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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.
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
Heard
Mates
Call
Scale
Within
Scales
Natural
Notes
Song
Whenever
Visualize
Bird
Answering
Built
Mate
Consciousness
Symphony
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I hate to see the evening sun go down.
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I knew the whistle of each of the river boats on the Tennessee.
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The blues - the sound of a sinner on revival day.
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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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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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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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Nature was my kindergarten.
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You'll never miss the water 'til the well runs dry.
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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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Setting my mind on a musical instrument was like falling in love. All the world seemed bright and changed.
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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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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.
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My big ears indicated a talent for music. This thrilled me.
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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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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.
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I think America concedes that true American music has sprung from the Negro.
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