Les Bon Temps Rouler Waltz. BeauSoleil. 1988. Arhoolie.

 A modicum of sadness is built into BeauSoleil’s rendition of the Lawrence Walker ballad Les Bon Temps Rouler Waltz. It’s the emotional center point around which the song revolves, illuminating the record’s good faith by fixing the listener’s attention on the band’s collaborative dynamic, the process by which they draw poignancy from each instrumental performance. Every pop record is an implied contractual agreement between artist and listener, with listener consenting to his role as subjective recipient of the commercial audio product. The basic nature of this role is subject to change over a period of time as the listener’s relationship with the record changes, given, but not limited, to issues of personality maturity. Typically, the consumer role will fall into one of two camps: either the faceless, one-of-millions mass audience whose pop experience is often social or the cogent individual whose expectations of the pop experience are more personal and long lasting. The most significant element of this contract comes from the artist’s side, when he declares his non-condescension assurances, sometimes detectable in the song’s opening bars. Condescension by record is a threat to pop originality because it popularizes conformity and threatens to legitimatize piety as a form of expression. BeauSoleil does not condescend, but instead puts their record’s humanity up front as evidence that their working knowledge of love’s mechanics is complete. Sadness is the maringoin that love brings with it from the Holly Beach; arriving sometimes as death or in the form of some random temptation, sadness and the end of love are the definitive guarantees we pay for the temerity to take from life a taste of sublime happiness. Let them brush your rock and roll hair.