Country Music

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FORGET JOHNNY CASH. FORGET “FOLSOM PRISON BLUES.” ONE SONG OF MERLE HAGGARD WAS WRITTEN BY A MAN WHO ACTUALLY STOOD IN THAT HALLWAY AND WATCHED A FRIEND WALK PAST HIM FOR THE LAST TIME. When people talk about prison songs in country music, they reach for the famous one. The one performed for the cameras, by a man who had never served a day. But Merle Haggard wasn’t singing about San Quentin. He was inmate number 45200 inside it, serving fifteen years for a botched robbery at twenty years old. There was a man in there with him — James “Rabbit” Kendrick. Rabbit planned an escape and invited Merle to come. Then he changed his mind and told him to stay: you can sing, you can write, you can be somebody someday. Merle stayed. Rabbit went. Two weeks later Rabbit shot a highway patrolman on a freeway near Victorville, and they brought him back to San Quentin to die. Merle and the others waited in the yard to see him pass. Rabbit stared straight ahead the whole way — until the last second, when he lifted one hand toward them. That was all. That was the entire goodbye. Years later Merle Haggard wrote a song about a condemned man’s final request, and said plainly: I believe I know exactly how he felt that night. That song hit No. 1 and charted for 17 weeks. Rolling Stone later ranked it among the saddest country songs ever recorded. Every artist who has covered it — and there have been many — was singing about a man they never knew. Cash performed prison. The outlaws sold prison. Merle Haggard carried a man’s last wave in the yard for the rest of his life. Some songs are written about someone. This one was written for someone who never got to hear it. Do you know which song of Merle Haggard that is?

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Forget Johnny Cash, Forget “Folsom Prison Blues”: The Merle Haggard Song That Carried a Last Goodbye When people talk about…

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BEN HAGGARD PLAYS HIS FATHER’S SONGS, ON HIS FATHER’S BUS, WITH HIS FATHER’S BAND, USING HIS FATHER’S GUITAR. PEOPLE CALL IT A TRIBUTE ACT. MERLE ORDERED HIM TO DO IT. The criticism isn’t hard to find, and it isn’t stupid. A famous last name, a ready-made audience, a catalog he didn’t write. Every night, standing in a shadow so big nobody can see around it. Plenty of sons have done less with more. Except he didn’t inherit the chair. He won it. Merle didn’t even know the kid could play until he walked past Ben’s bedroom one night, heard it coming through the door, and asked his wife how their son learned to play like that. Theresa’s answer was four words long: he’s been watching you. Ben was in the Strangers as a teenager and held the lead guitar seat for eight years while his father was alive to fire him. Then April 6, 2016 — Merle died on his own 79th birthday, and the instruction he’d left his son was blunt as everything else he ever said: you’d be an idiot not to take my guitar and my bus and sing my songs as long as you can. Go out there and play until there’s nobody left to play to. He’d told Ben something else growing up, too: son, you’ve got to create your own thunder. A tribute act doesn’t get handed both of those. Only a son does.

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Ben Haggard and the Weight of a Famous Name When people talk about Ben Haggard, they often start with the…

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MILLIONS EVENTUALLY KNEW MARTY ROBBINS THROUGH SONGS ABOUT MEN WHO RODE TOWARD DEATH. BUT IN REAL LIFE, HE KEPT RACING STOCK CARS UNTIL ONE MONTH BEFORE HIS OWN. In “El Paso,” a cowboy rides back toward the woman he loves even though he knows armed men are waiting. Marty sang that final ride with such calm that listeners could almost forget how frightened the man should have been. Perhaps that was because Marty understood the pull of danger himself. Away from country music, he spent years racing stock cars, competing against professional drivers on tracks where one mistake could change everything. Even a serious heart attack and bypass surgery did not permanently keep him away. He returned to racing because speed was not a publicity stunt for him. It was another part of who he was. In November 1982, at 57, Marty competed in what became his final NASCAR race. On December 8, following another heart attack, he died. The man who wrote so many endings never seemed interested in living cautiously. He sang about riders moving toward the inevitable, then spent his own life pressing the accelerator. Maybe Marty Robbins understood those men because he was never standing safely outside their stories.

