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WHATâS IN A NAME
ON A JUNE EVENING IN 1934, as the dayâs lingering heat drifts through a pale-board Baptist church in Lake Arthur, Louisiana, a thundering music resounds off wooden walls and into a microphone; it is sent in lines of cable through the door to a parked Model A Ford with its backseat removed and replaced with five hundred pounds of recording equipment. In the car, powered by two giant Edison batteries, a weighted needle sculpts a groove in a spinning aluminum disc. The machine is recording a song about snap beans.
Engineering the recording is a Texas college student named Alan Lomax who, with his father, John Lomax, is braving the punishing heat of a Southern summer to increase the holdings of the new Archive of Folk Song in the Library of Congress. By this time, the elder Lomax has already made his name as a folklorist: his 1910 book Cowboy Songs and Other Frontier Ballads introduced such standards as âHome on the Range.â In 1932, with support from the Macmillan Company, the Library of Congress, and the American Council of Learned Societies, he set out on a sweeping project of collecting more than ten thousand recordings of folk songs, many performed by Southern blacks. In 1934 alone, John estimated that they traveled thirty-two thousand miles in nine Southern states and recorded about six hundred songs.
Southwest Louisiana has not been an easy stretch, as John Lomax would admit in his annual report. The recording machine is always malfunctioning. Someone steals the tires from their car. Then they overturn their customized Model A and drench their clothes in battery acid. Alan Lomax would later recall that his father decided to stay in their hotel room in Jennings and work on his next book, allowing his son to test his fieldwork skills and college French among the Cajuns and Creoles of Louisiana.
But on this evening in Port Arthur, the church session is on the verge of completely derailing. The aluminum disc spinning, a group of young Creoles form couples and dance around in the church, and a man named Jimmy Peters sings a mournful tune about a woman whose man has not returned home before sundown â an ominous absence, considering the curfew that blacks once had to observe in the area. He wails, âMon nĂšgre est pas arrivĂ©â â âmy man is not homeâ â accenting the negative pas, heightening the sense of despair. It is a thrilling performance, but after Peters repeats that the soleil aprĂšs coucherâ âthe sun is settingâ â for the eighth time, the other singers in the church start to get restless and begin talking. One launches into a new song, and others soon join in. A nail is scraped across a rusty slice of metal, and the group launches into a giddy tune about wanting to marry but having no shoes and no money. Peters tries to finish his lament, then he gives up in disgust. Perhaps forgetting that the Library of Congress is recording his words, he starts yelling at his friends. âAs it happened,â Alan Lomax would later write in his notes for a reissue of the recordings, âa fight broke out at the peak of the session, and I had to pick up my machine and leave hastily, and thus was unable to find out more about this remarkable music at the time.â
But before Lomax packs up and leaves the church, Peters manages to perform a song in an a cappella style today known as jurĂ© (from the French for âtestifyâ) or bazar (probably named for the church social where the music was often made). Against a fantastic background of howling vocals and sharp hand claps, he sings of a man who wanders the land with a ruined hat and a torn suit, too poor to see his woman. His lyrics date back to an old Acadian French folk song, but Peters adds a new phrase that will resonate for generations:
O mam, mais donnez-moi les haricots.
O yé yaie, les haricots sont pas salés.
Oh Mom, give me the snap beans.
O yé yaie, the snap beans are not salty.
Peters doesnât explain what he means, but the Lomaxes will learn a possible source when they hear the line again in New Iberia, where a worker named Wilfred Charles performs an unusual song about sick Italians, and concludes with:
Pas mis de la viande, pas mis Ă rien,
Juste des haricots dans la chaudiĂšre,
Les haricots sont pas salés.
O! O nÚgre! Les haricots sont pas salés.
Put no meat, nor nothing else,
Just snap beans in the pot,
The snap beans are not salty.
O! O nĂšgre! The snap beans are not salty!
There is no salt meat to put in the pot with the snap beans. Like early blues musicians throughout the South, the Creoles in Louisiana are singing about poverty.
