Fire Arrow Records

Conjure Bag raps like a prayer and hits like a verdict—four voices bound by two vows, turning faith and fallout into songs that hold a room. Built from two husband‑and‑wife duos, the group moves with the gravity of Hoodoo and the swing of New Orleans, folding Haitian drum language into 808 thunder, second‑line snap into church‑organ bloom. They don’t treat belief as costume; it’s the craft that made a family and the fire that built their catalog. When the hooks arrive, they feel bigger on the inside—call‑and‑response that sounds like a porch full of neighbors answering back.

The Origin
Marcel “Six” Broussard and Evangeline “Vee” Thibodeaux grew up together in New Orleans. He loved her since sixth grade—“Six” stuck—and she chose him junior year. They married right after graduation. Vee drew Six deeper into Hoodoo—roots, psalms, the old work—until a dark casting backfired not long after the wedding and left her unable to bear children. Grief didn’t push her away; it pulled her further in. The altar got busier. The house got fuller. The music sharpened. They decided the songs and the community would be their children.
Across the water, in Port‑au‑Prince, childhood sweethearts Jean‑Michel “Ti Jean” Desrosiers and Mireille “Lwela” Baptiste fell in love at twelve. The 2010 earthquake shattered their life—home gone, family gone, everything but each other. They came to New Orleans with the American dream and found more of nothing. Five years after Katrina, the city was still healing; work was scarce. One night in an alley, Lwela whispered the incantations her grandmother taught her, offering fear to the dark in exchange for a door.
Six and Vee found them before dawn, brought them home “for a few nights,” and never let go. Two marriages. One roof. One altar. One studio. Conjure Bag is the sound of that decision.

The Sound
Engineered collision, built for consequence. Drums stack like intentions: 808 sub for the gut, second‑line snare for the street, Haitian tanbou/conga for the blood. Bell hits punctuate turns like cutting a work; talking drum and woodblock flourish in negative space. Guitars show up as swamp‑blues harmonics—ghost images, not solos—while organ swells carry the air like a held breath. Field recordings—bead clatter, market chatter in Kreyòl, wind through live oaks—give tracks a living texture. Minor‑modal centers lean Dorian and Phrygian; hooks are ring‑shout simple and crowd‑strong. The producer tag tells you what’s coming: “Tie the knot, cut the work—Conjure Bag.”

The Voices
Marcel “Six” Broussard (MC/producer/percussion): a gravel‑warm baritone with second‑line cadence, storyteller first, beat‑maker second, field‑recorder always.
Evangeline “Vee” Thibodeaux (MC/singer, spiritual lead): switchblade soft to sermon‑strong—invocations, chants, sung hooks, and the calm center that turns belief into architecture.
Jean‑Michel “Ti Jean” Desrosiers (MC, tanbou, Kreyòl ad‑libs): tensile, quicksilver flow; proverbs braided with pressure; drum hands that make the verses breathe.
Mireille “Lwela” Baptiste (singer/rapper, bells/prayer‑response): glass‑clear alto with storm edges; velvet on verse, thunder on hook; the alleyway prayer made voice.

Notable Tracks
Alleyway Psalms
Low kick, rim taps, night‑market ambience. Lwela whispers the old words; Vee answers with a sung line that feels like a door unlocking. It’s the miracle night translated: fate as a signal, family before sunrise. The final chorus is a circle—the crowd becomes part of the prayer.
Children of the Work
Parade snare marries 808 trunk; bell strikes mark decisions. Hook: “We couldn’t have none, so we raised these songs.” Pride record and mission statement, the neighborhood named as godparents. Six raps the ledger; Vee sings the blessing.
Salt and Ash
Organ drone, swamp harmonics, slow thump. Vee faces the cost of the backfired casting without flinch; Six answers as husband and witness. Ti Jean threads Kreyòl through the bridge like a spine. It hurts and heals on the same chord.

Themes and Writing
Faith has a price; love is a covenant; community is a religion. Conjure Bag writes from the hinge where grief turns to craft. Hoodoo isn’t stage dressing—it’s praxis and metaphor, handled with respect: roots and psalms named carefully, sacred specifics shaded to protect the work. Haiti’s wound and New Orleans’ scar sit side by side—earthquake and hurricane as twin ghosts. The immigrant story and the Gulf Coast story meet in a kitchen full of drums. Lines are concrete: lampblack fingers on a Bible page, bead strings drying over a chair, a red string looped around a knob “just in case.” When they say “hold fast,” you can feel a rope in your hand.

Live and Next
On stage, Conjure Bag plays like a rite. Indigo, rust, bone white, and lampblack wash the lights; cowrie and red string mark the set; incense and woodsmoke whisper before the first downbeat. A live bell starts the show. There’s a signature silent drop before final hooks—guitars mute, the organ hangs, Vee holds a line unaccompanied—then everything returns at once like weather. The call is simple: “Hold fast.” The answer is sure: “Cut the work.” Coming releases widen the circle—protective psalms for the block, courtship songs that sound like oaths, and a cycle that twins stormwater and seawater, Katrina and 2010, survival and return.

What to Play First
Start with Alleyway Psalms for the origin told right; go to Children of the Work for the thesis you can chant; close with Salt and Ash when you’re ready to hold something heavy and let it lighten.