Lenny Lafargue interview: “I never planned on having a career”

With the passing of Lenny Lafargue, French blues has lost one of its finest representatives. He was neither overexposed in the media nor overrated by the public: he rightfully belonged alongside his friend Benoît Blue Boy, for example. A long career, lows worthy of American bluesmen, highs that brought him self-confidence and fleeting moments of joy, and no concessions to “show business”: Lenny Lafargue always fiercely defended a certain ideal of freedom, both in his creative work and in his personal life.

Lenny Lafargue preferred craftsmanship to the music industry, simple and powerful lyrics to enigmatic literary flourishes, raw and direct music such as the blues of the pioneers to electronic tinkering, the peace of a quiet fishing trip to the noise of big cities, strong human relationships to the superficiality of our society, and chance encounters and meaningful connections to the pursuit of a career at all costs.

As a tribute to him, Blues Actu is publishing, for the first time, the interview that Lenny Lafargue gave to Marc Loison on May 11, 2024 for Sweet Home Chicago, both in audio and text form.

Also available on our website is Cédric Vernet’s tribute, which you can read by clicking here.

🎤 Lenny Lafargue interviewed by Marc Loison

So Lenny, how did you get into the blues?

Well, that’s quite a story. Some people would say it was mystical. I don’t really know what words to use. I don’t even know why I ended up where I am. It just happened naturally. Some would say it was meant to be.

In the 1960s, I was a kid and my sister used to throw parties. I was quite receptive to the British and American rock music they played. There were 45s, of course, with hits by the Stones and the Kinks. But one day, among them, I found a 45 by Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee. I’ll never know why, but something about it caught my attention and I took the record. I listened to it and thought: “Wow, this is great!” That’s how it all started.

I later had the same feeling with a Ray Charles record. I was completely hooked. I thought: “This man is God.” I had been to catechism classes, but I remember thinking they really should have told me about him!

When I was about 12 or 13, I picked up a guitar and a harmonica rack. I wanted to become a great bluesman and thought that if I played in the street, I would become one. Then I discovered Furry Lewis. I saw that he had recorded in his bed and thought that was fantastic. I realized he played with a bottleneck and tried to do the same. Then I came across a Freddie King record. That’s when I thought: “Wow! That’s how I want to play, electric.”

“In England, there were guys who played like gods”

Did you teach yourself guitar and harmonica?

Yes. I lived in England during the British Blues Boom, although I didn’t know that was what it was called at the time. There were no teaching methods available in France and, where we lived around Bordeaux, nobody played that kind of music. There were rock bands playing Led Zeppelin or rockabilly, but no blues.

In England, I saw guys who played like gods. I watched them and tried to understand what they were doing. I also bought a lot of records. When I returned to France, I met a German woman in Arcachon who was already a professional musician. I was playing these strange kinds of blues on one chord or using a piece of bottleneck. She showed me a few things.

Then I came across an American musician who was passing through. We jammed together and he told me I wasn’t keeping to the bars properly. Playing alone is one thing, but when you play with other people, it’s better if everybody reaches the end of the twelve bars at the same time! He explained all that to me.

I really learned bits and pieces through the people I met. In the summer, there were Belgians and English people at campsites who played very well. From the age of 16, I was no longer living with my parents. I got by and played in cafés, in the street, anywhere people would have me. I met musicians who played Cajun and zydeco music. There was a violin, an accordion, a mandolin and percussion. I joined the band and those people taught me how to accompany other musicians.

I also discovered a shop in Bordeaux whose back room was like Ali Baba’s cave. There were dozens of blues records. Every week, as soon as I had made a little money busking, I would go and buy one. I built up an incredible collection and worked constantly by listening to those records and learning by ear.

At that time, were you already thinking about making a living from music?

Not at all. I really had no intention of pursuing a musical career. I was a million miles away from making business plans the way people do nowadays. It simply wasn’t something I thought about.

After living a somewhat gypsy-like life on the streets, I went back to England. I met a woman there, got married and had a child. I needed to provide at least some financial security, so I became a metalworker and welder and only played music for my own enjoyment.

At the time, a lot of people died doing that job. I was lucky. Sometimes we would climb forty or fifty metres up scaffolding. A friend of mine who was a social worker said to me: “You have to stop doing this because you have a gift. You play really well.” I didn’t even know I had a gift.

Was she the one who helped you leave that dangerous job?

She suggested that I run music workshops for troubled young people, young offenders. I started working at a community centre in Bacalan, Bordeaux. That’s where I began teaching music.

I later took groups of young offenders on the road. It wasn’t easy, but it was quite an experience. We travelled around the country with thirty or forty young people. I also worked in prisons with Lili Le Forestier’s association. I did a lot of music teaching. I think that was part of my karma too: I had these two sides to my life, performing musician and teacher.

