Ryan Brasseaux: Fabricating Content

Just out is Accordions, Fiddles, Two Step and Swing, A Cajun Music Reader, a book of essays put together by Ryan Brasseaux and Kevin Fontenot. Brasseaux is the son of the great historian Dr. Carl Brasseaux. The book has an essay on my band in a chapter called Fabricating Authenticity: The Cajun Renaissance and Steve Riley & The Mamou Playboys.

I have some problems with this essay. My first one is the title. Brasseaux’s language throughout is academese, but the word “fabricating” is not. Academia be damned, it’s an insult. My second is the bringing to the fore the entire issue of authenticity.

The title is provocative in that it’s provoking me to write. The contents are some difficult or mangled sentences trying to support an issue that no one cares about. I hear the words begging for the peer review they apparently never got. The following is not intended as any such review, because it’s to late – the essay is in print, and for sale – and because I’m not Brasseaux’s peer. I’m his subject.

Let’s get this straight. Many people living and dead are mentioned in this piece and I won’t speak for most, but between the members of the band and Brasseaux, the only person who really cares about the issue of “authenticity” as it relates to Cajun music is the author. The thing he needs to get straight here is this:

We are a band that plays a lot of traditional Cajun music. Authenticity has nothing to do with it.

We’re a band that, in Brasseaux’s erroneous words, has transcended the regional dancehall circuit. That is false. We play them once a week on average. He contends that, since we all grew up speaking English, we are more authentic when including that language – and other things embraced by it – in the repertoire. I have no problem with using English, but I contend that when it doesn’t sound good or right, the musical or conceptual decision to exclude it easily trumps his personal issue of authenticity. Musicians who play for a living will make subjective decisions like deciding what’s good or right, such as playing old French songs using the authentic French lyrics, and writing newer French (and a few English) songs. Young academics who don’t play for a living will decide to make something like authenticity an issue so they can have something to say at the party. Brasseaux has nothing to say, yet his title is a direct attack on us. I contend that in lieu of depth of thought, he attacked us to make a name for himself. In order to do that, he had to find a flaw in our creative choices. In order to do that, he had to invent an issue.

Brasseaux implies that the band was under the sway of Rasputin-like “cultural middle men” and their agendas. Unfortunately, he wasn’t there when they called us to their meetings. He says (all italics mine) that “up to the 1997 release Friday at Last, Barry Ancelet played a key role in guiding the band through their formative years.” I’ll tell you what Dr. Ancelet did. He helped with the French, wrote liner notes, suggested material from the UL archives, and enjoyed the band. As for guidance, well, I wasn’t there until after the Happy Town album, but I know this band, and it does what it feels like doing. And having known Ancelet since the first grade, I can safely say that he is a man who shares his passions, and there’s no other way to characterize his wide contributions. RB’s next sentence is “His absence in the Bayou Ruler liner notes clearly indicated a riff between the rigid constraints of Renaissance ideologies and the late twentieth-century artistic yearnings of a south Louisiana band.” That’s right, a “riff,” which, in musical terms, is a lick’s sister, but that’s not what bothers me. It’s the words “clearly indicated.” Here, Brasseaux is talking out his ass, such talk being “clearly” discouraged by academia. His lazy assumption is either careless or misinformed, as is the word “guidance;” in academic terms, his statements “clearly” resemble those concerning history that lack paper trails. Since he’s assuming “riffs,” I’ll assume that he’s an ambitious opportunist who fervently needed something for his book, but had nothing to say. So he hoisted this authenticity non-issue up his pole. The non-issue is a flagging one, lacking the “wind” of attention.

