Chulas Fronteras/Del Mero Corazon Jai Ete Au Bal Les Blank, Director Arhoolie Records (2003) DVD $29.99 ea. Available at Insound.

As its sister CD succinctly captured the musical history of its Cajun and zydeco legends, the film Jai Ete Au Bal captures the faces, the personalities, and the effortless grace of these downhome characters. The talk is as funny as it is affectionate and admiring. Joe Falcon, a pioneer of Cajun music in the '20s, is considered to be one of the lucky men, as his wife and fellow musician Cleoma was beautiful. How I would have loved to bed her, you hear fellow musicians say.

Arhoolie honcho Chris Strachwitz's unsurpassed knowledge of American music finds a kindred soul in Les Blank, who captures faces as deftly as Fellini. His frames fill in all that the minimal narration leaves out, while the music is as much fun to watch as it is to dance and digest food to.

This rich human element is important to the overall enjoyment of the film, but the discussions of music are far from pat. Almost all the Cajun and zydeco musicians appear to have relatives decrying the accordion's limitations, and it's interesting to hear how its structure affects the playing of standards, or songs from their own grandmothers' past. Shot in yards where seven dogs and five dead vehicles are the norm, Jai Ete Au Bal reveals a world where music is the life. Historically, it was a necessity on weekends. Cajun music helped its listeners to endure the week of field work looming before them, and it only suffered setbacks in popularity when American life prospered, and string bands from the West started strumming over Louisiana skies.

The accordion helps Cajun and zydeco music to remain a consistent antidote to pain. There was less a need for the music during the perky, post-WW2 years of Glenn Miller and Bing Crosby, but its popularity reemerged in the '60s. For groups like Lil Brian and the Zydeco Travelers, the music has shown a surprising, seamless ability to blend with hip hop and other modern dance forms, and the performers often look like average jocks. After this 87-minute documentary, it seems easier to ride with the times of musical change than with the changing faces. The music's joy and love is perfectly captured in the rough-skinned, smiling faces of its neighborly elite, and depicts humanity's love for the music of their land as brilliantly as anything I can recall.

Louisiana's music has likely brought Arhoolie its greatest commercial successes, but Strachwitz's ear has a special affinity for Mexican music and the border music of Texas and the remaining Southwest. Both Chulas Fronteras and Del Mero Corazon are almost purely about the music, with the narrative far more subdued -- often simply resuscitations of song lyrics ("I went to the cemetery to pour out my sorrow... Not even in death can I stop loving you"). The songs follow the camera's movements, or vice versa, so you get ample walk-throughs of cemeteries. You follow trucks ("I'm a trucker / And I love to drink my alcohol") down the road, passing signs for Corpus Christi and, as expected, the sight of many women dancing.

In many ways, these Tex-Mex documentaries are even greater artistic statements from Blank and Strachwitz, but the humor is minimal, and the faces more pained. When the musicians are sweating onstage, they don't even seem particularly happy, which is a far cry from Cajun and zydeco. While luminaries like David Hidalgo suggest these films as the quickest way to understand their culture, an accurate depiction of music in the life of the working class does not always excite. Los Lobos's own La Pistola y El Corazon attracted me to the culture far more for its codfish songs and all the players' passion, than for its wonderfully filmed scenes of old folks dancing. Since I never think (or want to think) of old folks dancing when I play music, the movies seldom illuminate the world that Joe Ely, Los Lobos, and writers like Larry McMurtry have romanticized. Aside from a stirring ending that speeds by graffiti-covered walls, pimp cars, Chico and his dancing men, this cinematic experience resembles a walk through a small town where every block looks like folk art. It's beautiful to look at, and you think you'll remember it forever, but it never provides the expected emotional release.

More emotionally compelling is the bonus performance by Lydia Mendoza, Jose Morante, and other major stars who apparently play in small restaurants and clubs. Against some background chatter, and a dinner audience that is compelled to chew more than cheer, the artists show a profound degree of concentration as they perform their craft, belting out their worries, hopes, sweat, and dreams.

Judging from these DVDs, Blank and Strachwitz view music, even dance music, as stories about people. Most of their text is comprised of the faces and the hands of the filmed musicians, and it's hard to disagree with their approach. Good local music is physical, in-your-face passion. It inspires because you know the people, and you feel their passion. That comes through even during the passages of Chulas Fronteras when the music seems more competent than fun.

-- Theodore Defosse