Lafayette, Louisiana is not short on musicians. We knew that going into this, but have been learning it firsthand since moving here from Alaska about eighteen months ago.
As we’ve knocked around at the edges of the music scene wondering how to break in, one thing has become very become clear: they grow their own here.
And oh, what fertile ground it is. This is what drew us to the area in the first place.
We’ve been happy to observe, mainly from the sidelines, and have taken untold amounts of inspiration from the many colorful characters that populate festival stages and local dance halls.
The friendly and diverse population of this magical community lives and breathes with an infectious rhythm. Musicality oozes from the pores of this place like sweat, and there’s plenty of that to go around, here on North America’s largest floodplain swamp.
Talent abounds, so it takes a lot for someone to stand out as head and shoulders above the rest — especially a man as fairly small in stature and humble in character as Chris Stafford.
The first thing we noticed about Chris was that there seemed to be no instrument he hadn’t already mastered in his young life. His face-melting solos and rock-steady rhythm were enough to stop us in our tracks. But not for long; to listen to him play was to be moved. Literally. Feet could not hold still.
The man lived and breathed time, so it made no sense when it suddenly stopped for him yesterday.
Everyone in our town is reeling with disbelief. It’s unfathomable, they’re all saying, and they’re right. Like Chris’ talent, this is a loss that can’t be measured. I haven’t known him long, and still, I feel I’ve stared into the sun. First, at his unbelievable brilliance — a searing brightness. Now suddenly, it is as though we’ve all been pitched into a disorienting darkness. The Chris-shaped spot burns painfully with a fiery glow behind our eyes as we close them and weep. A hole is where the light should be.
The shock of his departure has plunged us into the reversed order of light and dark. Someone was here and gone, and now the world where he lived in it looks like a film negative. His phosphorescence, too quickly extinguished, flickers as it leaves us. We are haunted. Our tender mortality is on display: we are all here but for a fleeting moment.
To be perfectly clear, being new to town, Chris and I barely knew each other. We certainly hadn’t become very familiar in a meaningful way. And yet, from the first time I saw him playing live, I was able to immediately perceive something of his depth (and that’s a credit to him, not me).
I noticed how rooted he was to this place and the sound that defines it. This was obvious by how he connected in such an effortless way to the people with whom he shared the stage, and to his audience. His sense of self seemed secure enough to be humble. But while his presence was unassuming, his music let us all know: he was unafraid.
I know this collection of words will do nothing to comfort Chris’ family and loved ones, though I wish they could. I know they do not bring any ease to the many friends with whom he shared deep bonds — those who watched him grow through the years. I’m only offering them up here because they came to me, largely as a byproduct of everyone’s reactions. I’m stunned by how affected I’ve felt by his sudden erasure from the world, having barely been acquainted.
Too often, people arrive at the end of their days filled with regret that they didn’t make enough of their time here on Earth. I can’t see how this would be the case for Chris Stafford.
Here was a boy who started a wildly popular band at age eleven (Feu Follet); a young man whose musical path seemed to lie out before him as naturally as a yellow brick road. He built a successful recording studio organically, practically without meaning to. He earned four grammy nominations, though never seemed to let that go to his head. He took his creativity seriously with a conviction rarely seen. He knew where home was, and was an integral part of it for countless others. His absence will be felt on every stage, in every band.
Feu Follet was named for a piece of folklore I wasn’t familiar with before we lived here. Science explains the phenomenon as phosphorescent balls of light formed when gasses like methane spontaneously combust in marshy areas. But I’m told it is the French Louisiana version of Will-o’-the-wisp. Lots of supernatural stories exist around it, regionally, and children from the area have long been warned not to follow any lights in the swamp.
Thinking this the best band name ever, and being curious, I looked it up. Here’s what I found:
The Mystical Origins of Will-o’-the-Wisp
The will-o’-the-wisp is a flame-like phosphorescence caused by gases from decaying plants in marshy areas. In olden days, it was personified as “Will with the wisp,” a sprite who carried a fleeting “wisp” of light. Foolish travelers were said to try to follow the light and were then led astray into the marsh. (An 18th-century fairy tale described Will as one “who bears the wispy fire to trail the swains among the mire.”)…eventually, the name will-o’-the-wisp was extended to any impractical or unattainable goal.
And this:
Witnesses of this phenomenon called these orbs “swamp fairies,” or the “feu follet.” Feu follet is described as bright or flickering balls of light randomly dancing in the dark shadows of the bayou. They’ve supposedly been seen in different sizes, but the average size is said to be no larger than a candle flame.
“He’s been taken from us at the height of his musical career,” some proclaim.
But that’s only true because it ended abruptly yesterday. A huge part of what we’re collectively grieving is the music that will now never be played. His time and the notes that decorated it feels cut short. An unresolved chord hangs in the air. There’s no telling where he would have taken his talents, had he enjoyed a longer lifetime. Was this the pinnacle? No way. Had his life grown old, I’m quite sure his legacy would have, as well.
Many people in our community and across the globe struggling to come to terms with this death are reeling with disbelief.
I believe we are made to love, and that if we’re lucky, life will give us opportunities to bring forth and share the gifts inherent within us. From what I understand about Chris Stafford, he has accomplished both to a high degree. Through his music and big heart, he attained something impossible for many, and elusive for most. Unreachable, some might say. A true will-o’-the-wisp.
We are out of town at the moment and it’s strange not to be with Lafayette during her horrible rite of passage. Since Chris’ passing yesterday, I’ve had my eyes glued to social media, doing what everyone else is doing: trying to make sense of something impossible to wrap my mind around, and to feel a part of the circle that has formed around him in vigil. His loss comes as a hard blow to the realm of music, but I can’t even imagine the pain his family and close friends are feeling.
The news is popping up everywhere. His face fills the airwaves as I scroll through feeds online. It’s kind and elvish, and there’s something about it I can’t put my finger on, a light that burns brightly. As confusing as Chris’ quick parting from the world has been, I sense everyone coming to disambiguation about one thing, that’s for sure: we need to hold our loved ones close, for the flame can be snuffed out at any moment.
Here is Le Bande Feufollet at Whiskey River Landing in Henderson, LA in 1999. (Hang in there, the sound gets better.) Chris Stafford is eleven at the time of this filming, playing the accordion. He died yesterday in a car accident at the age of 36.
Sources:
https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/will-o%27-the-wisp
Photo credit: Photo credit: https://www.pickpik.com/dark-moody-scary-spooky-natural-woods-3985
Extending my heartfelt sympathies to Lafayette for your tragic loss! Beautiful music! 🎇
Sometimes the only time you know what you've got is when it's gone...