Belton Sutherland's Unmarked Grave

Copyright Gary Tennant

I have compiled all the previously unknown information about Belton Sutherland, who several musicians have lamented about not knowing any historical information on this fiercely iconoclastic blues artist.  For example:

Several members of WeenieCampbell.com have expressed their sadness over the lack of information available about Belton Sutherland.  One member, for example, states, "I wish there was more info out there on Belton Sutherland."  Another contributor admits, "He is filmed performing two fine songs in Canton, Mississippi, but nothing else is said about him. His songs are quite good. Wish there was more of him."  Yet another contends that he may have only “recorded three songs, but they were powerful."  Michael Cardenas asserts that the Land Where the Blues Began is a "Crucial DVD and Belton steals it."  One of the newer members of the site writes, "I don't know how 'obscure' this bluesman is, but...[h]e only recorded 3 songs with Alan Lomax & all 3 were very raw, incredibly powerful songs. He looks & sounds like a man who has lived the blues his entire life."

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An Unmarked Biography of Belton Sutherland

by T. DeWayne Moore

Belton Sutherland was born on February 14, 1911--the same year as Robert Johnson came into the world of Jim Crow, Mississippi.  His parents, William and Mattie Sutherland, already had eight children, and they would have four more after Belton, making a total of thirteen.  The Sutherland family worked as sharecroppers in the small hamlet of Camden, Mississippi, not too far from St. John M.B. Church.  In fact, Belton lost his mother shortly before his eighth birthday, and her grave is located behind the church.  His mother's grave was marked following her death with a modest, yet very respectful, headstone.  While he loses his mother before a census enumerator ever writes his name in the 1920 Census, he would grow up quick as a motherless child, get married to woman named Louise, and move to Holmes County by the time his name name is again put to parchment for the federal government in 1930.  

Clarion Ledger, March 10, 1937.

It remains unclear what events transpire over the next seven years, but in the late 1930s, Belton had moved back to Madison County, where he gets arrested for forging a $25 check.  The judge sentenced him to two years on the state prison farm at Parchman.  After serving only eight months, however, the remainder of his sentence got suspended by the governor.  Not yet thirty years-old but the future show-stealer already knew how it feels to be a motherless child and to get convicted of forgery despite one census enumerator noting that he never had the opportunity to pickup reading and writing, at least not in his young life.

Changes [Were] Needed to Keep Biscuit Viable

Changes [Were] Needed to Keep Biscuit Viable 

By Dee Bailey - Clarksdale Press Register - Nov 24, 2000

[The King Biscuit Blues Festival reached a peak of over 100,000 attendees in the late 1990s, making it the largest blues festival in the Delta region.  The KBBF, however, collapsed under exorbitant costs and was forced the reconfigure the event after losing an estimated $500,000 in 2000.] 

HELENA, Ark. — It was with considerable regret — not surprise that I learned of the dismissal of Randy Williams as executive director of the King Biscuit Blues Festival.

Now, some of the statements I'm going to make in the following paragraphs will disturb some people, and they'll probably make others mad as hornets. That's OK. I feel the festival is at a crossroads, and its supporters need to do some serious thinking. 

First off, I'm told that the festival hasn't broke even in three years (I didn't think it had ever made money). I suspect it has lost money for awhile. During those three years, the festival was under Williams' leadership. It may not be fair (and, then again, it may be), but that's probably why he was dismissed. 

The fact that it hasn't made money is not all together bad. It wasn't organized as a moneymaker. It was supposed to have been a vehicle to bring people — people who spend money — into the area. It's done that and, again I suspect, has put lots of money into the jeans of some of the merchants. 

That much it has accomplished — but there is more. 

It has brought Helena and Phillips County worldwide fame. People from Berlin to Tokyo know that Helena is the home of the King Biscuit Blues Festival. That's some-thing that couldn't have been done any other way and have been successful. 

So it has accomplished its goal in that respect. 

It has shown the world, even in the light of our track record, that white people and black people can work together for the mutual good of each other. Goodness knows, that's something we've needed to prove. 

But, if the festival is going to continue, changes are going to have to be made. 

First of all — and I shudder as I write this because I know many people oppose the idea — the festival cannot continue to be a free event. Admission is going to have to be charged. 

For years now, we've been hearing fan-tastic attendance estimates — 100,000 people in attendance in 1999, for example. 

