the 1900's and before to the Cajun swing of the 1930's. From the 1970 Cajun renaissance with the traditional sounds of the Balfa Brothers to the 1980's and 90's zydeco rock of Wayne Toups and even the modern fiddle's cadence of Al Berard and Mitch Reed. I find it intriguing to know what drives an individual musical mind because we all think differently, we all learn differently- we all taste differently. The prairie Cajuns of Mamou, Iota, Church Point, Pointe Noir, and Opelousas have historically been in a contrasting external environment from the swamp, bayou, and marsh Cajuns of Breaux Bridge, Cecilia, Henderson, Butte la Rose, Chenier au Tigre and Pecan Island. The difference in what they have been given exposure to is immanent. Dewey Balfa once said "A culture is preserved, one generation at a time." And a look into the minds of the cultural intuitive, generation by generation, reveals how we are holding onto our culture from the tunes of our ancestral-folk roots.

This is an ongoing project of personal interest, the research and collection of a cultural census of influence. My initial want was to include multiple generations to get a look into those influences and how it's generational, de les vieux à les jeunes. How the music progresses but yet how, simultaneously, the musical history, tradition, and meaning is retained.

From the Exposed Roots presents The Divine Emulation, a collective cultural census on personal influence.

Arc Attente

Horse hairs strung from the tip to the frog. Turn the screw to the left- it loosens. Turn the screw to the right- it tightens. The tension created by a simple pivot of the silver screw bows the wooden stick straight, straight with a little arch inward towards those horse hairs. Now hold it. A bow hold- your bow hold. They say the fiddle is one of the hardest instruments to master. There are no frets, there are no buttons- no definite answers to the notes you want to play. I always find it interesting looking at the music maker and their art, the relationship with their instrument. How their hands hold and caress their love to make such beautiful sounds, make beautiful music. A fascination between the hands and ears. It's how your drums transposes what is being played by the arms and fingers- vice versa. Trills and thrills, graces and traces- all interact with the melody to shape the song, truthfully. Each fiddler is unique in their own right, simply because of style. 

Dennis McGee, born January 26, 1893, is a class all unto himself. Himself- that's all. A la bal de maison he played. He played fiddle for the dancers, not only waltz' and two-steps, but he played one-steps, polkas, mazurkas, reels, cotillions, and varsoviennes. Old school traditional. Fiddle tunes- fiddle music. And that's what Cajun music was before the 1920's, before the influence of the accordion. The introduction of the bellowed instrument greatly simplified, the now, fiddle part. Not fiddle tunes anymore. There was no need to be intricate, no need to fill the spaces and gaps of silence with drones and notes of the fiddle strings to the extent that was before. The way Dennis McGee played, some would say sloppy, but above all else is something that is not heard of today- modern day. It captures the movement and the evolution, from what once was. He played with Amede Ardoin, Sady Courville and Ernest Fruge, he knew the greatest and was one of the greatest. 96 in 1989, he left. He left behind a legacy that will always stay, it will always be read, it will always be heard, it will always be played and appreciated. 

Over the weekend I was given an album, an album of just Dennis Mcgee- 

Dennis McGee: Himself 

Produced by Valcour Records. It's a series of excerpts from a recording done by Monsieur Gerard Dole using a "Nagra III and a Beyer M 69 N Dynamic microphone in Eunice on Wednesday the twenty-seventh August of 1975." Thirty-three tracks some just a mere twenty-five seconds short, but of such "clarity and energy, in his specific old-time Cajun style..." Sunday morning I scratched at the plastic covering until it gave way, it tore and split to reveal the cardboard case that held the CD. This particular recording of Dennis McGee stayed unpublished until Joel Savoy mastered, produced, and set it free in 2010. I laid it down on my faded denim blue trunk that serves as the coffee table. Picked up my mug and took a sip, my fingers slid under the top of the cover and flattened it out. Took the disc and put it in the stereo, it played. He speaks, he plays, he sings. Nothing but Dennis McGee. I sit back and listen, I listen. I close my eyes, I cross my legs, I sip my black coffee. Mon coeur- my heart aches with love. I can hear him and where his fingers press and what his arm bows. It's clear and prevalent. It's exactly what I need to progress my own style, my own style of playing. 

Merci beaucoup Dennis McGee.

1.25.14

Maurice, LA

Billy McDonald

Jonathan Melançon

Jourdan Thibodeaux

Blake Thibodeaux

Jamie Lynn Fontenot

Justin Léger

Alan LaFleur

Samuel Giarrusso

Noelle Goodin

Defrosted ground- saturated. Soft and sodden soil. It engulfed your boots with every step, encompassed the sides with mud, grass, et crotte de cheval. Not good for suede cowboy boots. The dark consumed the evening but the slightest bit was illuminated because of the stars, the stars and flames. Even without eyes you could find your way through the pasture. The sounds. A step forward toward the music- accordion, twin fiddle, guitars, 'tit fer. The yells, the bellows, the cries.

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

Dimanche Après-midi

Les fleurs de prairie cadien.

Nous s'asseoir autour les flammes, les flammes de la nuit.

Les hommes jouent la musique, bonne musique.

Je me suis assis avec les gens autour de moi, parler les gens.

Mais, tous je fait était écouter, écouter ces hommes.

12.14.13
Lafayette, Louisiana
Justin Léger
Colby Léger
John Melançon
Tanner Dimmick

Vous avez fait un beau tâche.

Nous allés à Pointe Noire sur un Samedi nuit.

Allés à écouter la bonne musique.

Nous allés à Pointe Noire pour danser toute la soir.

