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

Introduction

The first time I heard George Jones’s “If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me (Her Memory Will),” I was captivated by the raw emotion and authenticity in his voice. The song’s poignant exploration of heartache and coping resonated deeply with me, showcasing the timeless power of country music to touch the soul.

About The Composition

  • Title: If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me (Her Memory Will)
  • Composer: Harlan Sanders and Rick Beresford
  • Premiere Date: December 1980
  • Album: I Am What I Am
  • Genre: Country Music

Background

“If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me (Her Memory Will)” is a heartfelt country song penned by Harlan Sanders and Rick Beresford. Performed by the legendary George Jones, it was released as the third single from his album I Am What I Am in December 1980. At the time, Jones was grappling with personal struggles, including battles with alcohol, which added a layer of authenticity to his performance. The song reached number 8 on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart, resonating with audiences and critics alike. Its sincere portrayal of pain and resilience solidified its significance in Jones’s illustrious repertoire.

Musical Style

The song embodies traditional country music elements with a slow tempo and melancholic melody that accentuates its somber themes. Instrumentation includes classic acoustic guitar, steel guitar, and subtle percussion, creating an intimate backdrop for Jones’s emotive vocals. His distinctive voice conveys deep sorrow and vulnerability, drawing listeners into the narrative. The straightforward structure allows the lyrical content to shine, making the emotional impact more profound.

Lyrics

The lyrics delve into the story of a man attempting to numb the pain of lost love through drinking. Despite his efforts, he realizes that the memory of his former lover is more likely to be his undoing than the alcohol itself. Themes of heartache, addiction, and the struggle to escape painful memories are central to the song. The honest and relatable storytelling strikes a chord with many who have faced similar emotional turmoil.

Performance History

Following its release, “If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me (Her Memory Will)” became a staple in George Jones’s performances. The song has been covered by various artists over the years, testament to its enduring appeal. Its reception remained strong, with fans appreciating its depth and critics praising Jones’s heartfelt delivery. The song’s place in the country music canon is well-established, often cited as one of Jones’s most impactful works.

Cultural Impact

The song has transcended its initial release to become a classic in the genre, influencing countless artists and songwriters. Its exploration of personal demons and emotional pain has been referenced in other media, including films and television shows that aim to portray raw human experiences. The song contributes to broader cultural conversations about coping mechanisms and the complexities of love and loss.

Legacy

“If Drinkin’ Don’t Kill Me (Her Memory Will)” continues to resonate with audiences today, reflecting the timeless nature of its themes. The song underscores George Jones’s legacy as a masterful storyteller who could convey profound emotion through his music. It remains a powerful reminder of the human capacity for resilience in the face of heartache.

Conclusion

This song stands as a poignant example of George Jones’s ability to touch listeners’ hearts with sincerity and depth. I encourage you to listen to the original recording on the I Am What I Am album to experience its emotional richness firsthand. It’s a compelling piece that continues to offer solace and understanding to those navigating the complexities of love and memory

Video

Lyrics

The bars are all closed
It’s four in the mornin’
I must have shut ’em all down
By the shape that I’m in
I lay my head on the wheel
And the horn begins honkin’
The whole neighborhood knows
That I’m home drunk again
If drinkin’ don’t kill me
Her memory will
I can’t hold out much longer
The way that I feel
With the blood from my body
I could start my own still
But if drinkin’ don’t kill me
Her memory will
These old bones, they move slow
But so sure of their footsteps
As I trip on the floor
And I lightly touch down
Lord, it’s been ten bottles
Since I tried to forget her
But the mem’ry still lingers
Lyin’ here on the ground
And if drinkin’ don’t kill me
Her memory will
I can’t hold out much longer
The way that I feel
With the blood from my body
I could start my own still
But if drinkin’ don’t kill me
Her memory will