But, let's say next year the festival attracts only 50,000 people; at $10 a ticket the festival would at least break even (I'm told it takes at least $500,000 to stage the  event). We would also have a device by which we could determine just how many people attended, and it would be helpful in anticipating crowds for the coming year. 

Were I the powers that be when it comes to the festival, I'd fence off Walnut and Cherry streets from the Doughboy to Missouri Street to the other side oldie levee.  I'd place gates at strategic points and give tags or or armbands to those who forked over $10.  You'd have to double —maybe triple — the security force, but it would be worth it. 

Everything else would remain the same. Oh, yes, the music would remain the same. I'd have one stage - the main one for the blues, and I'd let the gospel stage stay at the Malco. 

If at all possible, I'd consider cutting down on the number of entertainers (as long as we had the old-timers — Robert Lockwood Jr., Pinetop Perkins, etc. — as part of the festival) and would ask the headliners to play more than one set (one a day over a three-day span). If an individual is not willing to pay $10 to see and hear the kind of talent that has been on the KBBF stages over the last few years, I'd question his right to be called a "blues fan."

Oh, yes, if possible, I'd have one rip-roaring headliner (BB. King always comes to mind, but he's probably too expensive) to close out the festival. Maybe that night, promoters could charge a little extra. 

This kind of setup isn't new. It's done all over. 

Let me emphasize that, like many others, I'm not jumping up and down and clicking my heels over the prospect of paying money to hear the blues. But I'd rather do that than to see the festival go down the drain.  

Clarksdale Press Register, Nov 24, 2000

I know there are other people who have other ideas — probably a lot better than the one outlined above. If they are around., I would urge them to contact some of the festival shakers and movers and talk with them.

The Biscuit, as it is being called these I'd days, is too valuable to be allowed to full by  the wayside. We must do everything we can to keep it vibrant and healthy and being staged on Cherry Street in Helena every October.

Bentonia and Blues--A Southern Tradition that Keeps Jukin' Along

Bentonia and Blues:

A Southern Tradition that Keeps Jukin' Along

By Debbie Chaney - Sep 25, 1982

"We used to walk through the swamp to Canton with our guitars on our backs and juke all night and walk back home...playing the blues is something I was born with" -- Jack Owens 

As long as there has been heartache, working people, children and good ole corn whiskey, it seems that blues music has been in existence. It's an art that knows only tradition and feeling.

Sitting on a stool in the Blue Front Cafe located by the railroad tracks in Bentonia, Jimmy Holmes takes a puff on his cigarette and tells how the blues has become important to him, to others and to Black culture. 

Holmes talks candidly about how he has researched the history of the blues, particularly in the Bentonia area and how the music continues to survive. "Blues is a feeling," he explains. "It is a form of music that ex-presses life whether it's good or bad. If a guy's ole lady has left him, if he's not working or somebody has stolen his lady he sets down with his guitar and begins putting words together. To appreciate the blues, you've got to live it." 

Holmes has combed the county searching out blues singers, and one of the more notable is the infamous Jack Owens. Owens, who claims to be "up in the seventies" has been playing blues since he was "crawling on the floor." 

He learned, more or less, in "the cotton fields, the corn fields and the pea fields." 

His repertoire of music includes renowned blues titles such as "The Devil," "Cherry Ball," "Keep on Gambling," and "Catfish Blues."

"Jack," said Holmes, "is almost a duplicate of the type of music Skip James, the blues great, played. He knows the guitar like he made it himself." 

Owens and Holmes will be performing at the upcoming "Gateway to the Delta" Arts and Crafts Festival Oct. 2 at the Triangle. The annual event is sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce with adjoining activities sponsored by the Yazoo Arts Council and Ricks Memorial Library. 

Music performed during the festival will include concerts given by local choirs and singers, emphasizing black and white gospel, country, bluegrass and blues. Demonstrations will also be given in quilting, tatting, basket weaving, square dancing and other folk art. 

The folklife division of the festival is sponsored by the library and made possible through a grant from the Mississippi Library Commission and the Mississippi Arts Commission. Yazoo County is one of six areas in which folk life programs have been held. 

Holmes will narrate the blues division during the performance by Owens and his blind partner Bud and guitar blues artist Tommy Lee. 