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Marty Robbins, the Voice of the Last Ride Millions came to know Marty Robbins through songs about men who rode…

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PEOPLE CALL JOHNNY CASH AND JUNE CARTER THE GREATEST LOVE STORY IN COUNTRY MUSIC. IT STARTED AS AN AFFAIR, AND HIS FIRST WIFE NEVER FORGAVE THE WOMAN WHO WON. Here’s the version the legend leaves out. When they fell for each other, both were married to other people. Johnny had a wife, Vivian, and four daughters. Vivian filed for divorce in 1966 over his addiction and an affair she’d already sensed. In her own memoir she wanted one thing on the record: that June pursued Johnny, not the other way around. She said June once told her, plainly, that he would be hers. So no — not a fairy tale. A marriage ended. Four girls watched their father leave. But look at what the cynics stop short of. June refused to marry him while he was using. She moved into his house with her parents to drag him back from the edge. And even that wasn’t the happy ending — by the late ’70s the addiction had him again, and their son says they were “paperwork away from being divorced.” They forgave each other. They got strong again. As John Carter Cash put it: they didn’t live happily ever after. They lived happily after all. Thirty-five years. June died in May 2003. Johnny lasted four months. Kristofferson said he cried every night to the end. Even Vivian — the wife he left — came to see him after June was gone. Some folks say that love story was built on a betrayal. What do you call it?

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Johnny Cash and June Carter Cash: The Love Story, the Heartache, and the Long Road Back People still call Johnny…

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AT 33, MERLE HAGGARD WALKED TO THE STAGE FOUR TIMES IN ONE NIGHT — FOR A SONG HE’D WRITTEN IN TWENTY MINUTES ON A TOUR BUS. Merle Haggard lost his father when he was nine years old. He said that for the rest of his life he’d catch himself wondering what the old man would have made of things. He was rolling down Interstate 40 with his band when a road sign went past: 19 miles to Muskogee. Something about it landed. He turned to his drummer, Eddie Burris, and the two of them had the whole thing finished before the bus reached the next town. Twenty minutes, start to end. They called it “Okie from Muskogee.” They cut it in July 1969. That October they drove to Muskogee itself and recorded a live album in the Civic Center. Then October 14, 1970. The Ryman in Nashville. Haggard walked in with nine nominations, more than anyone else in the room. Single of the Year. Album of the Year. Male Vocalist. And then they called him back up for Entertainer of the Year. Four trophies. He was 33 years old, and nobody in that building won more.

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Merle Haggard, 33, and the Night Four Awards Changed Everything By the time Merle Haggard stepped onto the stage in…

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LORETTA LYNN’S HUSBAND HEARD “FIST CITY” FOR THE FIRST TIME AT THE GRAND OLE OPRY. SHE WAS SINGING ABOUT HIM. HE TOLD HER IT WOULD NEVER BE A HIT. Radio agreed with him. Stations refused to play it. A woman threatening to drag another woman off by the hair of her head — in 1968, that wasn’t a country record. That was a scandal. The modern complaint is different, and people say it out loud now: she aimed at the wrong target. Doolittle was the one cheating. Loretta wrote three minutes of threats and pointed every one of them at the other woman. That reading isn’t wrong. It just stops early. She wasn’t asking anyone’s permission — not radio’s, not Nashville’s, not her husband’s. She had four children before she was twenty and a marriage she refused to leave, and the one thing she could still control was the microphone. It went to No. 1 anyway. Banned and No. 1, in the same year. Years later she summed the whole marriage up in a sentence: her old man was sleeping out on her, and he ended up making her a lot of songwriting money doing it. Some folks call that song bitter. What do you call it?

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Loretta Lynn, “Fist City,” and the argument country music was having with itself When Loretta Lynn sang “Fist City” for…

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THEY COULDN’T KEEP THEIR MARRIAGE TOGETHER. BUT FOURTEEN MONTHS AFTER THE DIVORCE, A SONG ABOUT A FAILED MARRIAGE TOOK “MR. AND MRS. COUNTRY MUSIC” BACK TO NO. 1. George Jones and Tammy Wynette divorced in 1975 after six difficult years together. Yet country fans still refused to see them as separate people. At Tammy’s solo shows, some audience members reportedly interrupted her songs by shouting, “Where’s George?” Then came “Golden Ring.” Bobby Braddock and Rafe Van Hoy wrote the story of a wedding ring sitting in a Chicago pawn shop. A young couple buys it, gets married, begins fighting, and eventually separates. The ring ends up behind the glass again, waiting for another couple who still believes love will be enough. George later admitted that recording with Tammy again was not his idea. Working beside her brought back memories he did not want to revisit. But when Billy Sherrill started the session, George and Tammy still knew exactly how to sing together. Their marriage was over, yet neither voice competed with the other. They listened. They answered. They left space for the pain both of them understood. Released fourteen months after their divorce, “Golden Ring” reached No. 1 in August 1976. Years later, their daughter Georgette said, “Mom loved him until the day she died.” She believed George had been the love of her mother’s life. The couple once known as “Mr. and Mrs. Country Music” could not build a peaceful home together. But inside one three-minute song, they still sounded as if they belonged in the same room. Do you remember how you felt the first time you heard “Golden Ring”?

