Leadbelly Quotes

we steady thud of wind with lungs that empty moon, fill it back up with shine, feed my feet to pig iron anklets biting flesh where i am link. i will break. bleed, crack. shatter. crush. i'ma smash outta this choir, come up gasping new breath, my name burned clean, made mine

when rock dudes idolize black bluesmen, they always give the bluesmen artistic credit: Robert Johnson didn’t get any money from Clapton’s cover of “Crossroads,” nor did Leadbelly see much benefit from Nirvana’s admiration, but both Johnson and Leadbelly are explicitly cited as artistic influences–they got credit for their work. (In fact, the gesture of giving credit to a black man is what establishes the white dude’s status as elite among other white dude artists.) But black women artists? They don’t even get credit for their work.

This piece of land was our original sin, except we had found no baptismal rite to expunge it from our lives. That green-purple field of new cane was rooted in rib cage and eye socket. But what of the others whose lives had begun here and ended in other places? The ones who became prostitutes in cribs on Hopkins Street in New Iberia and Jane’s Alley in New Orleans, sliced their hands open with oyster knives, laid bare their shin bones with the cane sickle, learned the twelve-string blues on the Red Hat gang and in the camps at Angola with Leadbelly and Hogman Matthew Maxey, were virtually cooked alive in the castiron sweatboxes of Camp A, and rode Jim Crow trains North, as in a biblical exodus, to southside Chicago and the magic of 1925 Harlem, where they filled the air with the music of the South and the smell of cornbread and greens and pork chops fixed in sweet potatoes, as though they were still willing to forgive if we would only acknowledge their capacity for forgiveness. Tolstoy asked how much land did a man need. Just enough to let him feel the pull of the earth on his ankles and the claim it lays on the quick as well as the dead.