Owens probably became known for his talents when he and friends would travel around the county and surrounding areas to "play at country jukes." He and Bud became partners when they "would go to the juke house and play." As far as Bud's handicap, Owens says there's no problem. "I just sit close to him so he can feel me moving— I don't know hardly how he can tell when but we just messed around so much," said Owens of the man's unique talent in being able to change keys and know when Owens is beginning another song. 

Holmes agrees, saying "Ben and Jack are like two peas in a hull. It seems like they are interchangeable. 

"They have an intangible relationship between the two of them." 

Visitors to the festival will have the opportunity to see and hear how the blues has touched the lives of these three men, Black culture and the South. And possibly even their own.

Furry Lewis Greeted Blues Revival with Smile, Wisecrack

Furry Lewis Greeted Blues Revival 

with Smile, Wisecrack 

By Roy M. Close - Minneapolis Star - Nov 13, 1974

"My right name is Walter Lewis," the elderly black man explained, "But I always go by Furry. I guess I started playing the guitar when I was just about 10 years old, and I'm 81 now. 

"I didn't call myself a professional in them days. I still don't call myself a professional, but you can put it like this: They call me a rabbit in a thicket, and it takes a good dog to catch me with a guitar." 

His face crinkled into a broad grin, and behind his thick glasses the dark eyes twinkled.

At 81 — give or take a few years — Furry Lewis is having the time of his life. Due to the revival of interest in the blues on U.S. college campuses, Lewis is financially secure for the first time in his long career. 

He's one of the stars of the Memphis Blues Caravan, a touring show that plays one-night stands in college towns and big cities, and he's sufficiently well-known to get occasional solo bookings in clubs like the University of Minnesota's Whole Coffeehouse, where he's scheduled to per-form Friday and Saturday evenings.

Lewis hates to fly, but he loves to travel. He enjoys the luxury of hotel rooms, the good whiskey he can afford these days, and the attention he receives from audiences, the press and the younger members of the blues caravan. 

Furry Lewis circa 1927

In Minneapolis recently before a blues caravan appearance in Northfield, Lewis was in an expansive mood. He spun out one anecdote after another about his early days with W. C. Handy's band and the great blues musicians with whom he's performed.

"I'm making more now than I ever made in my life," he said. "When I was growing up, you used to get two loaves of bread for a nickel, but the trouble was, where was you gonna get the nickel?"

He recalled the old days in Memphis, his home for the last 75 years, as "tough times." 

"We used to play all night for $3 apiece, plus all we could eat and drink. Now I wouldn't tune my guitar for $3." 

Lewis acknowledges that he has "a little money in the bank" as a hedge against possible future retirement. But now that he's finally earning enough to live comfortably, he takes a certain pleasure from professing poverty and regretting his failure to save any money when he was younger. 

"I could have been rich," he declared, "but 1 never did think of it till I got old and about ready to die. It was my mistake. I didn't have enough sense to know I would be down. Now I know: I been down so long it seems like up to me." 

Lewis remembers with pride his association with Handy ("he gave me the best guitar I ever had in my life") and can vividly recall the 1916 acci-dent that cost him part of his right leg. "I had $100 in my pocket, but I'm a hobo trying to save my money and hopping a freight."

Pittsburgh Post Gazette 1969.

The veteran bluesman has never married. "I don't see no need," he explained. "What do I need with a wife when the man next door got one?" 

As the senior member of the blues caravan — and the oldest practicing blues musician in the world — Lewis takes his share of kidding from his younger colleagues, who have their own nickname for him: Blind, Crippled and Crazy. 

But Minneapolis promoter Arne Brogger, who organized and manages the caravan, says Lewis is "an old fox." 

"He's sharp as a tack," Brogger declared. "He doesn't miss a thing. And he's the darling of the caravan. Every-one takes care of him, and he relishes that. He's perfectly capable of taking care of himself, of course, but he doesn't want anybody to know that." Lewis doesn't deny these things, but prefers to emphasize that he's getting along in years. 

"I'm thinking on retiring," he admitted. "But you'd be surprised how many people say, 'Don't retire! Don't retire!' By the time you been doing something 70 years, though, you get. tired. Maybe it's time to look up in-stead of looking down."

For the moment, however, Lewis doesn't intend to retire. There's no reason to slow down. "I got better health than the man at the hoard of health," he explained.