Though of Cajun ancestry — his given surname is Arceneaux — he was born in California, but was Louisianne through and through, and settled in the bayou.

His adopted name came from the legend of child named Coco Robicheaux, whose soul is captured by a werewolf.

I know little else of him. But I never missed his set at JazzFest. His music is soulful, full with mystery and bayou gris gris. It’s as if he and his band emerged from the swamp, covered in moss and muck, as if in some B horror film. Then would break out into a grizzled tune that would cut to the core of melancholy.

Sandwiched between those tilts your favorite team plays an important home football game. (I know my school does.) And then there’s a righteous concert tomorrow.

You know, your basic boffo autumn weekend in the offing. All the while getting to spend some time with your sweetie who has been out of town.

So you got to kickstart it, right? Get things movin’ in the right direction. I figure you might as well start at the top.

John Lee Hooker. Van Morrison. Doing a live version of one of the seminal rock & roll songs of all time.

Let’s get this party started.

This one’s for those moments when your focus needs readjustment to positive.

This one’s to spin out of the abyss of sadness.

This one’s sunshine on a rainy day.

This one is for those instances when only Carlos will do, hitting the high, pitch perfect, soaring bravissimo.

This one’s for today.

Frankly, I haven’t followed the group that closely through the years. So, I’m not familiar either with their repertoire, or their travails.

I’m sure they’ve made a lot of smashing music, the kind that makes you dance and think and smile. I’m just haven’t been that locked in. You know, a guy’s only got so many ears.

But this tune, “? Modern Industry,” one guy’s opinion, is brilliant. It certainly meets the American Bandstand standard of “Good lyrics. You can dance to it.” It is also satire and homage of the highest order.

Enough gab. These guys are wack. Listen up.

Stokin’.

Reading the other day that Sylvia Robinson passed away, I immediately thought of her alluring, sensual duet with Louisvillian Mickey Baker on the 1956 hit, “Love is Strange.”

I frankly didn’t know of her importance as one of  Sugar Hill Records’ founders, and her moniker as “Mother of Hip Hop.”

Nor was I aware that Bo Diddley claimed to have written the song, and actually recorded a version several months before Mickey & Sylvia.

Diddley’s version however was never released until a few years ago as part of a retrospective. Mickey & Sylvia’s version topped the Billboard R & B charts for a bit, and has been a staple to set a mood in single guys’ pads, and in several films. “Dirty Dancing” immediately comes to mind.

The song’s unique guitar riff is credited to a fellow named Jody Williams. But Mickey Baker does it serious justice. What really sets the M & S version apart is Sylvia’s Eartha Kittish “Come here, loverboy” during the cooing interlude.

While Bo Diddley is one of my favorites, one of rock & roll’s founding fathers, his rendition of this song is clearly inferior to the more famous one. This is Mickey & Sylvia’s tune forever and always.

“The songs are all sad, breaking up. But the tunes are so snappy. There’s that ‘Sally Go ‘Round The Roses’.”

Good ear, the Film Babe. I cut her a copy of “Girls, Girls, Girls,” a 2003 compilation of Girl Group hits that’s as well done a compendium as any in rock and roll. And, my gal, latched on to what is perhaps the most mysterious, beguiling song of the whole genre. As haunting a tune as there is in the pantheon of rock & roll.

(In her mid 50s, the Film Babe wasn’t reared with the same music as I. She remains a might reluctant about doo wop. “I just didn’t grow up with it like you did. It doesn’t have that same emotional resonance.” A few more spins of “In The Still of the Nite” and perhaps she’ll get it.)

There’s a whole lot of back story to the cutting of “Sally Go ‘Round The Roses,” a 45 B side. There’s an Abner Spector involved, but he’s no relation to Phil. About 20 people sang on the track. One of them was the daughter of Zell Sanders, the songwriter. Johnnie Louise Richardson is the Johnnie of Johnnie & Joe (“Over The Mountain, Cross The Sea.”) The song allegedly cost $60 large to produce, an off the charts amount for the time.

None of that really matters, except for those of us still in touch with our inner Shrevie. Most important is that the tune still mystifies a half century after it was released.

I do film reviews on that show every Tuesday morning at a smidge after 8:00 am.

Frankly, the banter between my host and myself through the years had gotten, well, more than a little testy at times. We used to do a quiz in which he’d play a film clip and I had to ID the flick. He was rarely inclined to give me full credit for identifying the movies. Why? Well, you’ll have to ask Mr. Bickers . . . if you can track him down now.

I would attempt to engage the audience with cultural bon mots. Mr. Bickers lives a solitary life, so most references passed him by. Instead of displaying even the merest scintilla of interest, he would feign displeasure. It was, frankly, not a good feeling.

During our last gig together, Mr. Bickers, out of the blue, indicated the tension that many felt emanating from the studio was simply radio shtick. Imagine my surprise. He never, at any moment during our 8 year run, indicated it was all an act.

Anyway, I guess I need to let bygones be bygones, move beyond my justified resentments, understand I’m not the lowly weasel Mr. Bickers would portray me to be, and forgive. Oh yes, and forget.

Therefore, to honor Mr. Bickers, on his last day on the job. I offer this testimonial.

Sayonara, mon ami. Don’t worry, I’ll lock the door behind you.