Come Saturday night those lots fill quickly, however, and many patrons must park a half-mile down the highway. It’s well worth the walk for the rollicking scene that awaits inside. Against a backdrop of low ceilings, plain plank floors, and year-round Christmas lights, the mood rises to fever pitch as zydeco bands play marathon four-hour sets. These groups are led by an accordionist, who is apt to incite the crowd by playing on his knees, behind his back, or even on the floor, limbo-style—a move which inspires shouts of “fais ’tention!” (“watch out, now!”) and “go ahead on!” Then the accordionist “breaks it down,” playing a frenzied double-time solo accompanied only by the drums and a “rubboard.” Tireless couples dance on to sweaty euphoria, because zydeco rivals oil as Louisiana’s most potent source of energy.

Through most of the twentieth century such fervor unfolded as part of a self-contained community tradition—first at private “house parties” and then at local dance halls during the decades that followed World War II. By the early 1960s, zydeco’s popularity had plummeted. Dismissed as “old folks’ music,” it was scorned as hopelessly passé and embarrassingly ethnic in an era of rigid conformity. Zealots such as the late Clifton Chenier, zydeco’s single most important artist, kept the music alive during this lean period. Chenier was supported by a core of loyal followers at home and by enclaves of expatriate Louisianans in Texas and California. Even so, these were tough times for musicians who played the accordion and sang in French.

Some twenty years later, Louisiana’s cultural climate had changed completely. Diversity had become acceptable, if not downright chic, as had personal exploration of ethnic roots and heritage. This boded well for traditional music, and three zydeco artists won Grammy awards in quick succession—California’s Queen Ida in 1982, Clifton Chenier in 1984, and Rockin’ Sidney in 1986. Spurred by these and other mainstream affirmations, zydeco’s exciting sound leapt into public consciousness. Today, on the brink of the millennium, zydeco is routinely featured in national television commercials, on motion picture sound tracks, and at live performances around the world. The Internet hosts numerous zydeco Web sites where nuggets of information about musicians, performances, dance steps, and new albums are instantly and avidly disseminated. Homegrown zydeco events that once drew only local crowds now bring in throngs of tourists, while a network of clubs and festivals offers steady employment for zydeco bands on tour.

The word “zydeco” has also taken on expanded associations. Now considered a symbol of dynamism, the term appears on restaurant menus, as the name of an oil-and-gas exploration company, and on products as diverse as computer software and tandem bicycles. Most significantly, zydeco—which came perilously close to extinction—has reemerged as the music of choice for young people within its community of origin. At zydeco shrines such as Slim’s Y-Ki-Ki in Opelousas, the Dauphine Club in Parks, and Richard’s (pronounced REE-shard’s) in Lawtell, the dance floor is packed with couples of all ages, leaving no room for thoughts of a generation gap. Once taken for granted or shunned, southwest Louisiana’s unique ethnicity now inspires pride, celebration, and unity.

The photographs, commentary, and oral history that appear in Zydeco! were gathered during this heady time of transformation. Before then, this work might never have been commissioned. But despite the far-flung reaches of zydeco’s ever-expanding domain, southwest Louisiana is still the wellspring for such vital music. In this book, Rick Olivier and I focus on the home front—the complex regional culture that forged zydeco—and look at the changes that continue to influence the music’s evolution. Since oral tradition has always fueled zydeco’s development, its practitioners and participants speak at length here in their own words.

Zydeco (pronounced ZY-duh-coe) is the exuberant dance music of southwest Louisiana’s black Creoles. Stylistically, it is a rich hybrid, with a core of Afro-Caribbean rhythms, blues, and Cajun music (zydeco’s white counterpart), and a wealth of other elements that may vary widely from band to band. Traditionally, zydeco is sung in French, and its lyrics are often improvised. It is absolutely not intended for passive listening. As Clifton Chenier stated, “If you know how to dance, then you can dance behind someone beating on an old gallon bucket. But if you can’t dance to zydeco, you can’t dance, period.”

The word “zydeco” is often explained as an elision of the French phrase “les haricots” (pronounced lay-ZAH-ree-coe). The phrase “les haricots sont pas salés” appears frequently in black Creole folk music. Literally translated “the snapbeans are not salty,” it is also a metaphor for times so hard that people cannot afford salt pork to season their food. Heard in many traditional songs, this phrase gradually generated several separate yet related meanings: the title of a song, “Zydeco sont pas salés”; the name of the musical genre represented by that song; the social gatherings where such music was played; and the dance steps and the act of dancing that the music inspired. These overlapping definitions can be perplexing, and journalist Susan Orlean astutely pointed out that “[i]n theory, this meant you could zydeco to zydeco at the zydeco.” In this book, however, “zydeco” refers specifically to music.