By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
By Drew Ailes
By Courtney Harrell
By Kyra Scrimgeour
By Jena Ardell
By Mary Willson
By Bree Davies
It makes perfect sense that Robert Belfour is playing this weekend's Blues & Bones Festival in Denver. Belfour plays exceptional acoustic blues, meat-on-the-bones stuff that smolders in the spirit of blues greats from the '30s and '40s. He's also no stranger to the joys of a slab of ribs blessed with a few hours of hickory smoke. "I love to cook outside -- I do a lot of that myself around the house. I get my barbecue sauce and ketchup and everything else, and I mix it all up with a whole lot of stuff. I put beer and vinegar in it, then I cook it up," Belfour says from his home in Memphis, before detailing his methods for making his personal blend of sauce. "You've got to know how to do it right," he notes. "My sauce, it ain't too sweet and it ain't too bitter."
The same could be said of Belfour's music. At sixty, he plays stripped-bare acoustic blues with a haunting feel, enhanced by John Lee Hooker-style riffs and guitar work that is somehow both complex and primitive. It features a ghostly weariness that's anything but sweet, capable of sending chills across the skin. By Belfour's own description, the music is a blend of things sewn together with what seems like little thought; the results, however, are always compelling and sometimes even highbrow.
"It's got a deep feeling to it and a deep blues sound to it," Belfour says of his music. "I feel what I do. Most people that hear what I do, the way they explain it is it makes them think back on things. They say they love it." His lyrics are "just part of my life. I'll think of something and the way I came up, and then I'll think of a word that matches it. You know, things come across your mind in your late years, or you hear somebody say something, and you can make a song from it. Then another word will add to that word. But it is a concentration thing, any kind of way you write."
Belfour's remarkable gifts are concentrated nicely on his current disc, What's Wrong With You, on the Fat Possum label. The disc's opening track, "My Baby's Gone," is a galloping, incessant shuffle that frames Belfour's down-home concerns about a lost woman. "Black Mattie" is a night-howl lament highlighted by a droning bottom end, Belfour's lonesome moan, and steel-string barbs that punctuate the whole affair. The title track is another ghostly blues song, a numbing creeper about more chilling loss. Like most of the grizzled, ragged blues on Fat Possum, the disc is visceral, unplugged music, a perfect antidote to the soulless, lite fare being proffered by many major blues labels today. Belfour is raw and real. His is the sound of a full-grown man with a fully grown understanding of woe.
The disc's unadorned, caveman quality owes something to the bare-naked recording methods employed by producers (and Fat Possum owners) Mathew Johnson and Bruce Watson. But the bulk of the blood-under-the-nails quality comes from Belfour himself, a proud self-taught musician. He took up the guitar in his early teens, copping licks from blues songs he heard on his radio. And while most kids his age were running with groups of fellow youngsters, he kept to himself. "I never did hang with a bunch of boys," Belfour says. "There's always somebody gettin' into something, and you wind up in more trouble than the one that did it. Coming up as a kid, I stayed by myself; that's the way I was raised. I'm still that way."
Belfour did take the time to hang with a few local guitarists, notably the late Junior Kimbrough, who lived near Belfour's Mississippi home. (Kimbrough would also become a Fat Possum artist, releasing a few recordings on the label before passing away a couple of years ago.) For Belfour, music was a more a form of recreation than a job; he played private parties and social events for pleasure -- and little or no dough. ("Sometimes they'd give me a little corn whiskey," he says.) He moved to west Tennessee a few decades ago, where he worked in the concrete industry. After retiring, Belfour revisited his musical endeavors when his wife, Norene, encouraged him to take his music to the sidewalks of nearby Beale Street, in Memphis.
"Before then, I wasn't playing nowhere," Belfour says, "but I'd go down there and hang out in the park while she was working. She'd walk around in the park on her break and see them people making money playing. She told me, 'You ought to get down there; you as good as they is.'" Apparently, she was right. "I just took the crowd," Belfour says. "It was mostly bands there, [and] I was playing by myself -- they had never heard anybody playing like that." Before long, he had earned a loyal audience of afternoon listeners and was reaping a few dollars from his fans. (He's also earned some additional respect from his wife of 41 years: "I'm the wife of that bad boy," Norene Belfour says when taking a call for her husband.)