LEADBELLY | “I Was Rollin’ Honey from Sun to Sun”

“Good night Irene. I get you in my dreams.”

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Words: Juno Rylee Schultz (she/her)
Edits: Morgan Shaver (they/them), Nathan Miller (he/him), and Bex Stump (she/her)

Source: The Life And Legend Of Leadbelly by Charles Wolfe and Kip Lornell

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“I just kept on walking up over my eyeballs, drinking up that nasty river. When I kept going under, they come in and yanked me out. Water was runnin’ outta every hole. After I dry out, they wanted to beat me, but I wasn’t having no more of that. So I picked up a hoe and stand the old captain off with it. He took out his Winchester and points at me, saying, ‘Nigger, put down that hoe or I’ll kill you!’ But I just look at him like I’m crazy. I’m ready to die, to go all the way.”

— Huddie Ledbetter (Leadbelly), speaking about his first attempted prison escape, August 15, 1919

They wouldn’t let him drown, or die…

Huddie Ledbetter was free for less than a day after his first prison escape. Upon his return, his supervisor left him working in the fields for a week. Huddie spent the entire time reflecting on how much of his effort was being unnecessarily spent—wasted—by the resistance he faced, trying to exist as a Black man, and fighting to carve out his destiny as a musician.

During this time, Huddie made a conscious effort to use the “age-old prejudice against itself, [involving] a technique [the BIPOC community] would later call “yessing them to death.” Huddie framed this plan as becoming a “rollin’ sonofabitch, the hardest working man in the Texas penal system.”

His father attempted to bail him out—unsuccessfully—after selling the last of his land, telling his son, “I don’t reckon I’m gonna see you again, boy. I know I ain’t got long to live.”

The prison system. America. Everything—it was different, and changing.

Huddie’s father passed away four months later.

… so Leadbelly became a legend instead.

In 1920, Huddie was hauled away in chains to a larger prison. Sugarland. The work days there were longer than at the Shaw farm. The summer heat was brutal—minutes beneath the sun’s unforgiving rays felt like hours.

Good behavior gave Huddie the ability to travel between prison camps, entertaining inmates with songs and stories, and transposing the movements and adapting the lyrics of songs he used to play while touring out on the open road.

The isolation of prison turned out to be good for him as a songwriter. Cut off from the radio and the rest of the world, Huddie had only his 12-string guitar and the songs beating in his heart.

It was there, at Sugarland, where Huddie Ledbetter earned the name the world would come to remember him by—given to him by the prison chaplain. (His nickname was “Sin Killer.”)

“He says to me, ‘you’re a hard working man. Instead of guts, you got lead in your belly. That’s who you are, old Leadbelly!”

— Leadbelly telling the story of how the prison chaplain gave him his eternal nickname

Sugarland was full of singers and performers, many of them sharing the same traditional songs that had been passed down through generations. This was part of what affirmed Leadbelly’s search for meaning and authenticity, injecting intimacy and realness into the words he sang.

It also began to pay off for Leadbelly in ways that further added to his legend.

In January 1924 Governor Pat M. Neff started touring prisons. It was during one of these visits where Leadbelly literally got to make his plea.

“When the governor come, they come down in the field; I’m way down in the field leading the boys. Coming down to get Ledbetter, so I could get my ‘glad rags’ [white suit] on. I paid a boy a nickel to wash them—that’s all he charged—and my clothes would be ready to go. I went and got ready, and we have an eight-piece band, and we all get ready to go out there. Now I got my songs all in the back of my mind. I sat down near the piano player and the bass player. The captain said the governor wants to hear a song.

“Before I start to sing that song [I prepared for him], he talked to me. While we talking, he poured some whiskey in a glass and had a woman give it to me. I drank about half of it, then set it back down. Finally, I started my song. I put Mary in it, Jesus’s mother, you know. I took a verse from the Bible, around about the twenty-second chapter of Proverbs, around the fourteenth verse: If you forgive a man his trespasses, the heavenly Father will also forgive your trespasses. But if you not forgive man of his trespasses, the heavenly Father will still forgive you of your trespasses.”

— Leadbelly discussing his performance for Governor Neff

He constructed a song entirely around forgiveness, and going home, and the governor actually agreed to pardon him. According to Leadbelly, the governor said, “I’m going to turn you loose for a while, but I’m going to keep you here so you can pick and dance for me when I come down.”

