|W. C. Handy|
Handy in July 1941, photographed by
Carl Van Vechten
|Birth name||William Christopher Handy|
|Born||(1873-11-16)November 16, 1873
Florence, Alabama, United States
|Origin||Memphis, Tennessee, United States|
|Died||March 28, 1958(1958-03-28) (aged 84)
New York City
|Occupation(s)||Musician, bandleader, teacher|
I think America concedes that true American music has sprung from the Negro.
You’ve got to appreciate the things that come from the art of the Negro and from the heart of the man farthest down.
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.
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.
Life is something like a trumpet. If you don’t put anything in, you won’t get anything out.
Life is like a trumpet – if you don’t put anything into it, you don’t get anything out of it.
Setting my mind on a musical instrument was like falling in love. All the world seemed bright and changed.