It is about him, no matter how much Drew Landry protests

The rusty 1969 Ford Ranger called Biscuit, wobbling along on pie plate rims, rumbles through Henderson as it makes its way to the levee road. Scattered flyers and discarded clothes carpet Biscuit's floor and at its wheel sits Drew Landry singing a song in the radio-less ride. His faithful puppy, Poo-Swa, rests his head lovingly in Landry's lap. The closed, two-colored eyes of the Catahoula pup - a rescued abused dog Landry is trying to help build confidence - miss all scenery of high waters, swanky bars and ninja turtles painted on hamburger stands. As Biscuit cruises the levee road, avoiding the muddy spots, old Poo picks his head up and peers out the open window.

Poo and Landry both get excited as they draw near the place he simply refers to as "the swamp." For the past few months Landry has been helping one of his mother's friends clear a pond filled with thousands of cypress trees of anything that will never grow a knee. In Landry's words, his boss's hound has been dominating Poo-Swa. But Poo, lately, has nutted up, handling another dog at his house. Today, both are anxious to see if Poo-Swa holds his ground or if he lives up to his name, a derogatory reference to his tail often being found 'tween his legs.

"You know, I like the underdog. That's why I'm excited about my record. It's all the people who are badass but never got their props," Landry says at an earlier stop at a Racetrac to air up the tires. Landry's record Keep What's Left reflects the state he grew up in with a taste of everything from old country to roadhouse tunes to electric blues to Cajun and Zydeco. He's joined by some good friends, new friends and even better musicians by the names of Pudd and Lee Anne Sharpe (The Sharpe Family, as Landry says) Chris "Dirty" Breaux, Marty Christian, Horace Trahan, Troy Richard, Ken Veron, Mike Dean, Jason Meaux, Dave Trainer, Allen Lafleur and his mother, Becca Begnaud. For the official release of the CD, which has been making the rounds in a cardboard sleeve with hand-written numbering, he pulls many of these musicians together along with the more of his favorites. One of the largest servings of live music not part of a festival, the event features around 10 acts, barbecue and a mechanical bull.

"I've been to a lot of different CD release parties where, I mean it was fun and all, (but) I don't want to bore people all night with my stuff," he says. "More importantly the record that I got done only happened because of all the other bands that I had helping me out ... The record would really suck without those dudes. It'd be me playing guitar half-ass."

When Landry and Poo get to the swamp, the dog promptly begins frolicking, splashing apart the tranquil sea of green algae floating like skin across the calm water. His nemesis doesn't quite bow, but Poo doesn't cower either, leaving Landry to get to work moving about some of the logs his boss cut. Even as far as day jobs go, the work isn't glamorous, but it does afford him something he values - the chance to play his music and the occasional bit of wisdom.

"Hard work keeps you honest. Easy money spends too fast," he says making a trip from severed tree to growing pile. In the fall, Landry was far from his home, working at a restaurant in Austin, Texas, which only gave him a paycheck. In the early days of summer 2003 he moved to Austin, knowing only squat on the guitar, to work on his career. At first, he had grand ideas of what the city would hold, being the live music capital of the world and all. Now, all he has for that capital city is a raspberry. However, his time spent in Texas did impart some wisdom. Not only did he expand his musical abilities - he can play a few chords now - he wised up to just how good it was in Lafayette.

"The people around here are so much more sincere. Austin has turned into quite the commercial, and it's the kind of city where people tote around their résumés," Landry says. "It's namedrop central, but over here people know you. They know what kind of person you are. If you are not a good guy, they don't want to talk to you. Over there, it's like you gotta be a used car salesman to get anywhere"

Years before heading west, Lafayette was a music scene he became engrossed in on one side or the other of nearly every bar in town. Later, he struck out on his own at The Rinky-Dink Dancehall, giving a stage to just about anyone he could. For a long time, Landry filled notebooks full of songs - or "goofy little poems" as he calls them - he wrote as therapy for what life handed him. Eventually, he became one of those countless openers at the Dink. However, like Poo-Swa, he just wasn't steadfast in his abilities, and remains a little self-effacing when it comes to his craft.

"I don't know if you could call it singing," he says.

In Austin, he learned the importance of open mic nights where performers still building their acts can add to the foundation of their sets. "You gotta have enough confidence in your music, and you gotta know it well enough. I played some gigs where I wasn't ready, and that's the worst," says Landry. Yet, the final bit of gumption came at the end of another long trip.

A month or so before Landry moved to Austin, his friend Scott H. Biram was hit head-on by an 18-wheeler just a week before the launch of his national tour. The dates had to be pushed back to give Biram time to recover, but even by that autumn Biram wasn't ready to make the trip by himself. Biram asked Landry to come along and roadie for him as he opened for Hank Williams III. Even though it was almost certainly a thankless job, Landry jumped at the chance to put 12,000 miles on Biram's new van, see a little bit of the country and live the road life. Towards the end of the stretch, Biram had to head back to Texas, leaving III without an opener and Landry in the Carolinas. Williams asked him to open the show and Landry, still less than confident, reluctantly obliged. However, at the show the crowd took to him, singing along with one of his favorite songs "Mid-South," a ditty about old-school wrestling with the sticky hook of "It's 1-2-3, JYD!"

"I decided if I didn't get booed off stage and people were asking me for CDs I better make a CD." Landry returned home to Lafayette and almost immediately brought back his own taste of Austin, setting up two weekly open mic nights, one of which is still in play, further honing his chops.

Still a bit of a reluctant frontman, Landry confesses the release show is not about him, but about his two musical communities coming together and showcasing their best.

"Everybody that plays that night, hats off to 'em," he says. "They been doing it a lot longer than me, and they are real good. So whatever I can do to help all the people that helped me out is basically what I am doing."

In the swamp, June is running out of time to drop more rain on Acadiana. The sky is split down the middle, with one side clear and azure with sunlight bouncing off a few fluffy, white, harmless clouds. The other hangs as low as the ceiling in a two-bit one-stop, threatening to add a few more inches to the rain gauge. Choruses of swamp bugs chime in, with bass lines of approaching thunder. On one of his last trips to the pile, Landry relates one more piece of wisdom before the looming weather sends him and Poo-Swa back to the truck.

A week or two ago, he and his boss were pulling wood out of a storage shed. The ceiling had a hole in it, and all the wood stored in there had been catching South Louisiana deluges.

"He had put some huge beautiful pieces of pine wood back in there years ago and half of it was rotting away and he said, 'Man, people wasting their talent is like letting wood rot.' It's just kind of sickening." Earlier relating, "Hopefully this is what I was meant to do and it works out."