Many themes in contemporary zydeco lyrics are first heard in the remarkable performances recorded by the Lomaxes. On their journey in Louisiana they meet Paul Junius Malveaux and Ernest Lafitte, who play harmonica and sing âBye-bye, bonsoir, mes parentsâ (âGood Night, My Parentsâ) and imitate a dog in the song âTous les samedisâ (âEvery Saturdayâ); today numerous zydeco songs include choruses of âbye-byeâ or dog barks. Also in Jennings, Cleveland Benoit and Darby Hicks sing a haunting blues similar to the song Jimmy Peters couldnât get through, âLĂ -bas chez Moreauâ (âOver at Moreauâsâ). Their voices cresting and falling, Benoit and Hicks trade parts as if completing each otherâs thoughts, singing lines about the setting sun and about going to Moreauâs, a wonderful place that holds the promise of sweet candy and brown coffee. Both this song and Joseph Jonesâs âBlues de la prisonâ will be echoed years later in the music of Creole fiddler Canray Fontenot. But itâs the phrase about snap beans â les haricots sont pas salĂ©s â that will be carried the furthest.
Whatâs in a name? Defining âzydecoâ is a matter of considerable contention; the remark that someone is or isnât playing âreal zydecoâ is today frequently heard at dances. In fact, it is likely that musicians will never agree on the borders of zydeco, because, in true improvisational spirit, they set out to redraw the map in every performance. In 1993 Thomas Fields asked a man in Lafayette named Paul âPapillonâ Harris to teach him accordion. âThe first lesson this old man taught me,â Fields recalls, âis that youâre not a zydeco player if you canât make your own music.â Nobody understood this philosophy better than Clifton Chenier.
Paul Junius Malveaux and Ernest Lafitte, Jennings, Louisiana, 1936.
It was on May 11, 1965, almost thirty-one years after Jimmy Peters sang about the snap beans, that Clifton and Cleveland Chenier entered the Gold Star studio in Houston. The tape rolling, the brothers shared a few words in Creole French:
CLIFTON: HĂ© toi. Tout queâque chose est correcte?
CLEVELAND: Câest bon. Câest bon, boy.
CLIFTON: Tout queâque chose est magnifique?
CLEVELAND : O nĂšgâ, quittons amuser avec ça.
CLIFTON: Allons le zydeco!
CLEVELAND: Allons couriâ Ă lĂ© yĂ©!
(CLIFTON: Hey you. Everythingâs all right?
CLEVELAND: Itâs good. Itâs good, boy.
CLIFTON: Everythingâs magnificent?
CLEVELAND: Oh man, letâs go have fun with that.
CLIFTON: Letâs zydeco! CLEVELAND: Letâs go after it!)
Then the pair, backed by drummer Madison Guidry, launched into what would become Chenierâs signature piece, âZydeco Sont Pas SalĂ©.â On it, Chenier strips down his piano accordion and treats it like an old single-key button model, repeating notes of the same chord. Over this mighty rhythm he sings some lines about two mischievous dogs named Hip and TaĂŻaut that date back to a 1934 Cajun record by Joseph and Cleoma Falcon, âIls la volet mon trancasâ (âThey Stole My Sledâ); Joe Falcon once explained that he heard the tune from a Creole accordionist named Babineaux. Chenier couples the old song with the lines about the snap beans:
O Mama! Quoi elle va faire avec le nĂšgre?
Zydeco est pas salé, zydeco est pas salé.
Tâas volĂ© mon traĂźneau, tâas volĂ© mon traĂźneau.
Regarde Hip et TaĂŻaut, regarde Hip et TaĂŻaut.
Oh Mama! Whatâs she going to do with the man?
The snap beans arenât salty, the snap beans arenât salty.
You stole my sled, you stole my sled.
Look at Hip and TaĂŻaut, look at Hip and TaĂŻaut.
In Chenierâs âZydeco Sont Pas SalĂ©â â today considered the anthem of zydeco â the lines about the snap beans are reunited with the same beat heard on the Lomax recordings. The result still sounds more like a jurĂ© performance than anything ever recorded on the accordion, before or since.
What did Chenier have in mind when he made the song? It is highly doubtful that he had heard the Lomax tapes, which were not commercially available at the time. More likely, he had direct experiences with jurĂ© when he was growing up in the town of Port Barre, Louisiana. âThe beat came from the religion people,â he once told writer Alan Govenar, clapping his hands to demonstrate.
Creole fiddler Canray Fontenot provided more details when he recalled a conversation between the two musicians.
