Beau Jocque

Author of the Louisiana music book The Kingdom of Zydeco, Indiana native Michael Tisserand first moved to New Orleans in 1983 as a college dropout who wanted to see Mardi Gras.
Michael continued to live off and on in New Orleans for the next two decades; he most recently moved with his family to the city in 1998 and became editor of Gambit Weekly, the city's alternative newsweekly.
© 2005 WebMD Inc. All rights reserved

This article, written by Michael Tisserand, seems to really be heartfelt.

By Michael Tisserand The problem was size. When
writing about Beau Jocque, describing his enormity was the main
challenge. He "straddles center stage like a Colossus, spreading his
long legs so his 6-foot-6 frame can fit under Richards Club's low
ceiling," I attempted in the 1993 liner notes to Beau Jocque Boogie,
the first of Beau Jocques five albums for Rounder. "He bellows in the
kind of voice you might find at the top of a beanstalk," went a later
effort. Beau Jocque was big. Once, on a drive in south Louisiana, he
stopped to look for a leather jacket. Most of what was on the rack
barely fit around his arm. Another time, I joined him in Canal Place,
looking for shoes. We visited store after store until finally finding a
single pair that fit. On stage, the accordion seemed like a tiny sponge
in his massive hands. When he opened his mouth to sing, he evoked the
equally sizable Howlin Wolf as a blues influence, and he married his
vocal style with rap, funk and classic rock styles from War and ZZ Top,
achieving a big sound with loud volume and long solos that led to
exhausting dances. Starting in the early 90s, his impact in south
Louisiana eclipsed everything that had come before. Trucks parked for
miles up and down the highway outside Richard's Club. Hamilton's Place
in Lafayette had to move the cows from a nearby field to make more room
for cars. His biggest song, Give Him Cornbread, was everywhere; people
used to drive past his house in Kinder, car windows open, radio
blaring, bass thumping, Cornbread screaming. Beau Jocque never truly
made it big in the world of popular music, but he did appear on David
Letterman's and Conan O'Brien's shows, and his records outsold most
zydeco releases. These indicators of success, however, seem like small
change now, as does the fact that I have never experienced music and
dancing like I did with Beau Jocque's music, and that if I wanted to
turn someone on to zydeco, I always just gave them Beau Jocque Boogie
and it blew their mind. Now, the biggest thing in south Louisiana is
that Beau Jocque is gone. "You're going to look in there," promises
Gabriel "Pandy" Perrodin Jr., "and you're going to miss that big man in
the middle." TV camera lights glance off Perrodin's yellow sunglasses.
It's Thursday 
morning, Sept. 16, and beside him, three of the remaining Zydeco
Hi-Rollers guitarist Perrodin, bass player Chuck Bush and rubboard
player Wilfred "Caveman" Pierre are standing on the walk to St. Phillip
Neri Catholic Church in Kinder, answering questions for television
reporters from Lafayette and Lake Charles. Perrodin is describing the
first show the band did without their leader, Beau Jocque. It was just
this Sunday in Lake Charles. Chris Ardoin and J.J. Caillier sat in on
accordion. They turned Beau Jocque's scheduled dance into a tribute.
But you still just couldn't get over, Perrodin is explaining, that big
hole in the stage. The previous night at this church in Kinder, the
zydeco world had arrived to pay its last respects to one of their own.
There was Roy Carrier, owner of the Offshore Lounge in Lawtell. The Sam
Brothers, who were zydeco stars in the 1970s, came with their aged
father, Herbert Sam, who once had rocked the walls of Houston zydeco
clubs in the 1950s. Nathan and Sid Williams came, and Sids Lafayette
club, El Sid O's, contributed the largest flowers on the altar.
Buckwheat Zydeco drove with them. Sean Ardoin arrived from Baton Rouge.
Lawrence and Chris Ardoin came in from Lake Charles. So did the Boozoo
Chavis family. There was the Dopsie family, Willis Prudhomme, Jeffery
Broussard. Geno and Tony Delafose, whose father, John, died from a
heart attack after playing a show, just like Beau Jocque. Even Keith
Frank, who for years engaged in the most bitter and mean-spirited of
rivalries with Beau Jocque, came to Kinder to sign his band into the
guest book. This morning, Beau Jocque is receiving his funeral mass. He
is taking one last drive down Highway 190 to St. Matilda Cemetery in
Eunice to be buried near his boyhood home in Duralde, and near his
father, who died just two weeks earlier. Depending on reports Beau
