On this one particular Saturday morning, there were two distinct stars of the show at Fred’s Lounge in Mamou. The first was a guy everyone knew as Barry, wearing a red t-shirt stenciled with “Cajun Tradition” while he sat in on triangle, or t-fan as Cajun musicians refer to it. The message his shirt presented seemed more universal than simple band merchandise. I did overhear a few girls saying they’d come in from Houston, and the bikes lined up along the side street pointed to this being one stop on a poker run, but the crowd there that morning was distinctly Acadiana. When I sidled up to the bar for a Bloody Mary, one elfin short Cajun gal exclaimed, “Lord, its been forever since I came out and did this!” When I asked how long forever is, she paused, “Oh let’s see, it must have been four, maybe five weeks...”
Fred’s serves as a counterbalance to the wide-open spaces of the Acadiana plains. You feel like you drive for miles with no one in sight and then suddenly, you wind up in a place where everybody is at nine in the morning—party already in full swing. It reminds me of the rambunctious zydeco brunches at Café des Amis in Breaux Bridge except Breaux Bridge’s downtown is a product of maintained quaintness. Mamou’s bar district isn’t exactly desolate, in fact a freshly-muraled plaza for civic events sits right across the street from Fred’s with metal benches proudly proclaiming the Rotary Club’s sponsorship, but there is a marked lack of frills. Barry strikes me as a frills-free kinda guy. He clangs along with the band for awhile, fetches the occasional drink and makes the rounds flirting with women around the bar. It’s not a bad gig to have.
Fred’s Lounge has been the fulcrum on which Mamou swings since 1948 when Fred Tate bought the small tavern and gave it his name. For half a century, Fred’s Lounge has been the go-to spot for “the real Cajun Mardi Gras” (through truth be told, the evening street dance on the Monday before Mardi Gras is the great time to be in Mamou during Mardi Gras season). One website brags that it was from discussions around the table at Fred’s that the idea for the Courir de Mardi Gras—the masked riders in elaborate costumes—was hatched. Fred saw that it takes more than one event a year to make a place work, so he coaxed a friend to bring his Cajun music radio program to the bar in 1967 and that evolved into a weekend tradition where a band, a remote broadcast crew from KPVI in Ville Platte, and dancers and drinkers from the Acadiana plains and beyond, converge every Saturday morning. It’s the only time the bar is regularly open.
When Fred got the bar in 1948, he also got his bride Sue Vasseur, our second hero of the story. Just as I found a vantage point to the side of the dance floor, Tante Sue as she’s generally known, left her spot behind the bar and began making the rounds with a full cardboard box of boudin offering chunks to all takers, coquettishly (or simply practically) hand-feeding a couple of pieces to the boys in the band. A few songs later, the band launched into the Cajun staple “Mardi Gras” and Tante Sue emerged from the restroom with a fez and cape constructed from Crown Royal bags and led a snaking, lurching dance line through the bar, ratcheting up the wild scene to surreal levels.
Tante Sue took to the mic after a couple of swigs from the Schnapps bottle in the holster that hangs around her waist, and addressed the crowd. “I have a few rules and regulations in here: I don’t allow any kissin’, and I have eyes behind my head. If you don’t think I’ll see you, I will. I don’t allow any involvements of any form in here, I only allow beer or love,” she offered at one point. “You heard me say beer first.” She asked that we not bring in outside drinks, to not dance with ones procured from the bar in hand as to prevent of spills and, on a curious but again, for a person getting on in years, practical side note, added that we should not abandon those we love that are living in nursing homes. “If you do, the employees there will also.”
Tante Sue showed no sign of slowing down; she called for a waltz. Her voice has the weathered power of a field recording, somewhere between a haunting memory and an immediate holler, out of time and yet startlingly present. She intersperses her swaying and singing and swigs from that bottle with hand motions, pointing an accusatory finger at the crowd, holding a palm up in momentary rapture and even playing air accordion with the one printed on the Fred’s t-shirts.
It’s like Barry’s red “Cajun Tradition” shirt. It’s more than merchandise, it’s a statement of purpose.
Alex V. Cook is an author, music critic and cultural explorer from Baton Rouge. He is currently writing a book about Louisiana juke joints, honky tonks and dancehalls. If you know of a place that deserves to be more widely celebrated, drop him a line at cookalexv@gmail.com.
