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Remembering Big Daddy |
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You couldn’t park on the same block as the Notre Dame Catholic Church that bright Wednesday morning. Summer had settled onto St. Martinville, but the Louisiana heat didn’t stop people coming from far and wide to say goodbye. Small waves of mourners and well-wishers continued to file into the already packed church during the service. In the aisle stood a large coffin containing a big man in a powder blue suit with a long coat and matching hat; a giant of a bluesman, an eternal child, a Louisiana country boy. The same man who’s picture was on the front page of the Times of Acadiana that day. Prayers and praise were uttered, songs were sung, and tears trailed down some of the faces. Harry Hypolite had gone home.
I’ll never forget the day I met Harry. How could I? It was my first day
on the road as a professional musician. I had boarded a plane from New Orleans
on less than 24 hours notice to go on tour for a month with a bunch of guys I’d
never met. The gig was with C.J. Chenier and the Red Hot Louisiana
Band—some
people called them the best zydeco band in the world. They met me in the lobby
of the shoe box airport in Winston-Salem. I was the only person deplaning the
eight-seater with two guitars, so C.J. figured I was his guy. He pointed a gunslinger
finger at me and said “You must be Marcus! I’m C.J., and this here’s
Gumbo, Humpy and Red, and out in the van we got Big Daddy.”
And so began my adventures with the Red Hot. A hulking man with ebony skin
and suspicious eyes occupied the front passenger seat of the van. Big Daddy.
He didn’t
say word one to me until we got to the barbecue joint. Not that anyone else said
much either, these weren’t the warmest, fuzziest bunch of road dogs you’d
ever met. Harry and I finally broke the ice over plates of ribs and chicken,
but it wasn’t until we hit the stand that night that I saw that trademark
sly grin, the beaming look that Harry had used to light up countless stages and
work his way in and out of more situations than I’ll ever know. He blended
innocence and mischief into one seamless expression of joy, and his guitar rang
out like a bell. His tone was pure, each note spoke the truth. I would keep my
ears glued to Harry’s guitar for the better part of a year, soaking up
the sparkling lines and supple rhythms that he carried from a time long before
my own. The blues, straight from the fields and tinged with the unmistakable
lilt of a Creole man and his culture.
Harry Hypolite was born in St. Martinville, south of Lafayette, on April 15,
1937. He spoke Creole French until his one year of schooling introduced him
to the English language. He picked cotton and cut cane, and he would stack
soda
crates outside the local juke joint to peep in the window and catch a glimpse
of T-Bone Walker, Gatemouth Brown or Guitar
Slim. It was the dawn of the age
of electric music, and Harry was drawn to the loud guitars and even louder
suits that marked the cutting edge of black music in the Deep South. By the
early ’50s
Harry had an electric guitar and some slick suits of his own and began what
would become a six decade career in music. He would play behind legends like
Clifton
Chenier, Big Mama Thornton and Slim Harpo and tour the world for over a decade
with C.J. Chenier before joining his nephews Nathan and Dennis
Paul Williams in Nathan and the Zydeco Cha-Chas. From there he would embark on the too-brief
solo career that finally put a spotlight on his considerable talents, earning
him acknowledgement as one of the last of the real deal. His prowling stage
swagger, the power that he exuded from his massive frame, the knowing light
in his eyes,
all reflected the energy of that magic time when electricity first lit up the
backwoods with rhythm and blues and created the sound that jolted the American
soul. By the time he died tragically on I-10 a few weeks ago, the country boy
from St. Martinville had been around the world multiple times. He had been
treated as cultural royalty in European capitals, shared the stage with almost
all of
the greats of the blues world, and touched people from every walk of life.
Harry was magnetic, his charm could cut through any boundary and his music
spoke straight
to the heart. His big, gruff voice sang in English and French about the dire
poverty of his childhood, his love for life and his taste for big-legged women.
He meant it, every word of it, and he lived it.
At the time I joined C.J.’s band, things weren’t so good. Despite
their status as a major roots music touring act, the band was in disarray. The
group was plagued with drug and alcohol problems and management was nearly non-existent.
Harry was the last member of Clifton’s band to remain on board, and after
15 years on the road together, he and C.J. had had about enough of each other.
Even though Harry sang and led the band to warm up each set for C.J., usually
to a great crowd response, he wasn’t treated like a valued member of the
band’s front line.
In 1999 C.J. took an unannounced vacation while on a package tour with the
Fabulous Thunderbirds and Gatemouth Brown. Long time Red Hot washboard player
and fellow
St. Martinville native Clifford “Humpy” Alexander Jr. convinced the
promoter to let Harry fill C.J.’s spot on the roster. Backed by Gatemouth’s
band with Alexander on washboard, Harry stepped up to center stage and delivered.
Harry left the band soon after with his sights set on a solo career.
“
I told him, you been a follower all your life,” recalls Alexander. “You’re
a damn leader, go be a leader.”
From the chaos of the Red Hot, Harry retreated to the family environs of
Nathan and the Zydeco Cha-Chas. Within a year Chad Kassem signed
Harry to a solo deal
with APO Records. Harry traveled to Blue Heaven Studios in Salina, Kansas
and, at age 62, recorded his first album. Louisiana Country Boy, Harry’s debut
and only official release, brought him awards, festival gigs, international
tours, and finally, the recognition that he had paid 50 years of dues to earn.
The week
he died the Times of Acadian readers poll dubbed his band Best Blues Band,
an honor he could count amongst his Handy Award nominations, accolades in European
magazines and his place in the Louisiana Blues Hall of Fame.
I can’t begin to tell you what a pleasure it was to know Harry. He helped
me through some tough times on the road, and he always let me know I had a friend.
We played all over the U.S. and Europe together, we knew each other’s
families. He never failed to ask about my mom. The shows we did together in
subsequent
years were only made sweeter by that extra glint in his smile, the knowledge
that he was the star of the show. Thanks to all of the people who supported
our gigs with Harry, and to Mathilda Jones, Eric
Lindell, Walter Washington and all
of the musicians that took part in the Louisiana Blues Throwdown series, which
was built as a feature for Harry.
It took a long time for Harry to even start to get his due, and it’s hard
to see him go so suddenly when so many things were rolling his way. He was the
real thing, no one else could wear that suit and swing that guitar quite like
he could. When he sang in his big, raspy voice, with his impish cackle breaking
loose now and then, it didn’t matter if he was singing in French or in
English thick with his Creole accent. Harry always got his point across, he
knew how to talk to the soul.
Harry “Big Daddy” Hypolite passed away in a car accident on I-10
near Baton Rouge on the morning of June 22. Foundations are being set up in Harry’s
honor, and tribute concerts are being planned in New Orleans and Lafayette.
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