"Coozan Dud" and the Hadacol Boogie

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"Two months ago I couldn't read nor write. I took four bottles of Hadacol and now I'm teaching school." —A 1949 radio testimonial for Louisiana’s famous cure-all medicine.

"I was disable to get over a fence, disable to get up out of a chair without help, but after I took eight bottles of Hadacol, I can tie my own shoes and feel like I can jump over a six- foot fence and getting very sassy."—Another alleged testimonial from an 80-year-old Mississippi man.

Health, many have professed, is the open-sesame to the sucker's wallet. Dudley J. LeBlanc, Acadiana’s favorite son who died 35 years ago this month, knew the maxim all too well. He was the Cajun Renaissance man who invented—or stole, rather, from his physician—a miracle drug dubiously named Hadacol. Far from the reach of the modern-day Food and Drug Administration, LeBlanc mixed the B-vitamin tonic with boat oars behind his barn in Abbeville. Once bottled and marketed to the masses, it became a national phenomenon overnight and, by 1950, was making more money than Bayer Aspirin. Hollywood starlets made pitches for Hadacol in advertisements and its heady rush was romanticized in popular and local music.

So what exactly was Hadacol? Snake oil or marvel approach? Newsweek took a swing at it in 1951: "Well, basically, it's a patent medicine—a little honey, a little of this and that, and a stiff shot of alcohol hyped up with vitamin B. Actually it's a great deal more. It's a craze. It's a culture. It's a political movement."

If you refer to the bottle’s label, however, it was advertised to cure arthritis, asthma, diabetes, epilepsy, heart conditions, gallstones, tuberculosis and much more. Of course, for many during that time, Hadacol’s twelve percent alcohol content was the real selling point. No wonder its fans never blinked at plopping down $3.50 for a bottle, even though poverty was truly among the most persistent ailments of the day.

So what exactly was Hadacol? Snake oil or marvel approach? Newsweek took a swing at it in 1951: "Well, basically, it's a patent medicine—a little honey, a little of this and that, and a stiff shot of alcohol hyped up with vitamin B. Actually it's a great deal more. It's a craze. It's a culture. It's a political movement."

But more than any other factor, LeBlanc and his antics defined Hadacol’s time in the sun. LeBlanc was a natural promoter and born-politician. He served four consecutive terms in the state Senate and, by slamming Huey P. Long and campaigning in French, came closer than most to being governor. LeBlanc’s feuds with Long are infamous. The Kingfish once referred to LeBlanc as a “crook” who ripped off black clientele through a side funeral business. In return, LeBlanc often called Long a “slacker” and attacked his administration at every opportunity.

The Kingfish once referred to LeBlanc as a “crook” who ripped off black clientele through a side funeral business. In return, LeBlanc often called Long a “slacker” and attacked his administration at every opportunity.

That same zeal for showmanship obviously carried over into LeBlanc’s management of Hadacol, especially during the push to go national. LeBlanc traveled around the country with his Hadacol Caravan, which was the last of the great medicine shows, featuring huge names like Hank Williams, Milton Berle, Lucille Ball, Mickey Rooney and Bob Hope. Sales eventually peaked around $20 million at a time when 22 states were distributing LeBlanc’s product. America instantly fell in love with the wiley Cajun and his boozed-up recipe. When Groucho Marx asked LeBlanc during a radio program what Hadacol was good for, LeBlanc provided an abrupt and pleasantly honest answer. For anyone who at least half-heartedly follows Louisiana politics, his unapologetic fusion of greed and humor should sound familiar. “It was good for five and a half million for me last year," he told Marx.

The rollercoaster success ride, sadly, didn’t last forever. There was a steep fall from fame for LeBlanc during the 50s, a point of contention that is often skipped entirely in oral tradition or only touched upon lightly in scholarly texts, according to Gary E. Theall, treasurer of the Vermilion Parish Historical Society. “I lived two doors down from (LeBlanc), but I don’t think anybody knew what was going on in his head,” Theall said. “We would love to have some kind of account like that for the archives.”

The Hadacol crash started when the company was sold in a curious manner that smacks today of Enron, with debt being slid off the books and not reported to the buyer. A 1951 Business Week article pegs a purchase price of $8.2 million, of which a quarter was paid in cash by the New York-based Tobey-Maltz Foundation. The transaction, however, was not on the level. It was soon revealed that LeBlanc had sold the company without disclosing roughly $4 million in debt. Not only did LeBlanc promise that revenues would top $75 million the following year, he also attempted to stay on the company payroll as a sales manager pulling down $100,000 annually.

The new owners were forced into bankruptcy and LeBlanc managed to break free from any fiduciary responsibility. “If you sell a cow,” he told Time Magazine in defense, “and the cow dies, you can’t do anything to a man for that.” But there were other repercussions looming. The Federal Trade Commission eventually labeled LeBlanc’s marketing tactics as “deceptive” and issued a formal complaint. An indictment for fraudulently filing his income taxes soon followed, although the charge never stuck. Still, in concert with everything else, the damage was done. A capsule version of Hadacol was tried, but it didn’t click with the public. Neither did another tonic called “Kary-On.” LeBlanc ran a few more times for governor, but his political career was clearly over after one seventh-place showing.

LeBlanc managed to stay relevant throughout the 60s by bolstering local radio, helping form the Council for the Development of French in Louisiana and publishing books on Acadian culture. All of it, though, would prove to be his last run of influence on south Louisiana. On Oct. 19, 1971, LeBlanc was admitted to the Abbeville General Hospital for an emergency surgery to address a gastric ulcer. Three days later, at age 77, he died of a massive stroke while in the hospital’s care.

To the day of his death, folks back home in Acadiana always called LeBlanc “Coozan Dud,” which he told reporters was short for “cousin.” If you spend any time in Vermilion Parish and bring up old Dud, that’s exactly how the conversation will likely progress—as if he were family. Through it all, the highs and the lows, LeBlanc grew to be a Cajun icon, a smiling pitchman who inspired and amused. Yet it seems to be the darker moments that ultimately define LeBlanc, for they rub away a genius veneer to reveal a personality that generations of people in south Louisiana identify with and want to hear more about.

Jeremy Alford can be reached at jeremy@jeremyalford.com.