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Where the Tennessee River, like a silver snake, winds her way through the clay hills of Alabama, sits high on these hills, my home town, Florence.
William Christopher Handy
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William Christopher Handy
Age: 84 †
Born: 1873
Born: November 16
Died: 1958
Died: March 29
Autobiographer
Composer
Jazz Musician
Music Journalist
Musician
Non-Fiction Writer
Pianist
Songwriter
Trumpeter
Florence
Alabama
W.C. Handy
W C Handy
WC Handy
Father of the Blues
William Christopher Handy
Town
Snake
Towns
Sits
Rivers
Snakes
Wind
Winds
High
Clay
Home
Silver
Florence
Way
River
Tennessee
Like
Hills
Alabama
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Setting my mind on a musical instrument was like falling in love. All the world seemed bright and changed.
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Saving was slow and painful.
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Sometimes I feel like nothin,' somethin' throwed away, Somethin' throwed away. And then I get my guitar, play the blues all day.
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I think America concedes that true American music has sprung from the Negro.
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Nature was my kindergarten.
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The name of my ailment was longing, and it was not cured till I finally went to the department store and counted out the money in small coins before the dismayed clerk. When I came to the house, I held up the instrument before the eyes of the astonished household.
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You can never tell what's in a woman's mind, And if she's from Harlem, there's no use o' tryin
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Life is like a trumpet - if you don't put anything into it, you don't get anything out of it.
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I knew the whistle of each of the river boats on the Tennessee.
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I hate to see the evening sun go down.
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You've got to appreciate the things that come from the art of the Negro and from the heart of the man farthest down.
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My big ears indicated a talent for music. This thrilled me.
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You'll never miss the water 'til the well runs dry.
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Whenever I heard the song of a bird and the answering call of its mate, I could visualize the notes in scale, all built up within my consciousness as a natural symphony.
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With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt in sounds.
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If my serenade of song and story should serve as a pillow for some composer's head, as yet perhaps unborn, to dream and build on our fond melodies in his tomorrow, I have not labored in vain.
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The blues - the sound of a sinner on revival day.
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In the South of long ago whenever a new man appeared for work in any of the laborers gangs, he would be asked if he could sing. If he could he got the job. The singing of these working men set the rhythm for the work.
William Christopher Handy
