I Hate To See The

I Knew The Whistle Of Each Of The River Boats On The Tennessee.

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.

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.

I Think America Concedes That True American Music Has Sprung From The Negro.

The Blues - The Sound Of A Sinner On Revival Day.