Despite his renown, Clifton Chenier did not have an office, a secretary, or an answering service. He handled all of his own business, in classic old-school fashion, and he was very difficult to reach by phone. For a month or so I tried to catch him every couple of days, always unsuccessfully, and Chenier’s wife kept suggesting, “Why you don’t call back.” This south Louisiana syntax was jarring to a recent emigré, and I wondered whether she was actually asking me a question.

I finally talked to Chenier in person in New Orleans, and we agreed that I would come see him in Lafayette on the following Monday. At the appointed hour I went to his house on Magnolia Street, only to have his wife crack open the door and say, “Cliff ain’t here”—even though he was standing right behind her. Repeat performances of these machinations were followed by a formal postponement so that Chenier could get his hair done for the photos that would accompany the article. It was Friday afternoon before we finally sat down to talk in his living room.

Then came the question of money. Chenier wanted five hundred dollars to do the interview—a reasonable request, really, since the chances were slim that yet another magazine article would bring him any indirect income or enable him to raise his fees. I told him that I simply didn’t have it, and that Louisiana Life would not reimburse me. Chenier asked if I was getting paid to write the story, and I said yes. He paused, sizing me up, and then said, “Okay, go ahead. I just don’t like bullshit. People come here from all over the world, and they try to tell me they ain’t making no money.” “The king” proceeded to give me an articulate, expansive interview. His life story illuminated zydeco’s roots and its bright future. But when the cassette reached the end of side one, he wouldn’t let me flip it. “C’est tout,” he said. “That’s all. You got what you came for.”