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The
sun is setting over the cypress trees of the Atchafalaya Basin.
Vehicles are lined up along the levee
-pick-ups, Troopers, an old Crown Vic or two. Other methods of transportation
are
evident as well -a pair of saddled horses tethered to one of the porch
beams,
three cr four aluminum john boats at the dock. People are coming, by
whatever
means available, to spend their Sunday after noon dancing with each
other,
free trom the worries of a week that is now, undeniably, part of the
past.
Walking
inside trom the porch, the evidence of all this humanity envelopes you.
It is warm; the air is a thick liquid and the band is playing at full
tilt.
Dancers of
all ages and forms are shaking the wooden floor, creating waves in
the
wood like the wakes of the skiffs outside... You see a sign reading
"1
Beer... $1.50,
2 Beers... $3.00, 3 Beers... $4.50, 4 Beers...
$6.00..."
A sunburned man in a western shirt walks up next to y ou and orders a beer.
"I only have a dollar" he tells the bartender, a man with a dark mustache and
warm brown eyes, who proceeds to give him one at this price. As the first man
stumbles contentedly away, the bartender, Terry Angelle,
owner of this
incredible place, turns to y ou and says, "Pauvre bête, he's
been saying that all
night..."
Welcome
to a place of many welcomes, of come as y ou are or come as y ou would
like to
be -Angelle's Whiskey River Landing, where, on a Sunday after noon,
y ou can
let the good times roll all over y ou and still come up wanting more.
At this
legendary dancehall and boat landing, magic happens on a regular basis.
Like all Southwest Louisiana clubs, the line between the stage and the
crowd
is virtually
nonexistent. But at Whiskey River it goes beyond that; the band
watch es the
dancers at least as much as the dancers watch the band, and
together everyone
reaches a place far above the surrounding flatlands and
swamps.
For
a musician looking into the crowd, the swirl of waltzers reveals a new
picture
every few seconds. The dancers look to the stage as they pass, making
eye con
tact, flirting, laughing, taking false steps in jest or letting their
intimate
glide speak for itself. On the two-steps, the place revs up like an old
outboard
motor, chugging, burning blue smoke. Within a few beats the room is
throbbing;
not humming like a jet engine but pumping, sparking, pistons firing
and
recoiling. People dance on the floor, they dance on the stage, they climb on
the
bar and let their hips roll. By the end of the night, the interaction has
created something beyond the experiences we settle for.
We
love playing at Whiskey River. It is where our souls are nourished. We can
do
things there we can't do anywhere else and we get things there that we
don't get
anywhere else. It is our hope that this recording will, in some way,
bring more
people into the fold, allowing them to feel the magic they boil up at
Terry's
every Sunday afternoon. It may be something that fills a void in our
lives, or
it may be something unique and exotic. Whatever it is, it feels
unmistakably,
mercifully, like home.
Dirk
Powell, Balfa Toujours
Includes:
"La
chandelle est allumée," "Whiskey River Special," "La valse
des pins," "Le reel Frugé," "Le two-step de Bon Café,"
"The Tow Truck
Blues," "Mon vieux wagon," "La valse de
Bélizaire," "Le two-step de
Platin," "Casse pas ma tête,"
"Frank DuPuis a pris ma femme," "Tu peux
cogner mais tu peux pas rentrer," "C'est tout perdu," "Keep Your Hands
Off Of It,"
"Chez Geno"
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