Jocque liked to fudge about his age the musician was between 43 and 45
when he died. Born Andrus Espre, he grew up in a traditional Creole
household, headed by a musician father, Sandrus Espre, whose talents
were celebrated among neighbors, but who had curtailed his music
playing to please his wife. Sandrus was known as "Tee Toe," a joke
about his small size, but Andrus was an oversized child whose own
nickname was originally a taunt about his great heft. He was also
called Juke Jake because he could learn songs so quickly; he played
tuba in school, among other instruments. Andrus Espre's life was marked
by incredible near-death experiences. He didn't like to talk about it,
but he once said that while serving in the military, he suffered from a
near-fatal explosion and lost consciousness for a lengthy period of
time. But the accident that changed his life and the future of zydeco
happened in 1987, when he was working as an electrician. He fell about
20 feet and landed in a sitting position on a slab of concrete. "My
lower back just got real hot," he recalled. "I knew something wrong had
happened." His back was shattered; it would plague him for the rest of
his life. But after extensive operations and considerable depression,
Andrus Espre got up again. He taught himself how to play his fathers
old accordion, and he and his wife, Michelle, began visiting local
dance clubs, studying the players and dancers. Andrus Espre was
reinventing himself as Beau Jocque. As his longtime Rounder producer,
Scott Billington, has marveled, it was as if he had devised a
fictitious character and now was completely inhabiting him. I first met
Beau Jocque during the recording of "Cornbread." Billington had hired
me to write liner notes, and as I walked into Ultrasonic Studios, the
song ws blasting from the speakers, and drummer Steve "Skeeta" Charlot
was at the microphone, adding more high-pitched, stuttering vocal
shouts. Around the waiting room, various friends sleepily milled about,
clutching thin blankets. "Cornbread" became zydeco's first modern hit,
in no small way launching the phenomenally popular contemporary zydeco
scene. For the next few years, I would devote a portion of my life to
spinning tales in print of the exploits of Beau Jocque. "You know, a
psychic once told me this would happen," Beau Jocque was saying as I
struggled to keep our rental van in line with the 90 m.p.h. traffic
hurtling into the city of London. "It was when I was over here in the
military. She told me all about this, and that I would return here some
day, and I'd be with a rich white man." He paused, then let out a
hearty laugh. For one week in July 1994, I had decided to quit playing
journalist and become a Hi-Roller altogether. A friend had booked Beau
Jocque on a short series of shows through England, and asked if I
wanted to go along to manage the tour. No money. Free ticket. My
duties: collect payments, rent the van, trouble-shoot, coordinate any
media. And, though he didnt tell me at the time, be prepared to catch
flak and take shit from all quarters. I decided that I wanted to go and
not write about it at all. Experience something for itself, for once.
Beau Jocque never believed I wasn't getting paid. The shows were great.
From night to night, Beau Jocque was working up a version of the soul
standard "Don't Let the Green Grass Fool You" that kept getting better
and better. He and drummer Charlot continually bounced jokes and rhymes
off each other. The band was in high spirits, despite the fact that I
was constantly getting us lost. In London, we usually circumnavigated
the fast-paced "round-abouts" three or four times before spinning our
way onto the desired street. This helplessness behind the wheel made me
a favorite band target for jokes, along with drummer Charlot, who was
being convinced that if you look closely, your watch hands will start
spinning when you cross time zones. Things had gone great in the town
of Derby, where Beau Jocque played a place called the Swamp Club and
was treated like a visiting king. We all stayed at the home of a local
musician who fed us scones and even gave Charlot an accordion, but Beau
Jocque grew suspicious when he was asked to join an informal jam
session. "They get us over here because they want to take our songs,"
he quietly muttered to me on the house's staircase. In London, the band
was booked for an event called the American South Festival at the
prestigious South Bank Centre. It was a posh gig in a theater called
the Queen Elizabeth Hall; the concert featured a number of players from
south Louisiana, including the Savoy-Doucet Cajun Band and Creole
