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.

Pulet de Noël

Pulet de Noël

À l'élevage du poulet, à le regarder grandir,

Louons la vie il a vécu. Nous avons pris, nous a tué.

Le poulet va dans le gumbo pour le souper.

12.23.13
Breaux Bridge

We get into the truck, turn on the radio. KBON- the whole ride thru. Down the Breaux Bridge Highway onto Bridge Street Highway, keep going. A little past Catin's Grocery and Hardware Store. We're here. The night is old and it's cold. Louisiana cold. That wet, piercing chill. My pop puts the truck in park and flicks the radio off. The doors open with a creaaaek and are quickly slammed shut. "Aye, Country! We cuttin' some roosta's or what?" The wind whips at your cheeks and nips your nose. "Mais, yeah! That's why you came here!" My Uncle Ben suits up in his thick-lined jumpsuit in the middle of the carport. The illumination of the propane flames burning under the steal pot and the light from the porch back lit my uncle. A short, stout shadow stands. He's ready. My pop walks over the gravel and balances his weight on the two inch shoulder of the cemented land for a moment. He continues his stride- to the center table. He places a pair of leather work gloves and a knife down.
We're all ready.
Waiting.
Then I follow, follow the boys. My uncle, my pop, and my brother. Stepping down onto the crisp grass, we rustle through the fallen leaves to a shed on the edge of Nonc Ben's land. He opens the rusted tin doors just enough so he can comply within the slot. He jumps over his four-wheeler and reaches at the top shelf, grabs something and emerges through those rusted tin doors. His right hand grips an ax. That ax was Granpaw's ax. Granpaw Bennet Tally. "You'd see it around his camp and even in Cow Island," my pop remembers.
Again we rustle through the leaves and grass, walking a trail that is worn into the earth. To the coop- the chicken coop. Nonc Ben bends his knees and hunches over, "close the door behind me." He goes in. The hens voiced a few words. No resistance, no retaliation. Just acceptance. The swift movement of his arm seized the legs of the first rooster. It hangs, wings sprawled- just looking. "Here." My pop steps in and the bird is exchanged. Still hanging, wings still sprawled- still just looking. Again, another one taken. Two down, two to go. We walk to the other coop where the remaining roosters perch. This time the roosters sing, they croak and crow. All four are now hanging by our hands. Just waiting. The crisp grass crunches beneath my boots and the crinkled leaves part with every step forward I make. That walk seemed like an eternity. The wind lashes out and pierces my jacket down to the skin. Frissons. We stop next to a towering pine tree. A nail marks the spot, "hold it still." My pop's fingers intertwines with the legs and toes of the rooster- Nonc Ben stretches the neck and holds the head down against the bark with his left hand while his right grips Granpaw's ax and retracts it parallel to his ear. "I'd hate to miss." At that moment I blessed the creature and paid my respects. It's pertinent to know where your food comes from and to be grateful and thankful to the soul that is ceasing to exist to serve your very essence. A force drives the ax down, like a lion preying for meat. Down it goes, "Awwgh!" It didn't cut all the way through. A faint squawk is vocalized. Tout de suite, it starts flapping it's wings trying to fly away, to get away. Faster and faster it goes. Trying so hard, trying so hard to leave-to escape for haven. But it's just muscle memory. No longer can it think, no longer can it feel, no longer can it live. As it flaps the blood flows, down from the pith, down from the toes. It bleeds that vermilion blood. That blood of my people. Its motion slows, slower and slower... Ce fin.
We make our way to the cemented land, to the edge. Laid down are the four lifeless fowls, side by side. Those toes stick straight out and the wings too as if they were broken. Deep red caress those once white feathers.
The flames blaze under the steal pot causing the water to roar. The smell, get ready. Oh yai, that smell. "It's something you can't forget." Nonc Ben picks the rooster up and raises it high. It hovers above the scalding water, down it goes. Fully submerged just for a second. Just as quick as it went in, it came right out. It hangs, dripping water. The water drips over the pot, over the pot, over the cement, over the trashcan. It hangs over the trashcan. Nonc kneels and my pop squats. They start plucking. Feather after feather, they fall into the can underneath. The rooster is neked, completely bare. Skins.
Done.
Next one.
Next one.
Next one.
Done.

Grand Coteau

Nonc Chad's place up in Grand Coteau. Beautiful old home, traditional style. Built ca. 1840s.