11.16.13

Saturday night supper and house dance

Pointe Noire, LA

Justin Leger

Christian LeJeune

Blake Thibodeaux

Jourdan Thibodeaux

John Melançon

Chaudière Noire

The Blackpot Music Festival and Cook-off is held every last full weekend in October. This year it was October 25-27. This festival is, in my opinion, of the most meaningful and profound festivals in Louisiana. Get there Thursday evening/Friday morning and set up your tent and get your home-base camp site situated. You drink, cook, and enjoy good company until the music starts usually 6 Friday. Ya drink some more, be with friends, eat goof food, and listen to the music. There's only two stages, a small festival indeed. The pavillion and the chapel. This festival is a relatively new one, The Revelers talk about the history in this interview. This year was one for the history books, it was The Red Stick Ramblers last show together. Joining together in Baton Rouge, LA in 1999 with  a unique sound of Cajun music and Western Swing they totally dominated the music scene with seven albums released and multiple tours under their belt. But it isn't the complete end for them, most of the band members have joined together in The Revelers to continue the life of their music. So after the musical performances have ended on the big stage everyone goes back to their camp and eat, drink, converse and jam. Jam. People go around from campsite to campsite and just jam. Some people have a fiddle others an accordion even mandolin, banjo, tubas, guitars, harmonicas, washboards, spoons... It is truly an amazing thing that happens. We jam till the early mornings of the next day. 4am saturday was my breaking point. But all night long I went listen to the jams, and I danced. This is a place where you can do what your heart desired and I wanted to dance until I couldn't dance anymore and that is exactly what I did. With a man from Texas nonetheless. A cowboy looking man with the boots and hat to match, I swear I danced three hours straight with him at a tent where I had searched all night for. Blake Miller and Adam Doucet were playing, both of which can play accordion and fiddle so they switched out every so often. I walked the entire campsite to find a good place to stay before landing in one spot, somewhere where I knew the songs and could watch a fiddler and take his style in. And when I crossed a pitched white tent that had the 'Podnah Proclamation' against the back wall and the sounds of an old Horace Trahan song playing- I had found it. Adam had taken a ride on the fiddle but was so souled that he was messing it up, Blake jokingly said "Mais, don't mess up my song!" I laughed because it is too great of a song to be ruined by a drunkard musician. At the end, it was perfect.. A little time no one was playing or talking. I looked at Blake and asked if that was one of Horace's songs. "Yeah, how you know that?" It's a shame that Horace is now recognized only by the zydeco he plays. But it's the history that people need to appreciate. The story, his songs. His original songs in french- Cajun music. Something that is rare in this culture. I heard Blake Miller is following his acts by creating his own. Anyway to what Blake had questioned I told him
"He's my uncle."
"Nah, really?"
I nodded my head
"Well you must know that butt thang.."
He started to play it on his accordion
"Of course! That's my jam"
He laughed and nodded his head while smiling.
They played and played and I watched, One thing about Blake as a fiddler is his bow hold. So relaxed and all in the wrist. Most people play with their forearm and shoulder, something I don't agree with entirely. It resembled my Uncle Braz but better. I fell in love with the way he played his fiddle, the way his fingers hit the strings ever so slightly- a caressing motion with every note. He loves his fiddle he loves the music. He doesn't force things that can't be done. He just plays. I wonder what he thinks about when he plays and looking into the void spaces. not at any one person or thing.
After that thought I left to go find Lilli, my best friend and Louisiana venture partner. At that moment they had stopped playing and were taking a break.. I was a little ways away and I hear "Horace Trahan's niece..."
I turn my head with a huge smile he said again "Come see."
I don't remember the exact words exchanged but enough was said for him to figure out that my dad was Kevin Huval and I had two older brothers that wrestled up north and lived everywhere else but here my entire life. The thing is that he knew this already. Later I had gone to my dad to tell him and he said yeah, when he was still in high school he had come visit for some event when we were in Illinois and he cooked for us and Lynn and Charlie, a fish dish I think. That made me really appreciative of him because the existence of my immediate family and who my dad is within the 13 is not common knowledge around here. In the end he asked my name
"Zoe Huval"
"Blake Miller"
"Nice to meet you and I'll see you around"


à plus tard,
  Zoë Louise Huval

Festivals Acadiens et Créoles

Cher, you make a good time? Mais, yeah. J'ai dansé aux Festival Acadiens et Creoles. Dust and mud. I was there. The music, the food, the art, the people. In 1974, CODOFIL presented the first Tribute to Cajun Music concert in Lafayette's Blackham Coliseum. As it grew it evolved into a whole weekend event located in Girard Park during October including the Acadiana Fair & Trade show and Bayou Food Festival.  The combination of these three events served as the basis for a co-op called Festivals Acadiens. Festivals Acadiens kicks off the fall festival season. Gulf Brew Fest and Blackpot Festival will also be happening this month. There are so many opportunities to engage with this culture. Festivals are a huge part of what we live for and what we are about. It's a celebration of heritage. Dancing to Steve Riley, Wayne Toups, The Pine Leaf Boys with a beer in your hand. Listening to the Magnolia Sisters play like the badasses they are, an all female cajun band, is inspiring. Hearing the young people present the bands in french. Man oh man, seeing DL Menard play! I never thought I would have had an opportunity like that, to see the "Cajun Hank Williams" perform. The fact that my friend told me "you are probably the youngest person voluntarily here" makes me appreciate this culture even more. Wilson Savoy said that he is glad to see so many young people at festival, young people dancing to the music, young people appreciating it. We need to take this time to talk with the older generations and to hear their stories about how it once was, so we will have a basis of how to live. I feel like preservation is imperative to the evolutionary understanding of our home, of this land, of these people. Bring your dancing shoes and don't wear anything nice because you'll end up kicking your shoes off to dance barefoot while smelling like beer and sweat. And when ya wake up sore and hoarse on Monday morning, you know you had a good time.