Weeks passed, and Huddie began to grow anxious, believing it was just another lie from a white politician. But then, on January 16, 1925, in one of his final acts before leaving office, Governor Neff signed a full pardon for Leadbelly.

With nothing but the $115 he’d earned in tips from playing music and entertaining in prison, Leadbelly set out for Houston, Texas. There, he tried to build a new life for himself—still strumming those same songs.

Houston had even more trouble than the Shreveport, Louisiana he had come from, but Leadbelly quickly got two jobs: one as a driver for the Houston Buick Agency, and the other as a day laborer. It didn’t take long for Leadbelly to earn a reputation with the Houston police, especially with him continuing to moonlight as a street musician.

“I remember a great big fellow. Always played guitar and sang when you’d take him in. Some of the boys would see him on the street and pick him up just to hear him make up songs.”

— Former detective T.K. “Kirk” Irwin, reflecting on his encounters with Leadbelly in Houston

Blues had evolved in its reputation across America—for both Black and white audiences—while Leadbelly was in prison. The road Huddie had been traveling was becoming more paved.

There was now an even bigger market for the music Leadbelly had been making. But tragically, he found himself back in jail—an objectively worse jail than before—after an altercation broke out between a white police officer, Leadbelly, and a white bystander who interjected on behalf of the officer.

Mostly grains, sometimes veggies, and barely any meat.

Angola Penitentiary was designed to be worse than most prisons. Every part of it was built around cost-effective, profitable decisions. There was a farm growing cotton and other cash crops, a sugar mill, a canning factory, and even its own mail system. Leadbelly’s daily life was miserable. He rose before dawn, worked hard in the fields, and was only able to eat whatever food had been produced to the point of surplus by the prisoners.

And yet, Leadbelly was in the right place, at the right time, for his legend to continue—even if it didn’t seem like it in the moment.

It was the summer of 1933, and John Lomax was touring the South on behalf of the Library of Congress. He and his son, Alan, were on a journey for what they called “pure Negro music” to be placed in the Library’s Folk Music Archives. John thought prisons would be the best place to start looking since he was especially focused on hearing musicians that were removed from the mainstream.

“Alan and I were looking particularly for the song of the Negro laborer, the words of which sometimes reflect the tragedies of imprisonment, cold, hunger, heat, the injustice of the white man.”

— John Lomax speaking about his goals while traveling to Angola Penitentiary after receiving permission from Warden Jones

For four days, John and Alan recorded inmates singing until they found themselves mesmerized by Leadbelly.

“We found a Negro convict so skillful with his guitar and his strong, baritone voice that he had been made a ‘trusty’ and kept around Camp ‘A’ headquarters as laundryman, so as to be near at hand to sing and pay for visitors. Huddie Ledbetter was unique in knowing a very large number of songs, all of which he sang effectively while he twanged his 12-string guitar.”

— John Lomax in a journal entry documenting when he first met Leadbelly

The original recordings from that day are available to view at the Library of Congress to this day, though they’re sadly too cracked and old to play.

It’s possible Leadbelly may have sensed his closeness to freedom, then again, he always sang beautifully.

The songs performed that day included: “The Western Cowboy,” “Honey, Take a Whiff on Me,” “Frankie and Albert,” “You Can’t Lose Me, Cholly,” “Ella Speed,” and “Irene.”

The Lomaxes intended to free Leadbelly from prison and take him with them when they left. They only had second thoughts after learning about Huddie’s murder conviction.

“I quite resolved to get him out of prison and take him along as a third member of the party.”

— John Lomax speaking about when he reluctantly left Angola without Leadbelly

However, in the Spring of 1934, John and Alan Lomax returned to the South in search of more folk songs.

“Dear Mr. Himes,

Will you kindly let me know if Ledbetter, the 12-string Negro guitar player is still in Angola? We now have a greatly improved machine on which we wish to record some more of his songs for the Library of Congress. I hope it will again be possible for you to let us see him. You will recall that our mutual friend, Professor A. T. Prescott, is my sponsor. Kindly address me here, General Delivery.”