Regarding my band, Brasseaux writes that we “stand at the point of impact where the Cajun Renaissance’s interpretation of authenticity and America’s vision of traditional music collide. This study raises questions about a neglected issue currently facing young Anglophone Cajuns – the criteria of authenticity during the post-modern era – as viewed through the career and music of” us. If the Renaissance has such an interpretation of the music, I don’t know about it (but it obviously is opposed to Brasseaux’s). If they do, then his essay should have been about them. He speaks of the Cajun French Music Association as one of the bulwarks of the Renaissance; maybe they have such an interpretation, but I neither know about it nor would I pay attention if they did. We are a band that does what it wants, and they are an organized dance group that likes a lot of the bands we’ve spawned. As to the Renaissance, my sister is married to the president of CODOFIL, and the subject of our authenticity never comes up; you could say that the issue is indeed neglected. CODIFIL is concerned with shoring up our French identity so it won’t be so quickly overrun, Sahara-like, by a dry and homogenizing American culture. Maybe they shake their heads during our course adjustments, I don’t know, but they seem happy that we exist. But they’re busy, and our authenticity, or any band’s, is a “neglected issue” for a reason: more pressing concerns. Some of us in the “Renaissance” would like the area to be more than Gap malls and convenience stores near the interstate.

Certainly people talk about us – I’ve heard that they think we’re rich! – but the only relevant disapproval I’ve encountered came from the local audience, our bread and butter whom we’ve allegedly transcended. A dancer once told us, “You see those old ladies back there? They can’t dance to that garbage y’all playing.” Another old boy told me, “When you play the old songs, there’s nobody better. But that other stuff y’all doing? That’s trash.” His name is Arnold and I saw him last night in a dancehall we’ve transcended; he was on the floor while I was floating a few feet above it. You want authenticity? The “neglected issue” of authenticity?

The reason that authenticity is a “neglected issue” is because nobody gives a shit, Ryan.

They want music they can recognize and dance to.

That put us in a bind. How are we to be creative? First, we assumed that it was possible. Where do we start?

With respect for the tradition. Those old people thought that we were being self-indulgent, misguided and, by extension, a little disrespectful to them. We still try to accommodate their wishes, but we decided to reserve most of our respect for tradition.

There. Our process was finished. Let’s do what we want, with respect for traditional Cajun music. Did we wonder if we were being authentic? No. Didn’t have to. Maybe we sat around drunk one night and talked about our “authenticity,” but we probably looked at each other, pointed our fingers at each other and said, “You’re a Cajun!” Then one of us said, “Look, whether we’re authentic or not isn’t for us to decide. We have scholars for that.” “And students of scholars,” someone added sagely.

Here’s what we do, and please tell me whether or not our process is authentic:

First, we try to play well, as defined by us. Often we play old songs in a way that sounds better – to some people – than the originals. We certainly don’t always think that’s the case.

Second, regarding the repertoire, the band has written and recorded adventurous songs – a few in English – but looking back, decided that a some of them weren’t smashing – and the English wasn’t the main reason. The band originally did those songs because it liked them (always a profound reason), and it also wanted to catch the attention of people in the band’s age group or younger who might not otherwise listen to traditional Cajun music (something that younger bands accomplish by being younger). Then we made the album Bon Rêve, which was nominated for a Grammy award in the traditional folk category, but it isn’t so terribly traditional. True, there are no English songs; the band didn’t want any at the time. This wasn’t so much a return to roots as it was a document of where we were then and what we liked – that profound reasoning again. A more traditional recording wouldn’t have been so electric. The next record, Domino, was again perceived as a return to tradition. Fine, so it was, sort of. That record contains a little English, by the way, courtesy of me.

We do what we want while trying to be respectful of tradition. And part of the Cajun musical tradition is experimenting. The old guys did it. My personal criteria is this: if those old boys were young and frisky again and I gave them each a fuzztone, would they plug them in? I’ll be damned if a good many of them wouldn’t. They used electric guitars, steel guitars, drums and bass; they imported whatever they wanted and absorbed it in the same way that spouses from outside the area were absorbed into the culture. They weren’t concerned with authenticity. Many old musicians could barely speak English, yet they sang a few songs in that language.

