Jimmy Jones Page

About the Song

Remember those days when a simple tune could transport you to another time and place? Jimmy Jones’ iconic hit, “Handy Man,” is one of those songs. Released in 1959, this upbeat and catchy number quickly climbed the charts, becoming a staple of American popular music.

The song’s title, “Handy Man,” might seem straightforward, but its lyrics paint a vivid picture of a hardworking, dependable man who can fix just about anything. This theme of reliability and resourcefulness resonated deeply with audiences of the time, and continues to do so today. It’s a timeless message about the value of a person who can be counted on.

Jones’ smooth, soulful vocals paired with the song’s infectious melody create a sound that is both nostalgic and refreshing. The lyrics are simple and easy to follow, making it a song that can be enjoyed by people of all ages. Yet, there’s a depth to the song that rewards repeated listenings.

The success of “Handy Man” can be attributed to several factors. First, the song was well-crafted and had a universal appeal. Second, it was released at a time when rock and roll was gaining popularity, and “Handy Man” was able to capture the spirit of that era while still maintaining a classic sound. Finally, Jones’ charismatic personality and strong stage presence helped to solidify his place in the music industry.

Over the years, “Handy Man” has been covered by numerous artists, from Del Shannon to James Taylor. This enduring popularity is a testament to the song’s quality and its ability to connect with people on a deep emotional level. Whether you’re a longtime fan of Jimmy Jones or simply appreciate great music, “Handy Man” is a song that is well worth listening to.Jimmy Jones Was For Real – Geezer Music Club

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Lyrics: Handy Man 

Hey girls, gather round, listen to what I’m putting down
Hey baby, I’m your handy man
I’m not the kind to use a pencil or rule, I’m handy with love and I’m no fool
I fix broken hearts, I know that I truly canIf your broken heart should need repair, then I am the man to see
I whisper sweet things, you tell all your friends, they’ll come running to meHere is the main thing that I want to say, I’m busy 24 hours a day
I fix broken hearts, I know that I truly can
Comma, comma, comma, comma, com, com, yeah, yeah, yeah
Comma, comma, comma, comma, com, com, oh they’ll come running to me

Here is the main thing I want to say, I’m busy 24 hours a day
I fix broken hearts, baby
I’m your handy man
Comma, comma, comma, comma, com, com, yeah, yeah, yeah
Comma, comma, comma, comma, com, com, yeah, yeah, yeah
That’s me
Comma, comma, comma, comma, com, com
I’m your handy man, yeah yeah, yeah
That’s me
Comma, comma, comma, comma, com, com
I’m your handy man, yeah yeah, yeah

You Missed

Patsy stood in a dress she felt was a costume, fighting the producer’s demand to sing a song she genuinely disliked. The studio lights at Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts burned hot that January night in 1957. Patsy stood backstage with a heart set on performing a different ballad, holding a vision of her own career that didn’t include the uptempo swing of a song she found tedious. She wanted the emotional weight of a country tear-jerker; the producer wanted a hit. The pressure in that dressing room was palpable, a quiet collision between an artist’s stubborn intuition and the cold machinery of television producers who cared more about broadcast tempo than personal conviction. She walked out there wearing a cocktail dress instead of her usual cowgirl gear, an image she felt didn’t belong to her. As the cameras rolled, she surrendered to the arrangement. She sang those lyrics she didn’t care for, her voice cutting through the air with a clean, haunting authority that demanded the nation’s attention. By the time the final note hung in the rafters, she hadn’t just won a competition; she had fundamentally altered the trajectory of her life. The audience erupted, and Arthur Godfrey broke protocol to tell her she had secured the victory before the commercial break even arrived. Success is often a fickle companion that arrives wearing the face of a stranger. That song, the one she fought against until the very last second, cemented her name on the charts and defined the sound of her breakthrough. She stood under those bright lights, the applause washing over a woman who had finally and accidentally found the exact sound the world was waiting for.

To save his career, a Tennessee farm boy had to learn how to walk, sing, and breathe inside the glass walls of an urban professional studio. By the late 1950s, the steel guitars and cowboy boots that propelled Eddy Arnold to the top of the charts were gathering dust. The radio airwaves had shifted beneath his feet, and the hits that once felt effortless were drying up entirely. Arnold stood at a crossroads, staring down the very real possibility of packing his bags and leaving the music business for good. He was a man out of time, clinging to an image that the new American consumer no longer wanted to buy. Instead of bowing out, he began a slow, deliberate demolition of the persona that had made him a star. The rustic, down-home threads were traded for the sharp, muted formality of a tuxedo. The steel guitars were replaced by sweeping orchestral arrangements and velvet-smooth vocal deliveries designed for supper clubs rather than honky-tonks. He was not just updating his sound; he was performing an act of total reinvention, moving from the farmhouse to the high-rise with startling, cold calculation. When he recorded Make the World Go Away in 1965, the gamble achieved something profound. The song bypassed the traditional country boundaries, finding a home on the pop charts and turning his perceived failure into a second, far more lucrative life. He never went back to the plow. He sat under the studio lights, a man who had successfully traded his heritage for a tuxedo and a permanent place in the modern spotlight.