fiddler Canray Fontenot. But as soon as we reached the Centre, things
really did start to go south, especially for the Hi-Rollers tour
manager. The problems started because, in true zydeco style, the
Hi-Rollers had been staying up night after night, scraping up gigs
throughout the area, making the trip pay. Zydeco rules dictate that one
rests only when and where one can. So, shortly after reaching South
Bank, most of the band fell sound asleep in the dressing room. When
nobody responded for the first call to sound check, the show promoter
became alarmed. She lit into the show manager, a proper Brit woman
named Janet. And Janet lit into me. I was ordered to gather "my boys."
A couple of band members were in earshot, and they got up and left;
they late told me they were offended by the expression, and by the
fact that I didn't correct her. The British-zydeco culture clash kept
worsening. The band still wasn't ready for sound check, and I found
myself standing in a cavernous concrete hallway, being glared at by
Janet. "I won't have it," she hissed. "They seem to be mad at you,
maybe it's a racial thing. Whatever it is, I won't have it." Inside,
Beau Jocque was still snoring heavily, and Michelle was sleeping near
him. The band was now scattered throughout the arts complex. Then, with
no help from me, everyone started to congregate. Sound check proceeded
with no incident, but the South Bank people remained miffed about how
the band had showed up for the important show completely exhausted. For
the rest of the night, they blamed me. There were other tensions. After
the performance, I noticed Beau Jocque and Michelle looking at a
program from the previous week. It had been a blues show, with B.B.
King as the headliner. Ticket prices were higher than those for the
Louisiana show, which probably meant that B.B. King was making more
money, and Beau Jocque and Michelle weren't pleased. "Yeah, but that's
B.B. King," I offered. Michelle looked at me firmly. "This is Beau
Jocque," she reprimanded. I never broke ranks again. That week, the
band had one day off, but only Beau Jocque, Michelle, rubboard player
Wilfred "Caveman" Pierre and I wanted to go exploring. We all took off
to see the real Sherwood Forest, the site of Robin Hoods legendary
exploits. When we got there, it wasnt much different from the woods
near Kinder, except there was a gift shop. But the day proved to be one
of those relaxing, low-key times you remember forever, filled with
breezes and constant jokes. Beau Jocque's favorite brand of humor was
the kind that forces you to let down your guard. I learned this again
as we walked through Sherwood Forest at twilight. Beau Jocque solemnly
told me about the forests near home, the site of mass graves of
Indians, a place where old Creole men told him he could never stay past
midnight. "When we get back, I want you to come out there with me and
bring your tape recorder," he promised. "I want you to prove to those
old men that I stayed until midnight." Beau Jocque pointed to a
hollowed tree next to the path. "Why dont you go look and see who's in
there?" he dared. I peered into a dark hole. A bird fluttered and
swooped out, and I let out a high-pitched shriek. Beau Jocque doubled
over, and his laughter echoed through Sherwood Forest. At Beau Jocque's
wake, Michelle was sitting in the first pew, receiving mourners. Her
young sons, Andrus Adrian and Justin Travis, ten and eight years old,
were playing around their father's open casket. As they climbed over
the kneelers, they accidentally pulled on the white lace sheet that
extended above the chest and face of their father's body, and it
lightly fluttered off the casket lid. Michelle shook her head, went up
and adjusted the fabric, and sat down. She was visibly shaken. The
oldest son, Andrus Adrian, who looks startlingly like a young Beau
Jocque, and who was just starting to learn accordion from his dad, put
his arm around her. Michelle looked up when I came over. The first
thing she asked was if I remembered the time in Sherwood Forest when
the bird flew out of the tree. The Hi-Rollers came over, and our
conversation turned to Beau Jocque's last night. The consensus was that
Beau Jocque knew he was going to die. In Seattle two weeks ago, the
band recalled, he told them, "Here's my 
money. If anything happens to me, make sure this gets to Michelle and
the boys." Looking back, Michelle wonders if Beau Jocque had been
teaching her accordion over the past summer because he wanted to pass
on what he knew before he died. "That was very unusual for him to be
doing that," she said. Beau Jocque's last show was Thursday, Sept. 9,