Brasseaux again: “Like academic theory, authenticity is a philosophical construct used to comprehend cultural phenomena.” Okay, it encourages dialogue. That’s all well and good, but the title of his chapter on us is “Fabricating Authenticity.” That pisses me off, because he’s indicating that our creative process, our conceptual thinking, is untrue to the primarily English-speaking, urbanized Cajun children of the fifties, sixties and seventies that we are. Furthermore, Brasseaux is posing a question that nobody asked, which is fair, but has promoted his answer in an academic setting and for academic gain. And his answer is that we fabricate our authenticity, which he defines as a “philosophical construct” to comprehend something academically. Step away from the construct, Ryan. Authenticity is something we don’t care about, because we’re too busy having respectful fun with the music we heard as children.

And doing it with more school room sweat than some people put out to get through Yale. Brasseaux is fabricating content for an essay.

Here is Brasseaux’s second-to-last paragraph in the chapter:

“Like academic theory, authenticity is a philosophical construct used to comprehend cultural phenomena. However, the synthetic and heterogenous nature of Cajun culture and musical expression complicates any notion fabricated by scholars and activists in Louisiana, particularly as the community’s realities perpetually fluctuate. The socio-economic, cultural, and linguistic factors that inform and shape the Cajun experience evolved dramatically over the course of the twentieth century. As sociologists Jacques Henry and Carl Bankston note, “Many of the Cajuns’s social structures and practices came to be indistinguishable from those other Louisianians, and from those of other Americans.” The shifting cultural climate brought new implications for the Cajuns. Musical expression in the post-modern period took on new meaning particularly as the linguistic foundation of the community shifted and French became increasingly rare. Young English-speaking Cajun bands, who perform old and new material in a second language, clearly indicate how Cajun French music has drifted from the late nineteenth-early twentieth century’s mainstream form of cultural expression to a more marginalized cultural arena within the context of a new millenium. A dialogue between the increasingly self-conscious Cajun French music tradition and mainstream popular culture has produced a sort of multifaceted, post-modern cultural hybrid, which, like the song selection of a jukebox, comes in a variety of local and imported sonic textures or emotions. While commercialization implanted Cajun music into the American consciousness as a unique form of indigenous artistic expression, this form of modernization also transformed radically the historic contexts that once informed the very nature of the traditional. Cajun music, then, is a legitimate article of consumption with great entertainment value both within and beyond the boundaries of south Louisiana.”

Here is the same paragraph followed by my reconstructions, which I had to do for myself in order to understand its content.

Like academic theory, authenticity is a philosophical construct used to comprehend cultural phenomena. Like my chosen profession, authenticity is a measuring tool. However, the synthetic and heterogenous nature of Cajun culture and musical expression complicates any notion fabricated by scholars and activists in Louisiana, particularly as the community’s realities perpetually fluctuate. Things get added on to us from outside, changing us, making it tough for anyone with a stake in the culture to invent “notions” about it, especially since there’s change. (Like maybe the somewhat suicidal notion of authenticity?) The socio-economic, cultural, and linguistic factors that inform and shape the Cajun experience evolved dramatically over the course of the twentieth century. Cajun evolution was dramatic in the last century. (Fine; perhaps some evolutions are not.) As sociologists Jacques Henry and Carl Bankston note, “Many of the Cajuns’s social structures and practices came to be indistinguishable from those other Louisianians, and from those of other Americans.” Two guys who already have their Ph.Ds said that we came to build our society and behaviors like regular Americans. (This is only interesting because of how long it took for that to happen, which says something about how we value our traditions.) The shifting cultural climate brought new implications for the Cajuns. Here he’s saying the previous stuff meant something. Musical expression in the post-modern period took on new meaning particularly as the linguistic foundation of the community shifted and French became increasingly rare. Okay, the disappearing French language in the area meant something regarding the music – winds of change and such. Young English-speaking Cajun bands, who perform old and new material in a second language, clearly indicate how Cajun French music has drifted from the late nineteenth-early twentieth century’s mainstream form of cultural expression to a more marginalized cultural arena within the context of a new millenium. Okay, if you’re singing in french you’re so obviously performing a cultural artifact; you’re a tourist band for the locals. A dialogue between the increasingly self-conscious Cajun French music tradition and mainstream popular culture has produced a sort of multifaceted, post-modern cultural hybrid, which, like the song selection of a jukebox, comes in a variety of local and imported sonic textures or emotions. Born English-speakers perceived the irony of singing in French, so they included modern influences, including a lot of English lyrics so they can be understood. While commercialization implanted Cajun music into the American consciousness as a unique form of indigenous artistic expression, this form of modernization also transformed radically the historic contexts that once informed the very nature of the traditional. Cajun music spread outside of Cajun country which changed the music. Or – given what really goes on – you can view that sentence like this: Since the musicians can earn money playing for English speakers who’ve been conditioned to like Cajun music or at least recognize it, a Cajun-ish band can cherrypick songs about Cajun character that any party crowd will understand. Cajun music, then, is a legitimate article of consumption with great entertainment value both within and beyond the boundaries of south Louisiana. This is an odd way to end. Here is the sentence on its surface:

