A Montréal musician with Acadian roots, Benoît LeBlanc spent decades tracking Kouri-Vini songs from dusty archives to studio takes—bridging Congo Square rhythms, Creole satire, and early jazz into a living language you can hear.
The clarinet and banjo shouldn’t have fit together like that. In the first seconds of “Un nòt kankan,” the clarinet sails into the chorus line while the banjo sticks to the verse, two melodies crossing mid-air. Benoît LeBlanc lets out a small laugh before he sings, the laugh you hear when history decides to improvise with you. No rehearsal, first take, and suddenly a 19th-century Creole song is breathing in a modern studio like it never left.
LeBlanc has chased that feeling for decades. He came to Kouri-Vini, the Louisiana Creole language, through records and footnotes: Fats Domino’s “Hey là-bas,” Dr. John’s mystical “Je suis le grand zombie,” Irène Thérèse Whitfield’s fieldwork, Library of Congress tapes, songbooks that smelled like basements and time. What he found wasn’t a fragment or a curiosity; it was a world—rhythms from Congo Square, banjo lines that carry Caribbean salt, satire sung in kitchens and dance circles, lullabies and laments that seeded jazz long before anyone named it.
His album Mô kouzin mô kouzinn is less a revival than a return: songs stepping back under the lights in their own language. LeBlanc’s aim is audacious and straightforward: to let people hear the mother of Louisiana music.
Roots and First Revelations
LeBlanc’s first revelation came not in Louisiana but in Québec. Growing up in Montréal with an Acadian father and an ethnologist mother, music and history were stitched into his life. His father’s family had Native blood, and his grandmother played harmonica, piano, and accordion by ear. “It’s as if I inherited my mother’s curiosity for the past and my father’s natural love for music,” he says. His mother, a PhD ethnologist who documented Québec’s fléché weaving across North America and Europe, gave him a taste for archives and fieldwork. “People called me an ethnomusicologist; I inherited her passion for history, folklore, and cultural heritage.”
As a boy, he absorbed the music of the radio, drawn to African American soul and R&B. “I heard Percy Sledge, Aretha Franklin, Otis Redding, and it went straight to my soul,” he remembers. The spark that lit up his path was hearing Fats Domino sing “Hey là-bas.” Here was the man who had recorded the first rock ’n’ roll song in 1949, also singing in French Creole. “I was amazed, intrigued, excited,” Benoît recalls. Around the same time, he discovered Dr. John’s “Je suis le grand zombie,” proof that something profound and layered lived in Louisiana’s soundscape.
His first trip to Louisiana in 1976 cemented those fascinations. Walking through New Orleans and Lafayette, he began connecting the dots: Afro-Creole culture had been shaping jazz, rock, rhythm, and blues from the start. “It was no small revelation for me to find out about Louisiana, the most Africanized state in the U.S., but also very Latinized, almost an island with influences from France, Spain, the Caribbean, and West Africa,” he says. In bookstores, he found references to Creole musicians such as Clifton Chenier and Amédé Ardoin, and he bought Whitfield’s Louisiana French Folk Songs, a book that would haunt him for decades.
Back home, another shock awaited. Browsing a record store in Montréal, he found Les Blues du Bayou, featuring Creole musicians Canray Fontenot and Alphonse “Bois Sec” Ardoin. “I was stunned to hear African descendants from the south of Louisiana sing in French,” Benoît says. Not long after, his sister returned from Louisiana with records by Amédé Ardoin and Clifton Chenier, opening yet another window into a tradition that mixed blues, R&B, and Creole language.
The revelation was personal as much as musical. “I was discovering a language that allowed me to sing something I had in me that neither standard French nor English could give me,” he explains.
Falling for a Hidden Archive
By the early 1990s, LeBlanc’s curiosity had become a hunt. Hosting a radio show on Cajun and Creole music, he followed “Hey là-bas” into a paper trail of early recordings and songbooks. On a trip to New Orleans in 1995, he asked at a French Quarter record store if there were other versions. They handed him “Hey là-bas” and “Kan mo té piti,” another Creole jazz gem. From there, doors opened. He connected with researcher Jim Viator, who was chasing similar leads, and together they unearthed treasures hidden in archives, anthologies, and early recordings.
