Leadbelly (1885-1949)

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Leadbelly (1885-1949)

In the pantheon of blues legends, few figures loom as large as Leadbelly, the peripatetic, gun-toting guitar player with the constitution of iron. The gifted composer of such standards as "Goodnight Irene," "Midnight Special," and "Where Did You Sleep Last Night," Leadbelly led a troubled life. Thrice consigned to imprisonment in the deep south, twice he had his sentence commuted on the strength of his musicianship alone. But his penchant for trouble was inextricably linked to his genius, and like Robert Johnson and Blind Lemon Jefferson, his hard times became interwoven with his musical abilities. The years of Leadbelly's fame would be short and far from remunerative, and he would not live to see his songs become standards and his talent revered.

Born Huddie Ledbetter in the backwoods of Northern Louisiana near Shreveport, Ledbetter's family was relatively affluent, with a fair-sized farm on the outskirts of Mooringsport. He was musically precocious from an early age—his father first took him to play on the streets of Shreveport when Huddie was a mere eight years old—and soon he graduated from windjammer (a rudimentary accordion) to guitar. Ledbetter grew up to be a man of extremes. A veritable John Henry of the cotton fields, he could drink most men under the table, and was purported to be the best musician in the area. His appetite for women was of a piece with his other attributes, and after leaving home bound for New Orleans, he was waylaid by the first available woman he set eyes on, settling with one Lethe Massey in Dallas.

In what became a pattern of behavior, Ledbetter would work hard for a time, content to remain domestic, but then some deep-seated impulse would send him on the road. He would vanish, then show up months later penniless and bruised. But for all his carousing, Huddie's ambition to make a living solely from music remained intact. After a stint on the railroad, Ledbetter vowed to realize his ambition. He became enchanted by the 12 string guitar, bought one with his scant savings, and took to the streets of Dallas where he busked for drinks and spare change. After teaming up with legendary slide guitarist Blind Lemon Jefferson, his life slid into a nonstop bacchanal of music, drink, and women until he was convicted of his first serious crime, the rape of a whorehouse madam, and was sentenced to a year on a chain gang. Within three days he had escaped, rejoining his family in Mooringsport. His wife located him there, and they moved to De Kalb, Texas, where Lethe died of gonorrhea. Guilt ridden over her death (he suspected it was he who had transmitted the disease), Huddie careened into a profound depression. Some months later, he shot and killed a drunk while playing a local dance, drawing a 35-year sentence.

Much of Ledbetter's legend revolves around the two gubernatorial pardons he received on the strength of his musical talent. In March of 1918, Ledbetter was remanded to Huntsville penitentiary where he acquired a prodigious reputation for work and music. His surname was soon corrupted into Leadbelly, a moniker he took pride in, denoting as it did his iron constitution. Befriended by a prison officer, Captain Franklin, Huddie strove to be a model prisoner, but Frank-lin's efforts at winning a release resulted in his transfer to the infamous Sugar Land Penitentiary, where he composed "Midnight Special." It was at Sugarland that Texas Governor Patrick Neff came to see the legendary singing convict. Ten months after performing for Neff, Ledbetter was free, perhaps the first convict to sing his way to freedom. Leadbelly won his freedom a second time, having been convicted of assault in his native Louisiana, due to the auspices of John Lomax who, with his son Alan, was touring the south as an archivist for the Library of Congress. The Lomaxes recorded a plea to Louisiana Governor O.K. Allan, and in July of 1934, Ledbetter was again pardoned.

Leadbelly's time in the limelight was brief and bitter. Following his release, John Lomax employed him as a driver in Lomax and son's peregrinations. Huddie located musicians in the towns and prisons they visited, and on a northern leg of the journey, Lomax began arranging recitals for his at times obstreperous driver. Much to Huddie's consternation, he was made to perform in prison stripes. Leadbelly performed at Bryn Mawr and Columbia, his extensive repertoire and prison record adding to his appeal for the collegiate audience. He was the toast of the town, a talented curiosity, but Leadbelly missed his wife, who he had married shortly after his release, and rankled under Lomax's cautious administration, frequently slipping off on drinking sprees. They finally parted company after Leadbelly pulled a knife on his benefactor.

For the rest of his life, Leadbelly would remember his brush with fame and strive to recapture the elusive pot of gold. He returned to Shreveport, where his celebrity could not prevent him from serving more jail time. He returned to New York and the years slipped by. In 1939, he stabbed a man at a party and spent a year on Riker's Island. In 1943, he worked as a shoeshine boy; in 1944, a janitor. Occasionally he played on the radio or in Greenwich Village and Harlem. In 1949, he was flown to Paris for a string of engagements. The first concert was far from successful: a scant 30 people showed up in a hall that held 4,000. With that, Leadbelly's dream of fame and the good life died an abrupt death. By November, the mysterious back pains that had plagued him for years had been diagnosed as amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—Lou Gehrig's Disease. He died in Bellevue on December 6, 1949 with his guitar by his side. Six months later, "Goodnight Irene" had sold two million copies. Meanwhile, Leadbelly's widow was applying for work as a laundress.

Like many of the first generation of blues musicians, Leadbelly was a man stuck between the antebellum south and the modern age. Part of his problem, certainly, was the record industry, in which black artists were often cheated, but it was Leadbelly's erratic nature that prevented him from capitalizing on his success. By the time he had a chance at fame, he was too set in his ways to turn professional. But for all that, he was a man of intense pride who resented having to play a convict or barefoot country boy to promote himself. When his first collection of songs appeared, it pained him that the cover photo showed him barefoot and sitting on a barrel. Seeing how many artists had had hits with his songs would not have pleased him, when he himself had profited so little.

—Michael Baers