How did the Mojo Blues adventure begin?

Alongside my work at the community centre, I formed Mojo Blues. I met a guitarist who had plenty of experience, an old hand who had contacts and saw my potential. He found us a lot of gigs and the band took off.

In 1975, 1976 and 1977, we played all over western France and as far as Spain. Nobody had ever heard a band playing that kind of music. At the time, nothing like it existed in the region. We were a huge success. That’s when people began to notice me. I didn’t even realize I had become something of a reference: I just did what I did, that was all. But I began to make a living from it and was able to buy a Fender and a Gibson acoustic. Most importantly, I was able to stop working as a welder.

With Mojo Blues, we played around a hundred gigs in three months. There were some line-up changes, then I continued as a trio and put together a tribute to T-Bone Walker with a saxophonist. I played a lot around Bordeaux with that line-up. That’s how a booking agent eventually offered to work with me.

You then played with Memphis Slim. How did that come about?

I was discovering an American professional world that I knew nothing about. Before going on stage, the booking agent asked me if I had a tie and warned me that after my second mistake, I would be out. When you’re 22, you don’t necessarily understand that kind of thing. We rehearsed for two minutes, but I pulled it off.

I had been sent about thirty Memphis Slim records without being told what we were going to play. Luckily, someone recommended At the Gate of Horn, his landmark album, and lent it to me. Sure enough, those were exactly the songs we played.

Memphis Slim was very friendly, but you had to deliver. You weren’t going to teach him about blue notes: he knew his music. I had been lucky enough to work on T-Bone Walker’s repertoire beforehand. Matt “Guitar” Murphy had taken that approach further by adding more jazz influences. That helped me because Memphis Slim’s boogies, with their key changes, were quite difficult to accompany.

My father filmed a short tour. Later, when I watched the footage, I thought: “Hey, I’m playing pretty well there!” Before he died, he also gave me some reel-to-reel tapes and said: “Here, these are the tapes of you playing with Memphis Slim.” I’m still trying to get them restored because I would really love to hear them.

“Back then, I had a Peugeot 403 and a caravan. That’s how I toured.”

How important was Jacques Garcia in your career?

Jacques Garcia and I go back a long way. I can say he is a friend. You don’t have that many real friends in the music business, but he is one of them.

After Memphis Slim, I played pretty much everywhere. Back then, I had a Peugeot 403 and a caravan. That’s how I toured, with my guitar, turning up at places and introducing myself directly. A friend asked me whether I had ever recorded anything. I hadn’t, so she took me into a studio. With a trio, we recorded ten tracks: five original songs, including two in English, and five covers. The project was called Freeway.

The cassette made the rounds. It eventually landed on Jacques Garcia’s desk and he immediately called me back to sign me to his booking agency. That took things to another level because it was international booking. From 1988 to 1992 or 1993, I found myself playing on many stages and meeting a lot of well-known musicians.

We then made my first album, Mauvaise Carte, which was originally going to be called French Blues. I asked to sing in French, although they were fairly reluctant at first. The album was made in three days. There wasn’t much of a budget, but Otis Grand played on it.

Jacques always stood up for me and helped me out enormously. Without him, I would never have had all the opportunities I had. I have tremendous respect for him and his wife for everything they have done for this music. I also had the honour of inaugurating the Maison du Blues.

Is singing the blues in French important to you?

I’m not making any particular statement. I have never got involved in that debate about whether you should sing in French or English. If it’s good, it’s good, whether it’s in French or English.

In Louisiana, you have the Cajuns. We are the only country with a Franco-American blues culture. They can mix French and American English in their lyrics. Here, as soon as you release a song in French, some people say you’re making French chanson. I think that’s absurd.

I also love covering songs in English. I don’t see things as black or white: there is plenty of grey in between. My current backing singer is Portuguese. She sings rock in Portuguese, blues and fado, and it’s great. The language doesn’t matter: when you listen to it, if it’s good, it’s good.

I know Cadi Jo well. I’m the one who gave him the bug. Originally, he sang in English, then he started doing things in French. It works very well, and he even sings in Gascon.

Are some promoters still reluctant to book blues sung in French?

Some of them have blinkers on and want French bands that imitate American bands. That comes at the expense of other groups offering something original, something you recognize the moment you put the record on, like Raoul Ficel, for example.

But I don’t want to generalize. There are plenty of festival promoters who are open to originality. They give artists the opportunity to play and I respect them for that. There’s Michel Rolland at Cognac Blues Passions, who booked me several times, or Éric Diard. There are intelligent, open-minded people on the circuit.

