A Regular Weekend in Louisiana
The Acadienne Festival, Plaquemine, Louisiana
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Many natives of this state consider dancing a form of weekend life maintenance, on the same list as mowing lawns, doing laundry, or food shopping. In a southwest Louisiana weekend, you can find places to dance morning, noon, and night. After the morning shift of zydeco with Leroy Thomas and The Zydeco Cowboys at the Café des Amis, we were just getting warmed up.
Floyd Brown, a good ol’ boy who can sing the daylights out of swamp pop and blues was performing at the Acadienne Festival in Plaquemine.
My traveling companion remembers listening to him in Baton Rouge back in the 70s. There was no way she could pass up listening - and dancing - to his music today.
Once off I -10, the drive to rural Plaquemine was pure Louisiana. Bayou Grosse Tete, meandering south, appeared on our left through stands of trees. Long stretches of the two lane road were wooded and undeveloped. Every so often, a 25 mph sign appeared, followed by a stretch of single-family homes. Pickup trucks, sedans, and the occasional motorboat and trailer were parked in the yards. Acres of tall, lush, green sugarcane swayed gently in the soft afternoon breeze.
The festival fairgrounds were surprisingly sparsely populated when we arrived around 2 PM. Most of the kids had pulled their moms and dads over to the carnival ride area. An open air shed was filled with the usual tables selling crafts, clothing, costume jewelry. Tents offering jambalaya, gumbo, fried fish, actually fried everything, dotted the field, and there on a covered flatbed stage was Floyd and his tight band playing a great set of swamp pop, country swing, and smoky blues.
Against every stereotype I have of Louisiana, no one, not one couple, was dancing to Floyd’s totally awesome music. Thus, my travel companion and I became the afternoon’s entertainment for Floyd and his band and for the smattering of listeners on a tiny set of bleachers about 50 yards away.
“Let’s hear it for the best couple on the dance floor, “ Floyd said. And a second time with more animation when my dance partner told him she adored listening to him when she was younger and we’d traipsed all the way from Boston to hear him play.
While roaming the fairgrounds during a set break, I spotted a fellow whose attire and demeanor set him apart from everyone else.
If central casting wanted to pluck a character to represent rural Louisiana, they could do no better than choose - Chester “they call me Cat Man” Landry.
I spotted him when I headed for a portapottie along the edge of the fairground. His round face, etched by years in the sun and with pores that could hold rainwater, had a day’s growth of grayish stubble. Dressed in a floppy hunter’s cap, overalls, and a faded green shirt, he was surveying the scene with an observant eye. Born and raised in Plaquemine, he lives down the road by himself with a few cats. “I work for the K of C,” he says, “and I take care of all the portable toilets at every event they put on. They do water shows right up there on the river, Bayou Gros Tete,” he says.
I have to ask him to repeat just about everything he says. Between a bayou accent thick as molasses and more than a few missing teeth, it’s a challenge to understand him.
“I got a girl friend,” he says when I ask him where he lives, “ but like some dogs they’re hard to train,” he adds, “so I change ‘em around every once in a while.” To my astonishment, this is corroborated by a short feature I find later online that a local tv station has made about Chester.
“I work to make money for the honey,” Chester says. “That’s the title of a song I have on a CD I made called ‘Me, Catman, and Jam’.” At least I think that’s what he said. He gave me his home address so I can send him the photo of us. Maybe I’ll ask him to swap me the photo for that CD. Stay tuned.
Aside from a superb bowl of jambalaya and Floyd’s great band, the coolest part of the afternoon here was meeting a genuine character like Chester. Pure country, refreshingly un-PC and honest as the day is long. Chester is a part of Louisiana I’ve rarely encountered. I’d love to spend time talking with more people like Chester, an unvarnished, authentic bayou character. I’d like to talk to him about the rhythms of life in the country, what matters to him, and what he thinks of America from his place down in Plaquemine. Today, however, we’re on a schedule.
On the ride to our next destination, Whiskey River Landing in Henderson, my travel companion’s phone rings. “Are you down in Plaquemine?” a friend of hers from Lake Charles asked. “Sonia says she thinks she just saw you dancing down there. She said you were fabulous!” I guess we were the best couple on the dance floor (grass).
Bonsoir Catin, an all female band, is on the bill for 4:00 PM and Corey Ledet at 6:00 PM. The levee is usually packed with pickups trucks, cars and the occasional RV, but this Saturday afternoon the place is nearly deserted. Whiskey River Landing is normally open only on Sundays - the advertising for this Saturday fundraiser for restoring the wetlands has been lousy. But there are some die-hard dancers on the floor and they’re all out there every damn song.
By 6:00, we’ve had about six hours of dancing on hardwood floors and prairie grass. Time to head back to Baton Rouge. Jump in the car, dial up KBON 101.1 FM “Louisiana Proud,” broadcasting from Eunice and bomb down I-10. We boogie along with their fabulous playlist till we lose the signal about twenty minutes from home base.
Wonder where we’ll dance tomorrow...
It's early. The fairground will be jumping in an hour or two.
Local businesses usually sponsor festivals and concerts...
and the best dancers on the grass today have to have a photo opp with Floyd.
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