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How “Golden Ring” Gave George Jones and Tammy Wynette a Second Life on the Charts George Jones and Tammy Wynette…

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BONNIE OWENS DIVORCED MERLE HAGGARD IN 1978. THAT SAME YEAR SHE STOOD UP AS MAID OF HONOR AT HIS NEXT WEDDING. THEN SHE WENT BACK OUT ON THE ROAD AND SANG HARMONY BEHIND HIM FOR TWENTY MORE YEARS. People have never known what to do with that story. Some say it plainly: she had no self-respect. A woman who couldn’t let go, taking a paycheck to stand three feet from the man who left her, night after night, smiling into a microphone. Here’s what that reading misses. Bonnie Owens won the ACM’s Top Female Vocalist award in 1965. She has a co-writing credit on “Today I Started Loving You Again.” She’d already been married to Buck Owens before Merle. She wasn’t somebody’s shadow. She was Bakersfield. She stayed because the harmony was hers. Nobody else could sing behind Merle Haggard the way she did, and both of them knew it. Her friend Norma Jean, who did the same thing with her own ex-husband, put it simply: they kept singing backup after the divorce because they loved singing that much. She was still touring with him in 2000. She died in 2006, at 76, of Alzheimer’s. Some folks call that weakness. What do you call it?

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Bonnie Owens, Merle Haggard, and the Story People Keep Misreading In country music, some stories are too complicated for a…

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THEY BURIED HER AT HOME. NO CATHEDRAL. NO NASHVILLE PROCESSION. JUST A FAMILY CEMETERY ON THE RANCH SHE’D LIVED ON FOR FIFTY YEARS — AND ABOUT A HUNDRED PEOPLE STANDING IN THE GRASS. The most awarded female artist in country music history was carried from her own mansion to her own graveside on October 7, 2022. The county sheriff led the hearse. Outside the property gate, fans who couldn’t come in stood and laid flowers as it passed. One woman had driven from North Dakota just to watch a car go by. They put her next to Doolittle. Three weeks later, the Grand Ole Opry House filled for the public memorial — Brandi Carlile, Keith Urban, Alan Jackson, Jack White, Little Big Town, Darius Rucker, Margo Price. Everyone had a song ready. But the room went quiet for a recording. Loretta had left one behind. “To my friends, thank you for giving me such a great life. Because of you, my kids didn’t have to grow up poor the way I did. As a mother, I didn’t have to go to bed heartbroken. I hope you know what a gift that is.” She spent sixty years singing about being poor, being tired, being a woman nobody listened to. Her last words were thank you.

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They Brought Loretta Lynn Home On October 7, 2022, Loretta Lynn was laid to rest on the ranch she had…

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HE SINGS LIKE A MEMORY — BUT SOME PEOPLE WISH HE WOULDN’T. Ronny Robbins doesn’t walk on stage like he owns the moment. He walks like he’s borrowing it. No spotlight confidence. No dramatic entrance. Just a quiet man stepping into songs his father left behind. Because when Ronny sings, it doesn’t feel new. It feels remembered. The phrasing, the tone — not identical to Marty’s, but close enough to stir something people aren’t sure they want stirred. He learned early what that does to a room. Somewhere in the middle of “El Paso,” a woman a few rows back stops singing along and just looks at him. She isn’t watching a performer. She’s watching a door she thought was closed. “It’s not imitation,” a man outside the venue said afterward, still standing in the parking lot. “It’s something that never really left.” To his supporters, that’s the rare part — a voice shaped by blood, by time, by stories told long before he ever held a microphone. Critics hear it differently. They hear echoes that were supposed to fade, carried by a man who didn’t write them. And somewhere between those two truths, Ronny keeps singing. Not louder. Not bolder. Just steady. Because maybe the question isn’t whether he should. It’s why people are still listening like it belongs to someone else.