The language doesn’t matter: if it grooves, if it’s good and if the artist has something to say, what difference does it make? I have kept Rockin’ the House in my own repertoire, an English-language song that I love singing because it’s fantastic.

On Rouler, rouler, you tell simple, sometimes autobiographical stories. How do you write?

I find it difficult to analyse what I do because, to me, it just feels natural. I’m self-taught. I mainly tell love stories because romantic relationships are very important and they aren’t easy. I’m not a politically engaged artist, but sometimes I do say what I think.

Rouler, rouler is the story of a man who meets a woman. They both want to leave and give everything up. They are fed up with the world they live in and want to get away. At some point, all of us have thought about leaving everything behind and going ten thousand kilometres away to an island.

When I play for myself, I try to forget all the conventions and keep things as close to the ground as possible. When you teach African-American music or rock, you have to go through certain rules: telling someone they’re out of time or that there needs to be a rest. But when I play for myself, I try to be as un-intellectual as possible. That is what freedom is.

Was Belleville written directly in the studio?

Yes. I did it in the moment. I had no lyrics and no music. I had spent time in Belleville and lived there. The sound engineer told me I couldn’t put just eight songs on the album. I told him eight was all I had.

I sat down with my guitar, with absolutely nothing prepared, and I came up with Belleville instantly, right there. The same happened with Oh chérie, which is about a breakup. It comes from somewhere else. Maybe people will say I’m mystical. Why not?

Did the other songs on the album come just as spontaneously?

Still, they don’t simply fall from the sky through the work of the Holy Spirit. I start with themes. Bon temps rouler was already one of my favourite songs. On stage, you also have to play for the audience. We get people singing and they enjoy it. It’s the same with Hi Hi Oh Oh, which I had already done before. People enjoy singing it with us.

We’re not megastars. There isn’t much money in blues and we don’t appear on television. When you walk on stage, even if you are well known within the blues world, you still have to win the audience over, give people a good time and create something.

“I really enjoyed playing at every festival.”

Which memories from the stage have particularly stayed with you?

Everywhere I went, things went well. I particularly remember opening for Jimmy Johnson: the audience was very reserved, but people enjoyed it.

When I started playing in front of one or two thousand people, it was a little frightening. Bagnols Blues Night was a major event for me, a kind of baptism of fire in front of an audience of knowledgeable blues fans. Meeting Jacques Périn was also wonderful. He was extremely kind, but he didn’t give me any special treatment: he had booked me and I had to deliver.

I really enjoyed playing at every festival, particularly in Cognac, where Michel Rolland booked me several times, and in Cahors. But nothing is ever guaranteed. Some people in the audience know you, while others are discovering your name for the first time. You have to play music, give people pleasure and win them over.

I don’t doubt what I can do. My drummer has been playing with me for twenty years and my bass player for fifteen. I know I have a solid band and that we’re going to make music while enjoying ourselves too. If it works on stage, you win new fans.

For the release of Rouler, rouler, we chose Le Garage, a venue on the outskirts of Bordeaux. It was sold out, with around 250 people. Many of them didn’t know us, but we had a fantastic time. People enjoyed themselves, and that’s what really matters.

How do you promote your music today?

The media world today is very complicated. Until recently I had a secretary, but she is ill, so we are handling the promotion ourselves and have found someone to replace her.

I don’t see the point in hiring a press officer who is going to charge you two thousand euros to do what you can do yourself, which is basically send out information. We did manage to get some coverage on Paris radio stations with the help of a professional. Everything has now been sent out and we are waiting to see what comes back.

Would you have been interested in pursuing a career in the United States?

A genuine American career is almost impossible for a French bluesman. Frank Goldwasser, who lived in California for several decades, is an exception and someone I particularly respect.

If I wanted to discover the blues today, I would go to Texas, Louisiana and especially Mississippi, where authentic forms of this music still survive, even though they are threatened by economic difficulties.

Beyond music, human relationships seem essential to you.

Yes. I like living close to nature and going fishing. Once, in Morocco, I met a complete stranger on a plane. He spontaneously invited me to have a meal at his home. To me, that kind of generosity is a real lesson in humanity.

In France, I sometimes feel that human relationships have become more distrustful and individualistic. One day, I was looking for a warehouse and approached a young woman to ask for directions. She took four steps backwards and didn’t even let me speak for a second. She was frightened. I don’t want to generalize, but I feel we are living in an increasingly anxious country.

It’s the same with music: I can’t work with musicians unless there is a genuine human connection between us. My career was never planned. It grew out of encounters, chance, the pleasure of playing and the way other people saw me.

Thank you, Lenny, for the sincerity of your answers and for the humanity of this interview.

I’m the one who should be thanking you. It was a real pleasure to answer your questions.

🎙️ Listen to the show with Lenny Lafargue