A Bittersweet Night at Chez Mireille Long Island: Tabou Combo Honors Shoubou (Roger M Eugeune)

By Moses St Louis

I didn’t even know where to start after last night. It was one of those bittersweet nights that sits in your chest, heavy and warm at the same time. Chez Mireille in Long Island was full of love, the kind you don’t have to explain, you just feel it when you walk into the room.

The night was built to honor Roger M Eugeune, known to all of us as Shoubou, the legendary voice and presence tied to Tabou Combo, one of the greatest Haitian bands of all time. Shoubou has left the stage, and for the past couple of years, he’s been living in a nursing home. That reality kept him out of the public eye, and it made his name feel both close and far.

So when it was announced that Shoubou would join Tabou Combo for a special night at Chez Mireille, the demand for tickets went through the roof. People didn’t just want a show, they wanted a moment. And when Shoubou arrived, the tears of joy said everything words couldn’t.

Why this tribute night for Shoubou felt so heavy and so beautiful

The best way I can explain it is simple. The joy was real because Shoubou was there. The sadness was real because the years have changed the shape of “there.” You could feel both in the same breath.

It wasn’t gossip, it wasn’t pity, and it wasn’t people being dramatic. It was respect meeting reality. We were looking at someone who gave so much to the culture, and we were also facing the truth that legends don’t stay frozen in their prime. They age, they need care, and sometimes they step away from the lights.

That mix of love, gratitude, and honesty is what made the room feel so heavy and so beautiful.

Who Shoubou is to Haitian music and to Tabou Combo fans

If you grew up around Haitian music, Tabou Combo isn’t just a band name. It’s part of the soundtrack. It’s family parties, long drives, backyard speakers, Labor Day weekends, and that one song that can pull an uncle onto the dance floor like he’s 22 again.

Shoubou is a key reason that feeling is so strong. For many fans, his presence wasn’t just about singing. It was about personality, timing, and that unteachable thing artists have when they know how to hold a crowd. People didn’t just watch him, they grew up with him. They measured good nights by whether Tabou was playing, and they measured great nights by whether Shoubou felt “on.”

For Haitians in the HMI, that matters even more. When you’re far from home, music becomes a flag you can carry without words.

Because Shoubou has been living in a nursing home for a couple of years, fans haven’t seen him much. When someone disappears from the public eye, even for reasons everyone understands, the absence gets loud. It turns regular memories into precious ones.

That’s why people came ready. Not just dressed up, but emotionally ready. Ready to clap, ready to pray, ready to show him he’s still ours, and that we haven’t moved on. We’ve just been waiting.

Chez Mireille Long Island has hosted plenty of good nights, but this one felt like it had an extra heartbeat. The room was packed, and you could tell many people didn’t come for a casual Saturday vibe. They came with a mission: show love, witness history, and carry the moment back to anyone who couldn’t make it.

Before Shoubou even arrived, the crowd was already trading stories. You’d hear someone behind you mention a Tabou Combo show from years back, and two strangers would jump in like they’d known each other forever. That’s what a true community night looks like.

This wasn’t just a party. It was a Tabou Combo tribute, and the energy said it before the microphone ever did.

The announcement that sent ticket demand through the roof

The news moved the way Haitian community news always moves, fast and personal. A phone call turns into ten. A group chat turns into a plan. Someone posts it, someone screenshots it, then your cousin who never goes out suddenly asks, “You got tickets?”

People rearranged work schedules. Some planned trips. Others called friends they hadn’t seen in months because they didn’t want to walk into a night like this alone. The fact that Shoubou would appear made it feel like a once-in-a-long-time chance, and nobody wanted to be the person hearing about it later instead of living it.

When Shoubou arrived: tears of joy and a standing welcome

When Shoubou walked in, the room changed in a second. It wasn’t just applause, it was a standing welcome that came from the chest. People cried openly. Some reached out like they were trying to touch a memory. Others clasped their hands and whispered prayers.

It felt tender, like the whole crowd agreed to hold him gently, even while celebrating him loudly. There was no need for big speeches in that moment. The love did the talking.

And yes, there were a lot of cell phones up, but it didn’t feel cold. It felt like people were trying to save proof for later. Proof that he came. Proof that he was seen. Proof that the community showed up the way it should.

What Shoubou’s return reminded us about elders, legacy, and showing love now

A night like this doesn’t stay inside the walls of a venue. It follows you home, and it sits with you. It makes you think about how we treat our elders, how we honor our artists, and how often we wait until it’s too late to say what we should’ve said early.

Shoubou’s return reminded me that legacy isn’t only built on old recordings or classic photos. Legacy is also built on how people show up for you when life gets quiet.

Giving flowers while someone can still feel them

We say “give people their flowers,” but last night was what it looks like when we actually do it. The tribute wasn’t about pretending time doesn’t pass. It was about refusing to let time erase gratitude.