“Most jazz historians don’t mention this important chapter of the story of jazz,” Benoît says. Determined to fill that gap, he combed Slave Songs of the United States (1867), George W. Cable’s 1880s articles, Clara Gottschalk Peterson’s Creole Songs from New Orleans (1902), and Library of Congress tapes from 1937. He read 19th-century Louisiana novels in French, scoured tales for verses and sayings, and hunted for songs in unlikely corners.
“It takes a lot of perseverance,” he says. “Who would guess Slave Songs of the United States held seven Creole pieces, a treasure the world should know.”
The more he found, the more he became convinced that Creole folk songs were not side notes to jazz but part of its DNA.
Why Kouri-Vini, Why Now
For LeBlanc, the language was never negotiable once the songs revealed themselves. “Each time I found another Creole song, whether on record or in a song book, it was like discovering a treasure,” he explains. He knew the history of French in Louisiana, but Kouri-Vini—Creole—struck him as the heartbeat of a culture that had survived in shadows. “Language is a vibration that expresses the soul of a people, plus when I sing in Kouri-Vini, I can literally taste the words,” he says. “It’s a very different experience from singing in French, English, or Spanish.”
To him, preservation was only the first step. “First show the treasure, then build from it, make it live,” he explains. That conviction shaped the entire project. From the start, he envisioned Mô kouzin mô kouzinn as an album sung entirely in Creole, a repertoire stretching from Congo Square to home lullabies, satire, laments, and even jazz. “It was as if these songs had been telling me ‘we exist,’” he says.
Bringing the Forgotten Songs to Life
Some songs carried him with a force he could barely control. The most powerful was “Ouarrà Sin Malo,” a haunting poem about a maroon slave. “When I was fifteen, I would sometimes skip classes and hide in the school library, the only books that interested me were two on the history of Black people in the USA, more specifically slavery,” he recalls. “Leafing through those books, I felt that no other people had suffered more than they had.” Decades later, when he set Sin Malo’s tragic story to music, it came in a rush. “There is no known melody for Ouarrà Sin Malo, so I made one up. It happened quickly, and I created two chords like many Creole songs from the 20th century. I had shivers when I first did it. It was almost like being a channel for a powerful energy that needed to be expressed.”
Other songs required reconstruction. “Patat-la kwit,” once a fixture of Congo Square, had survived in fragments but never with its full rhythmic power. Earlier versions lacked percussion, so LeBlanc layered drums and shakers to approximate what Sunday gatherings must have sounded like. “Patat-la kwit“ was a popular song at Congo Square, sung repeatedly with percussion. I felt delighted and proud to record this song in a spirit close to how it was done initially.”
Each recovery felt like an act of resistance against silence. “Whether it was me, Pascale LeBlanc, or Sara Rénélik singing a song that had been sleeping for decades, I felt I was witnessing some kind of resurrection,” he says. “It was like revenge on what I call selective History. This exists, this is not buried, this is important, maybe more so than many can imagine.”
Songs of Rhythm and Satire
Choosing what to include was not just about melody but about what each piece revealed of Creole life. At Congo Square, percussion was king, and “Patat-la kwit” carried the habanera rhythm that later pulsed through W.C. Handy’s St. Louis Blues and the syncopations of early jazz pianists.
“Kalinda” was one of those satirical songs, traditionally led by a female singer with the chorus answering “Dansé Kalinda, bou djoum djoum.” LeBlanc gathered verses from multiple sources, including one that mocked a strawberry thief for his mistress. “The Kalinda was a satirical song with social commentary, a tradition that goes back to the cultures of West Africa,” he explains.
“Mishé Banjo” carried the same spirit, lampooning the vanity of free men of color with their cigars and pocket handkerchiefs. “It is both a rhythmic song you can dance to and a satire of social pretension,” he says.
Other pieces like “Remon” and “Aurore Bradaire” were included for their sheer beauty, while “Milatrès” combined rhythm with sharp class commentary. “They are humorous, biting, and full of rhythm and life,” LeBlanc says. “They carry history in every verse.”
