Hey r/Acadiana,
I’m a native French speaker from outside the US with a deep love for Louisiana’s history, language, and traditional Cajun music.
I recently wrote the lyrics for a lively two-step set in Mamou back in 1983, called "Save A Little For Me". Since I’m not from the area, I really wanted to avoid cheesy tourist clichés and get the actual vibe right: from the code-switching and syntax to the cultural details.
Before I go any further with it, I’d be super grateful to get some honest feedback from folks who actually grew up in the culture:
- Does the mix of English and Cajun French flow naturally to your ears?
- Does the story feel true to life for a weekend in Acadiana?
Hé yaille!
Mais, Saturday night I got cleaned up good,
Combed my hair like a good boy should,
Jumped in my Chevy, that old C-ten,
Goin' to Mamou to dance again.
Parked out front, I could hear that band,
Little bottle of whiskey right there in my hand,
Hid it good under the tarp, oh yeah,
Told it "Wait for me, cher, I'll be right there!"
Hé yaille! Samedi soir,
Nineteen eighty-three,
My old Chevy, my old tarp,
And a bottle just for me!
Danced with Marie, danced with her sister too,
Danced till my shirt was wet clean through,
Then me and my buddies, we got kinda dry,
I said "Come see, y'all, I got somethin' outside!"
Walked to my truck, and what did I see?
T-Boy on my tailgate, drinkin' my whiskey!
Third cousin, him, on my mama's side,
Laughin' so hard he near 'bout cried.
He held it up, said "Merci, cousin!
Ça c'est bon, but you hide it like a couillon!"
His buddies was laughin', my buddies laughed too,
Me, I wasn't laughin', cher, I'm tellin' you!
Hé yaille! Samedi soir,
Nineteen eighty-three,
My old Chevy, my old tarp,
And a bottle that was for me, me!
I gave him a shove, he shoved me back,
We rolled in the dirt like two cats in a sack,
Nonc Joe came out, and boy, was he hot:
"Rentrez back à la maison, vous-aut'!"
Sunday mornin', church bells ring,
Me and T-Boy, we don't say a thing,
Him in the front pew, me in the back,
His eye was purple and mine was black.
But the Father, him? Il connaît tout,
Tante Odile called him 'fore the dance was through!
Mass was over, we tried to slip out,
He put a hand on each shoulder, didn't need to shout:
"Cousin against cousin, for a little whiskey?
Shake hands, asteur, or you answer to me!"
So we shook right there in front of everybody,
T-Boy said "Pardon" I said "Cous', Sorry."
Then the Father leaned in, real low:
"Next time you hide one, cher... save a little for me, hein?"
Hé yaille! Samedi soir,
Nineteen eighty-three,
My old Chevy, my old tarp,
And a bottle for T-Boy and me!
Hé yaille! Ça c'est bon!
Merci beaucoup for reading, and let me know what you think!