Allons danser de zydeco, churrens.
CJ makes that beautiful Stradella-Musette squeezebox all but talk, don’t he? Good, good stuff. If this next selection doesn’t bring a tear to your eye, better check yourself for a pulse immediately—because you probably aint’ got one.
Time for a little backstory on CJ and the Red Hots, I believe: CJ Chenier is the rebel son of legendary zydeco musician Clifton Chenier, whose Red Hot Louisiana Band CJ kept alive upon the old man’s demise, after casting off his own deep uncertainty regarding whether he could, or even should, assume his father’s role. In fact, the above video is taken from a show commemorating Papa Clifton ’s 100th birthday, featuring several extraordinary accordionists in addition to Chenier fils.
As Fate would have it, I have a little history with CJ and the Red Hots my own self. Back in my glorious NYC days, the Red Hots were scheduled to play the long-gone Tramps concert hall one night. The venue’s owner (Terry Dunne), knowing what a big fan of CJ Chenier I was, telephoned to inform me that I needed to haul some serious ass down to his joint for sound check, so’s he could introduce me to dem Ragin’ Cajuns.
So of course I did that thing. The band’s lineup was more or less the same as in the Austin City Limits vid up top, excepting the drummer. Offsetting this somewhat disappointing absence, Red Hots rhythm guitar/triangle virtuoso Harry Hippolite was present and accounted for, which saved the day from being a near-wipeout pour moi.
In the end, Harry, CJ, lead guitarist Rodney Bartholomew—hell, the whole lot—turned oout to be some of the nicest, friendliest, most easygoing folks you could ever hope to meet, and I consider myself blessed indeed to have made their acquaintance on that frabjous day. No oversize egos; no pretention; no falsity; no attempt to deride, belittle, or antagonize; no throwing around of (nonexistent) weight—just genuine, regular down-home folks who are glad and grateful to be wherever they are, and likewise glad to have you are there with ’em.
After kicking back with the fellas and chit-chatting about the kind of things salty old road dogs tend to talk sbout when they get together—dive bars, loose women, incompetent sound men, the chronic diarrhea brought on by a succession of greasy, grab-it-n-gobble-it meals day after day after day—Harry sidled up quietly to ask a question of me: as a resident of NYC, perhaps I might know where a guy could score himself a little weed?
Now it just so happened that at that time I was co-bartending every Friday night with this babe-a-iicious half-Thai chick who just so happened to be slinging some of the most ass-kicking skunk EVAR. So I went upstairs, made a quick phone call, and a deal was made. I semi-speed-walked sixteen blocks downtown and a cpl-three east of Tramps’ West 21st Street location, picked up the goods, walked back to Tramps, and voila! Just that quick and easy, the deed was done.
Back inside the quiet, near-deserted main room of Tramps, I nabbed a complimentary Tanqueray and tonic and lingered at the bar for a pleasant interlude confabbing with the fresh-off-the-boat fair Colleen behind the stick, Katherine by name, with whom I’d gotten very chummy in the course of my own many Tramps gigs.
Katherine closed our too-brief tête à tête with a lively but demure kiss (a seeming impossibillity I’ve never before or since known any woman to do) and merrily shooed me off to someplace else, saying she had a whole lot of work to do and not a whole lot of time in which to do it, so I headed back down to the Green Room to deliver my precious cargo. Harry nabbed the bag from my hand, twisted a tight, slender pin-joint, and sparked up. Everyone huddled up in a shoulder-to-shoulder circle and passed Harry’s handiwork around.
I mean, we fumigated the space with a sweet-smelling cloud of ganja smoke in short order! As the happy-stick made its appointed rounds, CJ gratefully assured me that henceforth I would have a guar-on-teed spot on the guest list, including a plus-one of my choosing, for any Red Hots performance I cared to attend, anywhere. Also, the promised guest-list spot had no expirstion date, would be a forever kind of thing. Taken aback by such unexpected generosity, I clasped CJ’s big hand and shook it heartily, which heartfelt yet insufficient gesture he double-trumped when he threw an arm around my shoulders and pulled me into a powerful bear-hug.
Good music; good friends; a righteous buzz; an impromptu private bash thrown in a large, well-kept dressing room; a comely young Irish lass who’d long since made it abundantly clear to me that she could be had mere steps away—I ask you, what more could a guy ask for?
Now if that ain’t a happy ending, I don’t know what would be.
PS: I felt it necessary to do this post because of BCE’s account of his recent N’Awliins adventure, for the edification (hopefully) of one of the commenters over there.
* No-Tell Motel, this would be; my smoking-hot fellow barkeep would on occasion bake a big batch of loco weed-spiked brownies to plate up and set out on the bar for Those Who Know to avail themselves of—which is how it came to pass that I got famed teetotaler Glenn Danzig stoned out of his gourd one fine Friday night, a hy-larious true-life tale I’m pretty sure I told here some years back
- Entries
I always loved N’Orleans music and in the late 90s is when I first heard about Zydeco when Buckwheat Zydeco started getting some airplay on WNEW with a cover of The Stones’ Beast of Burden.
Some Best of Zydeco also brought Chenier to my attention.
Then there’s the Kershaw brothers doing Cajun.
Tab Benoit is also recommended, but he’s more swampy bluesy