Balancing Authenticity with Today’s Sound
LeBlanc knew recreating the 19th-century soundscape was impossible, yet he wanted the album grounded in the instruments and textures of the time. “Although there were probably no orchestras in the 19th century that sounded like the one I created in the studio, the choice of instruments was typical of New Orleans Creole music,” he says. That meant percussion first, banjo, fiddle, clarinet, and flute.
Percussionist Daniel Bellegarde, a specialist in Caribbean rhythms, supplied the heartbeat. A four-string banjo would have been most authentic, yet the guitar let him “sing with feeling,” so accompaniments stayed spare.
The collaboration with Pascale LeBlanc added another dimension. On “Moulin,” she suggested guitar, giving it the intimacy of a Creole blues ballad. “It gives a 20th-century ring to it, a Creole Blues ballad. I love it. It’s one of my favorite songs,” he says.
The result is a sound that nods to history without becoming a museum piece, lean arrangements that carry the voices and rhythms forward while leaving space for feeling.
Creole, Jazz, and Filling the Blind Spots
For LeBlanc, the deeper he went, the clearer it became that Creole songs were not marginal but central to the birth of jazz. “Whatever the thesis is about the birth of jazz, you cannot overlook the Creole contribution,” he insists. Historians often described jazz as the meeting of uptown African Americans with raw improvisations and downtown Creoles of color with formal training. LeBlanc believes that version leaves out the heartbeat. “The African pulse was still alive in New Orleans at the end of the 19th century. The Creole contribution was not just what the sophisticated Creoles brought but also what the ex-Afro-Creole slaves offered.”
Transitional pieces like “Mô kouzin mô kouzinn,” recorded in 1960 by Lemon Nash on ukulele and reinterpreted with banjo, make the point audible. “The banjo carried Congo Square rhythm forward after percussion waned,” LeBlanc explains.
“Usually when I read a book about the story of jazz, I feel frustration,” he adds. “How do they ignore so much of Louisiana’s 18th and 19th-century musical traditions?” His answer is to sing the missing links.
The Band That Made It Breathe
Although Mô kouzin mô kouzinn was Benoît’s vision, it became a living album because of the musicians he gathered. Bassist and music director Erik West-Millette helped shape the sessions, connecting him with master percussionist Daniel Bellegarde for the heartbeat, Pascale LeBlanc for voice and guitar, Jordan Officer for guitar and fiddle, Sara Rénélik for depth on “Salangadou,” Duane Larson for clarinet and flute, Éric Rock for banjo, and Pierre Perron who closes “La misère d’Ulysses Picou” on clarinet, with the late J.D. Slim adding a subtle electric line to “Moulin.”
“We recorded live in the studio, that’s what gave the songs breath,” Benoît says.
Recognition, Reactions, and Studio Surprises
When the letter arrived from the Global Music Awards, Benoît did not answer immediately. “At first, when I received their letter, it was unreal. I didn’t reply right away. I had to let it sink in,” he remembers. After years of being teased by friends for his obsession with Louisiana Creole music, the recognition felt like quiet vindication. “Something was calling me, and there was no way I would say no to it. It can be a lonesome road. So, to learn that my work was recognized, I felt that I hadn’t wasted my time. I believed in myself, I believed in my project. Recognition arrives and, hey, I’m not crazy, or maybe I am…” he says with a laugh.
You can hear him laugh again on “Un nòt kankan,” when clarinet and banjo collide by accident. He calls it “spontaneous and fun.”
Other moments were equally unexpected. “Blansh Toukoutou,” a 19th-century piece later jazzed up by Kid Ory, took on a mellow sensuality he had never felt in rehearsal. “My voice just flowed; it was surprisingly mellow,with a softness and even a sensuality. The band carried me,” he says.
As for audience response, most feedback has come from those familiar with Kouri-Vini, or Haitians in Montréal who heard echoes of their heritage. “It would be exciting to present these songs in Louisiana schools,” he muses.