Therefore, Cajun music is real, and can be heard and enjoyed anywhere.

I don’t get it either. But if you consider his assumption that including more English makes it more authentic, here’s what he’s saying:

Therefore, now that they’re including some English, the bands who play Cajun music are recognized to be worthy – by me, since this is my essay – to play it anywhere.

Here is a an even more linguistically reductive version of that paragraph. My language is not slanted, rather it is “informed” by Brasseaux’s agenda, the way he slanted history through implication and academic shadows to abuse the common-as-dirt musical evolution of my band:

“Authenticity is some kind of measuring analogy. But, since things don’t stay the same, it’s hard for anyone, myself included, to use measuring analogies. Change for Cajuns contained drama. Some people who write books said that we started to act like Americans. This change implied new things. Now, looking back at it, regarding music, the disappearing French meant something. That local Cajun musicians speak mostly English means that these days French lyrics seem quaint. The musicians looked at themselves and their music, then at all the shiny new stuff, combined what they saw, and now it’s all mixed up; they’re no longer impenetrable to their fans; more English equals less impenetrability. Yeah, the music spread far, which changed it – it made them change it. Thus, according to me, it has worth, and can be heard and enjoyed anywhere.”

He's saying that adapting the music to modern America legitimized and validated it as being authentic in a cultural sense – you're not authentic unless you adapt in this way. (his last paragraph asserts this.) I can’t make any sense out of this given that my band was heard across state lines for years before any such change was evident within it’s repertoire. Also, I can’t see how an adaptation of his agenda wouldn’t help the homogenizing influence of American pop culture finish its job early. Such cultural assimilations are rarely stopped, and the end result would be a fusion. An analogous example would be a country song about a girl with dark skin and a latin temper, and the producers would hire some trumpet players to imitate a Mexican car commercial. We already have a very prevalent version of that in modern Cajun music.

Before I present Brasseaux’s last paragraph, it’s time I said something I’ve been holding back: I don’t have much of a problem with his basic premise, which I will paraphrase the way he should have said it. I also believe that if you’re a Cajun, either by blood or assimilation, and you play in a band that presents mostly Cajun French, anything you do short of quoting largely from unrelated musics becomes part of the Cajun repertoire if other Cajuns allow it. I know that’s true because that’s what happened historically. Brasseaux has couched this admitedly arguable fact in terms of authenticity, which is a false measurement due to the fact that no one who ever played Cajun music cared about being authentic. It’s a scale used to promote what you like – or to help you decide what you like, and I pity you in that case – and to call those who don’t measure up fakers. No, the true measurement of worth is acceptance – the real authenticity. It’s the audience.

I don’t like being called a fabricator of authenticity. It’s an empty insult, but an insult nonetheless.

Here is his last paragraph.

