Country Music

Eastbound and Down – Jerry Reed

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” Introduction Growing up in the Southern United States,…

Johnny Cash – “Folsom Prison Blues”

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” Introduction I first encountered “Folsom Prison Blues” during…

Hank Williams Jr – Whiskey Bent And Hell Bound

Introduction My first encounter with “Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound” was during a family road trip through the heart of…

All I Have to Offer You (Is Me) – Charley Pride

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” Introduction Growing up, my family gatherings were often…

John Conlee – Common Man

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” Introduction Imagine attending a concert and hearing a…

Turn It On – Turn It Up – Turn Me Loose – Heidi Hauge

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” Introduction There’s something uniquely uplifting about Heidi Hauge’s…

Aishling Rafferty – Darling, Say You’ll Love Me When I’m Old

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” Introduction Have you ever stumbled upon a melody…

Anne Murray – Danny’s Song

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” Introduction Growing up, my father often strummed his…

Guitars, Cadillacs – Dwight Yoakam

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” Introduction Growing up, I vividly remember the sounds…

“Galveston” – Glen Campbell & Steve Wariner

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” Introduction Whenever “Galveston” plays, it’s like stepping into…

In Muskogee, Oklahoma, there’s a pawn and guitar repair shop sandwiched between a laundromat and a lawyer’s office. It’s called “Gus’s Strings & Stories.” Inside, the air is thick with the smell of pine, fretboard oil, and old tube amplifiers. Gus, the owner, is a quiet man with hands calloused from thousands of hours of soldering wires and adjusting frets. On the walls, instead of flashy guitars, are the broken ones. One with a snapped neck. One with a hole where its previous owner punched it. Next to each is a short, handwritten story of how it was “saved.” The shop’s rule is etched on a small brass plaque on the counter: “Lie to your guitar, it’ll lie right back.” One day, a young man came in, wanting to sell his father’s acoustic guitar. “I need the money,” he said, eyes fixed on the floor. Gus took the guitar. He didn’t check the brand. He checked the pick marks near the soundhole. He looked at the wear on the G fret. He gently plucked a string. Then he handed it back to the boy. “This guitar has played ‘Sing Me Back Home’ one too many times,” Gus said. “It doesn’t belong in a pawnshop. It belongs at a campfire. Go home, son.” The young man looked up, confused. “But I need…” “No,” Gus interrupted, pointing to the etching. “You don’t need the money. You need to play for your father. Don’t lie to the guitar. Merle wouldn’t.” The young man stood there for a moment, then clutched the guitar and walked out the door. Gus nodded, returning to his work.

There are quiet moments that are more precious than a thousand words. 💖 Looking at this picture of the legend Kris and his wife Lisa, what do you feel? I see a love that has spanned a lifetime, transcended the spotlight and the tests of time. The tight embrace, Lisa’s radiant smile as she leans on him, and Kris’s gentle eyes… it all tells a story of deep affection. Are they celebrating a special occasion, or is this simply a cozy evening, cherishing every moment together? Behind this simple snapshot, there must be a secret to the kind of happiness we all search for.

It was an unusually cold night in Austin. Shooter stood backstage, ready to go on, but he couldn’t stop shivering. The stage manager saw this, hurried to the dressing room, and brought back an old, faded leather jacket. “This… this was his,” the manager said. “It’s been hanging here since the last time he played.” Shooter slipped his arms in. The leather was stiff and cold, but as he zipped it up, he caught the scent of old stage smoke and a faint, familiar smell of tobacco. He walked out onto the stage, and the lights hit him. The shivering was gone. The jacket felt heavy on his shoulders, not from the weight of the leather, but from the weight of the songs it had seen. That night, he played like a giant.

During a show in Alabama, right in the middle of the band’s performance, George Jones suddenly stopped singing. He looked down at the audience, where a middle-aged man was holding a sign that read, “Dad loved ‘He Stopped Loving Her Today.’” George set his microphone down, stepped toward the edge of the stage, and softly said, “Then let’s sing it for him.” The entire room fell silent. When he reached the final line, the man broke down in tears. George didn’t say another word — he simply nodded. It was no longer a concert. It was a farewell.