at Mid City Lanes Rock 'n' Bowl. Michelle called her husband constantly
that night, much more than usual. She played an accordion lick he'd
been showing her. The first time she called, he said she would have to
cook him a pork chop before he'd reveal more secrets. Then, she called
back, having mastered the lick on her own. "Pretty soon, you're going
to be on the stage, and I'll be working at the door," he told her.
"Just make sure you give me all the money," she shot back. Michelle
turned to Wilfred "Caveman" Pierre. "What did he say when I said that?"
she asked. "He laughed, like he always does," he replied. The show was
somewhat subdued. At one point, Rock 'n' Bowl owner John Blancher got
up on stage to address rumors that Beau Jocque wasn't going to show up
to play, and that he had canceled a recent zydeco festival appearance.
"He's a pro to work with," Blancher said, and Beau Jocque launched into
"Blue Christmas." On the drive back to Kinder, the Hi-Rollers were
shocked to see their leader with his shirt fully unbuttoned, washing
his bare chest in the frigid air conditioning. Beau Jocque slept
heavily as the players took the highway to Kinder. He awoke only to get
a glass of milk. He slept again. At home, he didn't have his usual
piece of cake, which was waiting in the microwave. He crawled into bed,
enveloping his wife in his arms. "You know I love you," he said. The
next morning, Michelle awoke to take the boys to school. Outside, men
were working on a new swimming pool. Beau Jocque had gotten up to take
a shower. When she found him, he was curled over, a victim of a heart
attack, and was turning colors. The pool men attempted CPR while she
called the ambulance. Beau Jocque couldn't be revived. The TV reporters
are circulating through the Thursday morning funeral crowd, requesting
people to recall their most memorable time with Beau Jocque. Perrodin
remembers a time in Colorado when the TV stations were all warning
about bear attacks. Perrodin was drunk and sleepwalking, and Beau
Jocque got scared because he thought he was seeing a bear. "I saw the
world with Beau Jocque," bassist Chuck Bush says. "He was like Uncle
Beau. We were all planning to go to his house last night for a barbecue
around the pool." In front of the church, two posters are decorated
with photographs of Beau Jocque, including a large photo taken with
Conan OBrien. The priest leads the full church through a mass, stopping
the homily to speak quietly in French to Beau Jocque's mother. "In
1987, Andrus Espre turned adversity into triumph," the priest says. "He
didnt give up on himself." The mass proceeds towards its climax of the
transmogrification of bread to body. This is a church that tries to
understand the possibility of quick change: bread to body, Andrus Espre
to Beau Jocque, a broken back into a zydeco warrior, animated life to
sudden, unexpected death. Sitting in the back, I think about the first
extended trip I'd taken with Beau Jocque. I was writing a road journal,
riding with him on Highway 190 following a show at House of Blues.
Everyone was nodding off. "Everybody is waiting for me to be quiet so
they can go to sleep!" Beau Jocque thundered. "ut I won't do it!"
Following the mass, the Hi-Rollers roll the casket down the center
aisle. An American flag is draped over it, to honor Andrus Espres
military record. A line of cars winds its way back down Highway 190 to
Eunice, away from the realm of Beau Jocque and back to the birthplace
of Andrus Espre. As the cars proceed, the surrounding prairie is quiet.
Too quiet. When we reach Eunice, I steer away from the funeral
motorcade and slip in a Beau Jocque tape and crank it up. "Did you have
a good time?" Beau Jocque used to sing to close his dances. "I know I
had mine."

Books by Michael Tisserand
*The Kingdom of Zydeco
*Sugarcane Academy: How a New Orleans Teacher and His Storm-Struck Students Created a School to Remember (Harvest Original)
*Frommer's New Orleans by Night (Frommer's By-Night New Orleans)

Beau Jocque, with the Zydeco Hi-Rollers, released six albums nationally on Rounder Records and others on Louisiana labels including his own label, Beau Jocque Music. He and Chavis performed in occasional showdowns, trading insults onstage while remaining friends. One battle
was captured in Robert Mugge's 1994 documentary "The Kingdom of Zydeco." In recent years Beau Jocque toured the United States regularly,
but he never left behind the bayou dance-hall circuit where he reigned; he was scheduled to perform in Lafayette By JON PARELES NY Times

beau jocque

BeauJocque

A Fan's Website

In Memory

Michael Tisserand