— John and Alan Lomax writing to the warden at Angola Penitentiary

Once John and Alan arrived with papers and a plea in hand, Leadbelly explained that he could be freed with the signature and approval of Governor O. K. Allen. Huddie asked the Lomaxes to intervene on his behalf with the music they had recorded together. He believed, surely, his music could be his salvation once again.

The warden confirmed Huddie’s presence and gave permission for a second visit.

In the years since, it became clear that the Lomaxes’ efforts only made it as far as the governor’s secretary, but regardless; on July 25, 1934, Huddie Ledbetter’s sentence was commuted from ten to three years by Governor O. K. Allen. Thanks to Huddie’s “double good time” provision, he was freed on August 1, 1934.

Huddie left prison with an ugly pair of yellow shoes and a plain set of prison-issued coveralls and headed back to Shreveport—the place where he’d originally made his mark before all of his run-ins with the law.

He tried to find work, while moonlighting as a street performer, and waited to hear back from John Lomax. He had addressed a letter to him starting with a “Dear Boss Man,” followed by a plea to give him a job as his driver and assistant.

The letter was signed: “I’m your servant, Huddie Ledbetter.”

Ten days later, unsure if Lomax had received it, Huddie sent another letter—this one ending more insistently: 

“I am going to work for you.”

John Lomax had been responding, but the post office had been intercepting the letters and failing to deliver them to Huddie. John’s son Alan was also sick at the time, and he needed an assistant to help him hit the road and capture the music of more folk musicians.

John Lomax was finally successful in making contact with Huddie, telling him to meet him at the Plaza Hotel in Marshall on September 22, with the message: “Come prepared to travel. Bring guitar…”

“Are you carrying any weapons?”

“Only this knife, Boss.”

“Whenever you decide that you are going to take my money and car, you won’t have to use this knife on me. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you without a struggle.”

“Boss, suh, don’t talk that way… I’se yo man. You won’t ever have to tie your shoes again if you don’t want to. I’ll slip in front of you if anybody tries to shoot you. I’m ready to die for you.”

— John Lomax and Leadbelly’s first conversation at the Plaza Hotel

The two arrived in Little Rock, recording Black street musicians before gaining entrance into the prison.

Leadbelly sang and performed for prisoners and street performers, showcasing the capabilities of Lomax’s recording machine, and making everyone more comfortable with the goal of archiving Black folk music for the Library of Congress.

Leadbelly and Lomax were soon back on the highway, on their way to Cummins Farm in Gould. The two worked 16-hour days to make the most of every second and make up for time spent waiting.

Twenty recorded songs later and en route to Arkansas, Lomax went to pull over to fill the car up with gas—until Leadbelly informed him he had bribed a Cummins Farm guard to top off the tank using the state-owned gas pumps.

Lomax started to lecture Leadbelly about the morality of the situation but stopped, choosing instead to enjoy the serendipitous situation and reflect on how great a team they both were.

After a week off in October, John and Huddie were Alabama-bound, with their methods worked into a tight system. Ask for permission from the prison warden, explore the city and record street musicians, then head for the prison as soon as they had received the warden’s approval.

There were a few bumps in the professional, working relationship between John Lomax and Leadbelly—often as a result of Huddie not being at the right time and place due to his excessive partying—but their personal relationship persevered through it all.

The team traveled through Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Virginia for scheduled stops at prisons.

By December 10, the duo were inside Atlanta, Georgia, where John had to work extra hard to persuade the guards. The last visitors who had come through were journalists from the North who had attempted to publish a major report on the conditions of the prison.

Lomax made good on his word after leaving, equipped with 17 more songs recorded. But in reality, he and Huddie had witnessed much more abhorrent conditions at other prisons the two had visited.

John Lomax and Leadbelly were successfully documenting Black music all across the South, and Leadbelly’s status as a blues player was growing throughout the entire journey.

By New Year’s Day 1935, Leadbelly was performing his first informal concert in New York City, with the blues legend declaring how he felt he had “indeed entered the capitol of the world.”

January 1936 brought a flurry of activity for John and Leadbelly, largely due to prestigious and influential audiences like publishing companies, university faculty, and other private affairs. It was good networking for Huddie.

By mid-January, CBS’s The March of Time approached Lomax and Leadbelly about an appearance from Huddie, as well as a performance—his radio debut into millions of homes. This was to be a big moment for a nationwide audience… and it was.