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He Sings Like a Memory — But Some People Wish He Wouldn’t Ronny Robbins does not arrive on stage like…

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FORGET JOHNNY CASH. FORGET “FOLSOM PRISON BLUES.” ONE SONG OF MERLE HAGGARD WAS WRITTEN BY A MAN WHO ACTUALLY STOOD IN THAT HALLWAY AND WATCHED A FRIEND WALK PAST HIM FOR THE LAST TIME. When people talk about prison songs in country music, they reach for the famous one. The one performed for the cameras, by a man who had never served a day. But Merle Haggard wasn’t singing about San Quentin. He was inmate number 45200 inside it, serving fifteen years for a botched robbery at twenty years old. There was a man in there with him — James “Rabbit” Kendrick. Rabbit planned an escape and invited Merle to come. Then he changed his mind and told him to stay: you can sing, you can write, you can be somebody someday. Merle stayed. Rabbit went. Two weeks later Rabbit shot a highway patrolman on a freeway near Victorville, and they brought him back to San Quentin to die. Merle and the others waited in the yard to see him pass. Rabbit stared straight ahead the whole way — until the last second, when he lifted one hand toward them. That was all. That was the entire goodbye. Years later Merle Haggard wrote a song about a condemned man’s final request, and said plainly: I believe I know exactly how he felt that night. That song hit No. 1 and charted for 17 weeks. Rolling Stone later ranked it among the saddest country songs ever recorded. Every artist who has covered it — and there have been many — was singing about a man they never knew. Cash performed prison. The outlaws sold prison. Merle Haggard carried a man’s last wave in the yard for the rest of his life. Some songs are written about someone. This one was written for someone who never got to hear it. Do you know which song of Merle Haggard that is?

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BEN HAGGARD PLAYS HIS FATHER’S SONGS, ON HIS FATHER’S BUS, WITH HIS FATHER’S BAND, USING HIS FATHER’S GUITAR. PEOPLE CALL IT A TRIBUTE ACT. MERLE ORDERED HIM TO DO IT. The criticism isn’t hard to find, and it isn’t stupid. A famous last name, a ready-made audience, a catalog he didn’t write. Every night, standing in a shadow so big nobody can see around it. Plenty of sons have done less with more. Except he didn’t inherit the chair. He won it. Merle didn’t even know the kid could play until he walked past Ben’s bedroom one night, heard it coming through the door, and asked his wife how their son learned to play like that. Theresa’s answer was four words long: he’s been watching you. Ben was in the Strangers as a teenager and held the lead guitar seat for eight years while his father was alive to fire him. Then April 6, 2016 — Merle died on his own 79th birthday, and the instruction he’d left his son was blunt as everything else he ever said: you’d be an idiot not to take my guitar and my bus and sing my songs as long as you can. Go out there and play until there’s nobody left to play to. He’d told Ben something else growing up, too: son, you’ve got to create your own thunder. A tribute act doesn’t get handed both of those. Only a son does.

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MILLIONS EVENTUALLY KNEW MARTY ROBBINS THROUGH SONGS ABOUT MEN WHO RODE TOWARD DEATH. BUT IN REAL LIFE, HE KEPT RACING STOCK CARS UNTIL ONE MONTH BEFORE HIS OWN. In “El Paso,” a cowboy rides back toward the woman he loves even though he knows armed men are waiting. Marty sang that final ride with such calm that listeners could almost forget how frightened the man should have been. Perhaps that was because Marty understood the pull of danger himself. Away from country music, he spent years racing stock cars, competing against professional drivers on tracks where one mistake could change everything. Even a serious heart attack and bypass surgery did not permanently keep him away. He returned to racing because speed was not a publicity stunt for him. It was another part of who he was. In November 1982, at 57, Marty competed in what became his final NASCAR race. On December 8, following another heart attack, he died. The man who wrote so many endings never seemed interested in living cautiously. He sang about riders moving toward the inevitable, then spent his own life pressing the accelerator. Maybe Marty Robbins understood those men because he was never standing safely outside their stories.

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PEOPLE CALL JOHNNY CASH AND JUNE CARTER THE GREATEST LOVE STORY IN COUNTRY MUSIC. IT STARTED AS AN AFFAIR, AND HIS FIRST WIFE NEVER FORGAVE THE WOMAN WHO WON. Here’s the version the legend leaves out. When they fell for each other, both were married to other people. Johnny had a wife, Vivian, and four daughters. Vivian filed for divorce in 1966 over his addiction and an affair she’d already sensed. In her own memoir she wanted one thing on the record: that June pursued Johnny, not the other way around. She said June once told her, plainly, that he would be hers. So no — not a fairy tale. A marriage ended. Four girls watched their father leave. But look at what the cynics stop short of. June refused to marry him while he was using. She moved into his house with her parents to drag him back from the edge. And even that wasn’t the happy ending — by the late ’70s the addiction had him again, and their son says they were “paperwork away from being divorced.” They forgave each other. They got strong again. As John Carter Cash put it: they didn’t live happily ever after. They lived happily after all. Thirty-five years. June died in May 2003. Johnny lasted four months. Kristofferson said he cried every night to the end. Even Vivian — the wife he left — came to see him after June was gone. Some folks say that love story was built on a betrayal. What do you call it?