“Today, young musicians apply a new meaning to French material that is informed by both the historic implications interwoven into themes, motifs, lyrical components of French songs, fragments of the tradition, technology and the post-modern context surrounding a Cajun artist’s contemporary experience. Youthful French expression in south Louisiana is veiled by a cloak of authenticity. Budding Cajun musicians are betweixt the English-speaking world they comfrotably engage everyday and a body of French compositions that harkens to the ephemeral traces of Francophone Louisiana lingering in the community’s collective memory. Their French musical expression, however is not representative of south Louisiana’s mainstream linguistic landscape. As David Greely laments in his composition “Entre l’amour et l’avenir” (Between Love and the Future), the Mamou Playboys are sitting on the edge of post-modernity, somewhere between their love for the music, language, the legacy of the past and the new horizons calling south Louisiana communities into the twenty-first century.”

Here is my reconstruction with comments:

Today, young musicians play songs that are both like the old songs and have new stuff in them from our modern life.

Brasseaux’s sentence is complicated by the word “both” and the placement of the word “and,” which must follow. And why is the word “technology” before the critical “and”? That sentence, like the entire paragraph before it, is an absolute grind begging for an editor, who, according to the book’s cover, was either Kevin Fontenot or Brasseaux himself. If I can’t order a sentence, I can’t very well claim to order my thoughts, can I? And if I must write in the qualifying, clarifying language of academia ...

Youthful French expressions – like Cajun music – are obscured or confused by a claim of authenticity.

Some youths out there are wearing that cloak, claiming to be authentic. I don’t know who, but since the essay is about us, apparently it’s us.

Young Cajun musicians are stuck between our modern Anglicized world and the old Cajun songs that couldn’t know anything about it.

Fine. He didn’t say “stuck,” but he’s implying that to stand at this place between the old and the new poses a dilemma. I haven’t felt dilemmic.

The way they play, however, doesn’t mirror the world they live in, because that world uses English.

Therefore, goes the implication, it’s inauthentic. That’s the thrust of Brasseaux’s essay in a nutshell – it’s only authentic if there’s a good bit of English – and it’s crap. It’s crap for a few reasons. It is musical and historical ignorance of the highest order posing as academic theory, a thing much less important than expressive artistic passion. (Those who can’t do, publish about doing.) And it’s less important than an attempt to preserve parts of a culture threatened with extinction of everything but family names. To shore up his argument in this paragraph, he quotes Greely earlier in the essay saying that “it frustrates me a little bit” when the audience doesn’t know what we’re singing. Yes, it’s a little bit frustrating. So when Greely wants an audience to know, he tells them. Greely, Riley and I all do that. What Brasseaux doesn’t understand is that we’re playing traditional music that we love, and we don’t feel like changing it to the drastic degree necessary in order for the audience to get the words. It wouldn’t sound or feel right, so we choose the less invasive route of explaining a song before we sing it, and that’s a musical decision as well as one based on respect for a tradition as well as an audience. That respect trumps a mirroring of modern culture through musical surgery. Also, as a career musician who has played a lot of crap to survive, I’ll tell you that it’s indeed a fine, fine thing to play a music that does not reflect anything mainstream – practically no one reading this knows how fine a thing that is, particularly the proponent of such conscious reflection.

Greely said as much in his song; here’s his lyric.

David Greely said (in translation), “Between yesterday and today, between love and the future ...” It’s fair for Brasseaux to use the only lines in the song that could be spun into his argument; “spin” is of the postmodern age, and is a favored tool of the politicians who are giving us the government we deserve. I’m sure it took him a devil of a time to find something prêt á porter. (I understand if he had to overlook a lyric of mine in which an Acadian ghost says, “I am there on your tongue when you sing.”) Greely, however, did not agree with Brasseaux’s argument about authenticity. It was a normal day for him when Brasseaux’s essay appeared, a day of getting his fingers in the dirt and playing the music he loves – like he’s been doing for twenty-one years or so, near the same length of time that Brasseaux has been alive. He might have also been tinkering with the music, just like his teachers, masters all, did. He might have been writing French lyrics.

Anyone who thinks that’s a fabrication can kiss my ass.