The Message of the Album
What Benoît wants listeners to carry away from Mô kouzin mô kouzinn is simple but profound: recognizing a culture too often overlooked. “Most of my friends, when they heard the album, asked me what music this is and in what language I am singing,” he says. “I want people to know that this culture is unique and beautiful and has played an important role in shaping Louisiana.”
To explain, he reaches for an image. “Imagine a picture of a family of five children. All five have succeeded in life; they have done wonderful things, and some even gained notoriety. Someone else is in the picture; she looks shy, discreet, and humble. That’s the mother. She gave birth to these success stories; she’s the creator, the source. Without her, these children would not exist. That is how I see the 18th and 19th-century Afro-Creole heritage. It’s time to give the mother some recognition.”
The Track That Made Him Most Proud
When pressed to choose one piece that stands out, Benoît names “La misère d’Ulysses Picou.” He first read about it in Alan Lomax’s Mister Jelly Roll, where clarinetist Alphonse Picou’s brother Ulysses insisted on singing one of his songs. Lomax noted the lyrics, but Benoît could not find a recording. “I read the lyrics and went a bit crazy. Where can I find this song? I need to hear it!” he recalls.
Years later, he finally tracked it down online, long after most of his album had been finished, and added it without hesitation. “It is a typical Creole song, a Creole equivalent of a blues song, Ulysses sings his mizè in his own idioms, musically and linguistically,” Benoît explains. The recording is even more potent because Ulysses is accompanied by his famous brother on clarinet, creating a bridge between folk song and early jazz.
The inclusion has already sparked new interest. Creole historian Nick Douglas, who is related to the Picou family, called Benoît in astonishment, grateful that someone had finally recorded the piece. “He might use it for his documentary on the Creole roots of Jazz,” Benoît says. “Proud, yes indeed.”
Looking Ahead and Legacy
Even as Mô kouzin mô kouzinn continues to make its way in the world, Benoît is already at work on a second album. It will include 19th-century songs, piano pieces inspired by Professor Longhair and Fats Domino, a fable by Jules Choppin set to music with African textures, and an excerpt from Alcée Fortier’s Louisiana Folk-Tales. He is also adapting a poem by Emile Honoré from Clint Bruce’s Afro-Creole Poetry in French from Louisiana’s Radical Civil War-Era Newspapers. Apart from one bilingual track, everything will again be sung in Kouri-Vini. “The palette is varied, but the language remains at the center,” he says.
Asked what he wishes for Creole culture, his answer comes quickly. “First, recognition. Second, not just preservation but flourishing of the culture, including the language. Third, always walk in the direction of more self-love. Stand tall. Celebrate the culture. It’s important.”
The journey has also taught him something personal. “To trust, no matter what, my intuition,” he reflects. “We live in a world that tends to go towards uniformity. At an early age, my intuition led me to worlds that school and the media never mentioned. I felt there was something to discover. Nobody could confirm the importance and the value of what I was doing. I persevered, and gradually, what I discovered confirmed I was right.”
On legacy, he is modest, reluctant to call himself a guardian of Creole history, pointing instead to researchers and activists who devote their lives to the language. Yet as an artist, he feels connected to revivalists like Taj Mahal, Ry Cooder, and Robbie Robertson, who revived traditions out of love and respect. “So, I hope my album will motivate young musicians to look at what I call the treasure, find inspiration from that musical legacy, and build from there. Personal recognition is excellent, but it is much greater and more exhilarating when the culture you celebrate is equally recognized. Çé bokou vayan, çé manifik.”
Closing
The laugh is still there on the record, a slight, unguarded sound as clarinet and banjo cross lines in “Un nòt kankan.” For Benoît LeBlanc, it captures the spirit of the project, songs that were never meant to stay frozen on paper but to surprise, flow, and dance with the unexpected. What began for him as a teenage fascination with blues records and Creole fragments became a lifelong pursuit of a hidden archive, one he has now lifted into the present.
“These songs had been sidelined for a long time; they were telling me, ‘We exist,’” he says. In giving them back their voice, he has preserved history and made it sing again. For listeners, Mô kouzin mô kouzinn is an invitation to hear the mother behind the music of Louisiana, discreet yet essential, finally stepping forward to take her place in the family portrait.