Seeking recognition for Billy Waters, a pioneer of African-American music, more than 200 years after his death

The first blues and jazz recordings date back to around 1920. But what was African-American popular music like a century earlier, in 1820? At the time, people of African descent had already been in North America for more than 200 years. For these enslaved men and women, music, dance and song were key to resistance and survival. We know little about their histories, still less about their narratives. Though artists and researchers such as Rhiannon Giddens and Jacqueline Cogdell DjeDje have opened up this rich field of Black heritage and reclaimed lost ground, much remains unknown.

I stumbled on a piece of that history a few years ago, in an unexpected place: the National Library of Ireland in Dublin. I was leafing through old music collections, bound together in weighty tomes. I turned a page, and… a one-legged Black fiddler – with feathers in his bicorn hat, a judge’s cauliflower wig and a tattered sailor’s jacket – leapt off a cover, dancing. Underneath was written ‘A Portrait of Billy Waters – he died about 20 years ago’, and a dedication beginning ‘Thou child of genius…’

The collection was one of minstrel airs, probably never played by Waters himself. Intrigued, I started digging and quickly learned he was a busker on the streets of London after the Napoleonic Wars, and an American – though nobody knew where from.

I found snippets of contemporary reference to Waters – some reliable, others not. Two concurred that he sailed on the frigate HMS Ganymede, so I visited the UK National Archives in Kew to pore through the ship’s flaking muster books. And there he was. In November 1811, William Waters, born in New York, joined the British Navy as an Able Seaman, aged 35. After three weeks, he gained promotion to the rank of Junior Petty Officer. The Ganymede sailed to Spain, where on March 3, 1812, the captain wrote in his log: ‘Cadiz harbour. a.m. moderate breezes… Wm Waters quarter gunner fell from the main yard and broke both his legs [and] otherwise severely wounded him…’ The left leg was amputated.

Waters went to live in London and started a small family. But his meagre pension as a wounded veteran wasn’t enough to support a wife and two children, so he turned to busking – which was deemed begging and hence illegal. Their home was in London’s most notorious slum, the ‘rookery’ of St Giles, near the British Museum. Constantly risking arrest, Waters busked in West End streets by day and lowlife pubs by night.

Nobody noted down his music or words, save one couplet of his signature song with a saucy, bluesy character: ‘Polly, will you marry me? Polly, will you toy? / Polly, will you come to bed and get a little boy?’’ It exists in several variants, suggesting Waters adapted it according to his audience. In 1959, Alan Lomax and Shirley Collins recorded octogenarian Sid Hemphill playing and singing ‘Polly Will You Marry Me?’ in Mississippi.

Billy Waters learned his skills as a fiddler, singer and dancer in small-yet-booming 1790s New York, where Black people were scattered throughout town, living close to whites. There was much cultural cross-pollination, especially among sailors and maritime workers. Waters’ style, tunes and songs would reflect a lively mix of African, Caribbean and European influences.

Londoners had never seen or heard anyone like it. Waters became emblematic of St Giles, and his unnamed yet unmistakable profile appeared in a book that became a massive best-seller. Life in London was quickly adapted for multiple stage versions, the most popular titled Tom and Jerry. A celebrated lowlife scene featured a former clown as ‘Billy Waters’, the ludicrous, bullying, cussing leader of a group of fraudulent beggars.

This viciously defamatory and racist portrayal destroyed the real Billy, who busked nearby. People stopped giving him coins. And the law quickly moved in. Waters was taken to court and made to swear never to busk again. He defied this and was arrested once more on the same day. His spirit broken, his livelihood gone, and his health in swift decline, Waters pawned his fiddle and died a pauper in the St Giles workhouse in March 1823. For decades afterwards, his image continued to be exploited in popular prints and ceramic figurines.

A terrible injustice was done to a pioneer of African-American music. But Waters is finally getting a measure of restorative justice and respect. Last year, to mark the bicentenary of his death, I summarised his life and its significance for a motion in the UK Parliament to recognise his contribution – sponsored by Bell Ribeiro-Addy (MP) – and wrote an article for The Guardian, which Martin Simpson drew on for ‘Billy Waters’ on his latest album Skydancers. And Angeline Morrison wrote ‘Jump Billy’, singing it this summer at the launch of Dr Mary Shannon’s book Billy Waters is Dancing.

It’s an uplifting twist to a tale of resilience and ingenuity by a poor, disabled, Black immigrant in the face of enormous challenges. Billy Waters was a man and performer tragically far ahead of his time.

As told by Tony Montague. Tony Montague continues to research the life of Billy Waters. If you have any feedback or information contact Tony at tonymontague28@gmail.com

This article originally appeared in the November 2024 issue of Songlines. Never miss an issue – subscribe today