“When you scratch these guitars, they bleed.”

“Theres secrets hiding inside this six-string just waitin for somebody to find em and turn em into music.”

“As he farmed, hard labor left his hands callused, the sun bleached his hair, his face leathered, and his heart throbbed with music.”

“STAINSWith red clay between my toes,and the sun setting over my head,the ghost of my mother blows in,riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord,riding on a honeysuckle breeze.Her teeth, the keys of a ...”

“A song rises up from the belly of my pastand rocks me in the bosom of buried memories.”

“The truth had lacerated him to the bone, had punctured his heart, and had ripped through his soul. The truth had slain him and tended to his wounds. The truth had hated him and loved him. The truth...”

“The music echoes in the emptiness. It reminds us where we came from and where were bound.”

“You got infinite channels and limitless rhymes, but the riddles of livin' stay undefined?”

“The music plays . . . and your sense of reality is heightened to a dream.”

“You couldn't not like someone who liked the guitar.”

“The history of music is mortal, but the idiocy of the guitar is eternal.”

“The string slices into the skin of his fingers and no matter how tough the calluses, it tears. But this beat is fast and even though his joints are aching, his arm's out of control like it has a mi...”