“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.”

Introduction

Imagine you’re at a bustling, vibrant music festival, the evening air cool against your skin, stars beginning to peek through as dusk settles over the Gabba in Brisbane. This is where Sara Berki, a relatively under-the-radar artist with a voice that can only be described as soul-touching, takes the stage. The crowd quiets, anticipation hanging thick in the air. She strums the first few chords, and suddenly, you’re not just at a concert—you’re on a journey.

“Take Me Home, Country Roads,” originally by John Denver, is more than just a song; it’s a feeling, a nostalgic pull to the places and people that ground us. Sara’s rendition, however, does something magical. Her voice, raw and evocative, carries each word with a poignant clarity that feels like it’s speaking directly to you. There’s a sincerity in her performance that transforms the classic anthem into something deeply personal and incredibly universal all at once.

As she hits the chorus, her voice soaring over the crowd, it’s not hard to see why this song, performed at this place, at this moment, feels like it was meant to be. Sara’s cover connects with the audience on a visceral level, tapping into the collective longing for a sense of home, whatever and wherever that may be. Her live performance at the Gabba doesn’t just replicate Denver’s original—it reinvents it, breathing new life into the familiar lyrics and melody.

For those few minutes, everyone in the audience is connected, not just by the shared experience of live music, but by the shared emotion that Sara evokes. It’s a reminder of the power of music to transport us, to comfort us, and to bring us together.

This cover by Sara Berki isn’t just a tribute to a timeless classic; it’s a testament to how a song can be reborn, finding new meaning with each rendition. It’s a reminder that sometimes, you can go home again, even if just through a song.

Video

Lyrics

Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River
Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, growin’ like a breeze
Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads
All my memories gather ’round her
Miner’s lady, stranger to blue water
Dark and dusty, painted on the sky
Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye
Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads
I hear her voice in the mornin’ hour, she calls me
The radio reminds me of my home far away
Drivin’ down the road, I get a feelin’
That I should’ve been home yesterday, yesterday
Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads
Country roads, take me home
To the place I belong
West Virginia, mountain mama
Take me home, country roads
Take me home, (down) country roads
Take me home, (down) country roads

You Missed

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.