Public appreciation matters when the person can still hear it, see it, and feel it. A tribute after someone is gone can be beautiful too, but it’s different. Last night had warmth because it was living, breathing love in real time.

A tribute night is powerful, but the love shouldn’t stop at the door. There are real ways to support Haitian music without acting like you have inside information, and without crossing privacy lines.

It can be as simple as showing up, sharing respectfully, and treating our elders like they matter, because they do.

Behind the event: Mr. Ralph Cadet and the work people didn’t see

Mr. Ralph Cadet was the one behind this special moment, and talking to him made one thing clear: pulling this off wasn’t easy.

Because Shoubou resides inside a nursing home, getting approval and clearance for him to leave is not a simple ask. There’s red tape, timing issues, and a lot of coordination that fans never see. Mr. Cadet pushed through it and made it happen, which is why so many people walked out of Chez Mireille last night feeling like they witnessed something they’ll never forget.

And let’s be honest about the setting. Chez Mireille’s low-capacity level isn’t where most people would schedule an event of this magnitude. But the choice made sense once I thought about it. The organizers seemed to want intimacy, the kind of close-up room where love lands harder. It also mirrors how many artists start, in tighter spaces, before the big stages come.

The event was sold out days in advance, and that still didn’t stop people from showing up. Mr. Cadet told me that when he told a fan the event was sold out, the fan said he would still come and stand at the door for a chance to see Shoubou walk in. That’s not hype, that’s devotion.

How the night unfolded: Tabou Combo plays, then the room pauses for Shoubou

Tabou Combo started playing before Shoubou arrived, and the crowd was on their feet from the first note. It didn’t feel like people needed to warm up. The music hit, and bodies responded like muscle memory.

Then Shoubou arrived, and the band stopped to acknowledge that the man of the night had made it. That pause mattered. It wasn’t for drama. It was for honor.

Near the stage, there was a big, king-like chair set up for him. It stood out, not because it was flashy, but because it made a clear statement: this seat was earned.

As Shoubou sat down, the band started playing “Atchoukou tchou,” a song that Shoubou personally wrote, a song that depicts his youth days in Haiti and holds deep meaning for him. The room lit up in a different way, because it wasn’t just a hit, it was a piece of his story being played back to him.

Shoubou didn’t waste time. He shouted into the mic, “Lavi a se pou Pechina,” and the crowd erupted. The celebration began right there.

People swarmed near the stage, cell phones in hand, trying to get a glimpse. It was chaotic for a moment, but it was also pure. Everyone wanted the same thing: one clear look, one clear memory, one moment to keep.

Shoubou’s nod to the new singer: a quiet passing of the mantle

Filling Shoubou’s shoes is a huge responsibility. Anyone who knows Tabou Combo knows that the job comes with pressure that you can’t talk your way out of. You have to sing your way through it.

That’s why it meant so much to see how Pathley Noel, also known as Papyto, carried himself. He passed the test with flying colors. He didn’t come off like he was doing an impression. He sounded naturally close to Shoubou’s style, while still being his own person.

What stayed with me most was Shoubou’s reaction. You could see him nodding with a big smile in the background when Papyto hit certain notes. That nod felt like more than approval. It felt like permission, like Shoubou saying, “Yes, he can do the job.”

Another thing caught my attention all night. Even at his age, Shoubou’s voice still had power every time he shouted a line. It wasn’t long verses, it wasn’t a full set, but the strength in those moments reminded everyone why he’s in a class by himself.

My personal feelings: from neighbor in Elmont to seeing him on that chair

This night hit me in a personal way. Shoubou used to be my neighbor in Elmont in Long Island. Every Saturday night I’d go to his house, settle in the basement, have a few drinks, and Shoubou would give me a mini documentary of his time with Tabou Combo.

He talked about the highs, the lows, the travel, the pressure, the wins, and the moments that didn’t go the way people assume. Those talks made him more than an artist to me. He became a real person with stories, scars, and humor.

Watching him last night gave me flashbacks of those moments. It made me think about how fast life moves. One day you’re sitting in a basement listening to a legend talk, and the next you’re watching a whole room stand up just to say, “We remember.”

It was bittersweet because we miss the full-time Shoubou, the stage Shoubou, the always-on Shoubou. But it was also joyful because love was louder than sadness inside Chez Mireille Long Island. Seeing a younger singer step up made the future feel less scary, and seeing Shoubou welcomed with tears of joy made the present feel right.

The image that won’t leave me is that entrance, the standing welcome, the tenderness in the room, and the way Tabou Combo paused to honor him before playing on. That’s how you treat a legend.

If there’s an encore of this event, more people deserve to witness it. With better planning, it could meet the demand and the moment. Because the truth is, the night seemed to surpass what the organizers expected, and it caught everyone by surprise.

Hold your legends close while they’re still here. Keep Haitian music near, in your car, in your home, and in your weekends. Nights like this don’t just entertain us, they remind us who we are.

I report, you decide