âClifton was the best on the accordion, and one day, me and Clifton was talking,â Fontenot said. âHe said, âSay, Canray, a long time ago, they used to have some jurĂ©.â He said, âDid you ever go at one of them things?â I said, âNo, Clifton, I never did.â Because they used to have that where they didnât have no musicians, but I was born where they had some musicians. What it was, them jurĂ©, they didnât have no music, but them old people would sit down, clap their hands, and make up a song. And they would dance on that, them people. Around Basile there, they didnât fool with nothing like that. I kept saying I wanted to go around Mamou and Ville Platte, where they used to have them jurĂ©.
âBut Cliftonâs daddy was an accordion player, and he said that his daddy played one of them jurĂ© songs, and they called that âZydeco est pas salĂ©.â Which means the snap beans donât have no salt in them. So Clifton says, âThat âZydeco est pas salĂ©â song is good, but the way Daddy played that, thatâs the wrong speed.â He says, âIâm going to take that same song, and Iâm going to put a different speed on it and them people are going to be able to dance that.â And he did, too. And when he started, everybody wanted to play the accordion, everybody wanted to play what Clifton played.â
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By the time Chenier recorded the zydeco anthem, the lines about snap beans had been circulating in Houstonâs âFrenchtownâ neighborhood, where people originally from Louisiana lived and danced. Four years earlier, Albert Chevalier and Sidney âBlindâ Babineaux both recorded their own songs with this phrase. âThatâs the real zydeco,â Babineaux, then in his eighties, told Arhoolie Records producer Chris Strachwitz. âThatâs been here since before I was born, too.â
Yet before anybody made a record about snap beans, zydeco â or les haricots â was a vegetable grown by black Creole farmers.
Snap beans were a spring crop; the harvests started each year around mid-June, and these were often community events. âA lot of times there would be music with the snap bean harvesting,â remembers Wilbert Guillory. âYou know, a snap bean is one of the crops that it would take much more labor than any other crop that you put up in the jar, because you would have to break each end, and then you had to pull the little string off. It was very labor-intensive, because your parents wanted them snapped uniformly.
âSo a lot of times the neighbors would go around each otherâs house and help,â Guillory continues. âThey would go to each other with a bucket, and harvest the snap bean, wash it, snap them, and can them. That was more in the later afternoon, mostly when you lay by your other crops. And in that case the music would be done when you were snapping the snap beans. In our community, it was my godfather, Willis Simien, Nolton Simienâs daddy. And while he was playing, we were snapping snap beans and shaking â but not dancing, because you didnât have much time to dance.â
The story of the snap beans next moves with the black Creoles to the Texas oil towns along the Gulf Coast. In 1901 the modern petroleum age in the United States began in a gusher of oil called Spindletop, near Beaumont, Texas. Starting almost immediately, and peaking through the years of World War II, black Creoles migrated to Texas in search of jobs, bringing along their accordions and French songs. In Houston the old spring crop was nostalgically evoked in music, and two songs recorded in Houston in the postwar era provide the first written documentation of the new soundâs name. One, made sometime between 1947 and 1950, is a tune called âZolo Go,â recorded by famed blues guitarist Lightninâ Hopkins at Bill Quinnâs Gold Star studio and released to area jukeboxes. Hopkins was cousin by marriage to Clifton Chenier, and Cleveland Chenier would regularly back him on rubboard; on âZolo Goâ Hopkins mimics Cliftonâs accordion with an electric organ, and introduces the song with a short explanation: âIâm going to zolo go a little while for you folks. You know, the young and old likes that.â
The song is clearly a novelty for the guitarist, who never again attempted the style, and it would be quickly eclipsed by a lively R&B/rumba tune by a guitarist from Welsh, Louisiana, named Clarence Garlow. His now classic âBon Ton Roulaâ landed in the R&B top-ten chart in February 1950. It recounted the story of âone smart Frenchmanâ who promises a tour of a âCreole town.â Garlow points out the âchurch bazaarâ and the âFrench la-la,â then he finishes by making immortal these directions:
You want to have fun, now you got to go
Way out in the country to the zydeco.
Garlow continued to explore these themes in his follow-up songs âNew Bon Ton Roulayâ and âHey Mr. Bon Ton,â both recorded in New Orleans in 1953. Also that year, he provided vivid country details in âJumping at the ...