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
evident as well -a pair of saddled horses tethered to one of the porch
three cr four aluminum john boats at the dock. People are coming, by
means available, to spend their Sunday after noon dancing with each
free trom the worries of a week that is now, undeniably, part of the
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
all ages and forms are shaking the wooden floor, creating waves in
wood like the wakes of the skiffs outside... You see a sign reading
2 Beers... $3.00, 3 Beers... $4.50, 4 Beers...
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
to a place of many welcomes, of come as y ou are or come as y ou would
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.
legendary dancehall and boat landing, magic happens on a regular basis.
Like all Southwest Louisiana clubs, the line between the stage and the
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
reaches a place far above the surrounding flatlands and
a musician looking into the crowd, the swirl of waltzers reveals a new
every few seconds. The dancers look to the stage as they pass, making
tact, flirting, laughing, taking false steps in jest or letting their
glide speak for itself. On the two-steps, the place revs up like an old
motor, chugging, burning blue smoke. Within a few beats the room is
not humming like a jet engine but pumping, sparking, pistons firing
recoiling. People dance on the floor, they dance on the stage, they climb on
bar and let their hips roll. By the end of the night, the interaction has
created something beyond the experiences we settle for.
love playing at Whiskey River. It is where our souls are nourished. We can
things there we can't do anywhere else and we get things there that we
anywhere else. It is our hope that this recording will, in some way,
people into the fold, allowing them to feel the magic they boil up at
every Sunday afternoon. It may be something that fills a void in our
it may be something unique and exotic. Whatever it is, it feels
mercifully, like home.
Powell, Balfa Toujours
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,"