When writing to his wife about the occasion, John Lomax remarked:

“Leadbelly of this moment is the most famous Black man in the world.”

Lomax presented Leadbelly with a contract before the end of the month. It wasn’t overstepping, even with the 50/50 split being proposed. John was taking into consideration everything up to that point, including how much more he did for Leadbelly than the average agent or publicist.

It didn’t take long for their professional relationship to sour, though this was largely unrelated to the contract. It was more a culmination of everything the two men had endured together. There was no real animosity; it was just time for a break—a change of pace, something different.

Leadbelly and John Lomax would go on to reconcile fully, years later, when Lomax recorded Leadbelly again for the Library of Congress. Still, after working with other management and record labels, it may never have truly been the same. Some of that may just be the passage of time, though.

Things were quieter for Leadbelly from 1935 until 1939, with Huddie not making or releasing any commercial recordings. The blues scene continued to grow and change, though, and by the 1940s there was a full folk revival.

This gave way to another string of successes and radio appearances for Leadbelly, which proved helpful as the artist began to age and look for additional income streams.

By the end of 1939, and the last few years of Huddie’s life, Leadbelly’s career was being managed by Tiny Robinson, Huddie’s niece on his estranged wife’s side. She didn’t have any professional experience but she knew how to chase people down that owed her uncle money. She was also great with booking appearances and recording sessions for the performer.

By 1948, Leadbelly was cutting LPs through Folkways Records, often with lyrics and extras included, sharing stories about his songs. During this same time, jazz historians—as well as friends of Leadbelly’s—procured a magnetic tape recorder, making higher-quality and easier recordings possible.

Leadbelly spent the last year of his life filling up tape after tape with sessions of stories and music, eventually recording over 90 songs.

Four years after Leadbelly’s death, these songs were released in a collection of three double albums titled Leadbelly’s Last Sessions—capturing an artist at his peak, and at the end of his life.

It was May 1949, and Huddie was having more trouble walking than usual in Paris, France. He was diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—Lou Gehrig’s Disease—and there was nothing that could be done.

Leadbelly received his honors and flowers before the very end, including multiple concerts with Woody Guthrie in Houston and Chicago. Huddie was also honored with an Award of Merit from the Oklahoma Folklore Society, along with a string of concerts commemorating his achievements.

Leadbelly didn’t want audiences to see him struggling in the end. He wanted to be remembered as who he truly was: a blues player solely interested in passion, music, and the preservation of art. 

During his last few concerts, he requested that the curtain be closed before he stood up and walked away so no one would see him struggling to walk, even while gripping his cane.

And so, I’d like to extend that same honor to Leadbelly once again, over 70 years after his death.

I’d like to close the curtain, let the needle on history play, and give Leadbelly more applause and flowers instead of a wave or a farewell.

Huddie “Leadbelly” Ledbetter didn’t just create his own music in a world that mostly tried to kill and imprison him. He also helped John and Alan Lomax capture the sound of Black artists all across the South, giving voice to countless other musicians.

“Irene” became the most popular song of 1950, with The New York Times estimating the song could be heard 1,400 times a minute across 2,583 radio stations, 99 television stations, and 400,000 jukeboxes nationwide.

Leadbelly changed music forever—shaping artists across countless genres, cultures, and geographic locations—eternally standing and strumming as a timeless reminder of the powerful relationship between music, storytelling, and how legends are made.

My four favorite tracks from LEADBELLY are:

1. Irene (Goodnight Irene) (Spotify | YouTube)
2. Midnight Special (Spotify | YouTube)
3. Let it Shine on Me (Spotify | YouTube)
4. Take This Hammer (Spotify | YouTube)
5. Alabama Bound (Spotify | YouTube)

Notable interviews and appearances from LEADBELLY:

1. (Spring 1935) Leadbelly performing ‘Irene (Goodnight Irene)’ live
2. (1939) Leadbelly talking about the blues
3. (1946) Leadbelly performing ‘Grey Goose’ live

Iconic and notable covers of music from LEADBELLY:

1. (1993) Nirvana – Where Did You Sleep Last Night? (Spotify | YouTube)
2. (1969) Creedence Clearwater Revival – Midnight Special (Spotify | YouTube)
3. (1969) The Beach Boys – Cotton Fields (The Cotton Song) (Spotify | YouTube)