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A VIRGINIA DJ WROTE ONE SONG FOR ANOTHER SINGER. A YEAR LATER, TOM T. HALL LEFT THE RADIO BOOTH AND WENT TO NASHVILLE WITH NOTHING BUT STORIES. Before Tom T. Hall became country music’s “Storyteller,” he was working a radio shift in Virginia. He had grown up in Olive Hill, Kentucky, writing songs as a boy and playing bluegrass anywhere people would let him. He served in the Army in Germany, performed over Armed Forces Radio, then came home and found work as a disc jockey. The job gave him a microphone, a stack of records, and a front-row seat to the kind of people country songs were supposed to be about. Truck drivers calling in after dark. Farmers listening before dawn. Women asking for songs they could not explain to anyone at home. Hall was writing too. Not songs built around big Nashville ideas. Small stories. A man with a problem. A woman with a secret. A room with a radio on in the corner. He had learned that people would tell you almost anything if you stayed quiet long enough. Then a Nashville publisher named Jimmy Key heard some of his material. Key took one song, “D.J. for a Day,” and gave it to Grand Ole Opry singer Jimmy C. Newman. Newman recorded it in 1963. The song became a Top 10 country hit. For Hall, that one record changed the direction of everything. In 1964, he left Virginia and moved to Nashville to write songs for Newkeys Music. The pay was small. Around fifty dollars a week. He was expected to turn out songs constantly, sometimes several in a day. But the room had changed. The radio booth was gone. Now he was sitting in Nashville, trying to turn all the people he had watched and listened to into songs somebody else could carry to the charts. Soon Dave Dudley recorded “Mad.” Johnnie Wright took “Hello Vietnam” to No. 1. Then came “Harper Valley P.T.A.” for Jeannie C. Riley. “The Year That Clayton Delaney Died.” “Homecoming.” “Old Dogs, Children and Watermelon Wine.” Tom T. Hall did not go to Nashville with a big voice or a polished image. He went with the habit of listening. And somewhere between a Virginia radio booth and a fifty-dollar-a-week songwriting job, country music found the man who could turn ordinary lives into songs people never forgot.

THE SONG HAD BEEN SITTING IN COUNTRY MUSIC FOR NINETEEN YEARS. THEN GENE WATSON RECORDED IT IN FIFTEEN MINUTES AND MADE IT HIS NAME. He came out of Texas, sang in holiness churches with his family, worked an auto body shop in Houston during the day, and played clubs at night. He had recorded for small regional labels. He had watched songs come close without changing his life. Then “Love in the Hot Afternoon” gave him a national hit in 1975, proving that country radio could hear him when it wanted to. But Gene Watson was never a singer built for fast songs or easy records. His voice lived in the slow ones. The songs where the room got quieter after the first line. The kind of country ballads that did not need a big ending because the hurt had already settled in before the chorus came around. “Farewell Party” had been written by Lawton Williams and recorded before. Williams cut it in 1960. Little Jimmy Dickens recorded it. Johnny Bush recorded it. The song had been around Nashville for nearly two decades, waiting for somebody to sing it like the man in the lyric was already looking down at the people gathered around him. In March 1979, Gene Watson went into Cowboy Jack Clement’s studio in Nashville. The session was almost over. “Farewell Party” was not supposed to be the big moment. Watson later recalled that they recorded it at the tail end of the session, in about fifteen minutes. But when he started singing about the last breath leaving his body and friends gathering around, he did not make it sound like a novelty funeral song. He made it sound like a man standing at the edge of his own goodbye. The record climbed to No. 5. It did not go No. 1. It did not need to. “Farewell Party” became the song people asked Gene Watson to sing for the rest of his life. It became the name of his band. Decades later, when he was inducted into the Grand Ole Opry, he closed the night with it. A song that had waited nineteen years for the right voice finally found one. And Gene Watson spent the rest of his career carrying that farewell with him from one stage to the next.

PAPPY DAILY HEARD GEORGE JONES SING LIKE HANK WILLIAMS, LEFTY FRIZZELL, AND ROY ACUFF. THEN HE ASKED HIM ONE QUESTION: “CAN YOU SING LIKE GEORGE JONES?” When George Jones came back to Texas after the Marines, he had a guitar, a young family, and a voice built out of other men’s records. Roy Acuff had been the first hero. Hank Williams had shown him how much pain a country song could carry. Lefty Frizzell had taught him what could happen when a singer stretched one word until it sounded like five. George listened hard enough that their voices began showing up inside his own. In 1954, he cut his first record for Starday. The title was “No Money in This Deal.” It was recorded in a small East Texas house with trucks passing outside. The sound was rough. The records did not sell. George kept cutting songs, but the young singer on those early sides still sounded like he was trying to win an audition for the ghosts who had raised him. Then Pappy Daily stepped in. Daily was not a singer. He was a jukebox man, a record man, and the producer-manager who saw something in George before Nashville did. He had heard the kid imitate Roy Acuff. He had heard Hank Williams in the high, lonesome edge of the voice. He had heard Lefty Frizzell in the phrasing. One day, Daily asked him the question George needed to hear. He said, “George, I’ve heard you sing like Roy Acuff, Hank Williams, Lefty Frizzell. I just want to know one thing: Can you sing like George Jones?” That question did not turn George into a star overnight. There were still small labels, cheap studios, failed singles, and years before “White Lightning,” “She Thinks I Still Care,” and the records that would make his voice impossible to confuse with anybody else’s. But it gave him a direction. George never stopped carrying Hank, Lefty, and Roy inside the way he sang. He later admitted that Lefty shaped his phrasing more than anyone. But eventually the borrowed pieces became something else — the long held notes, the crack in the middle of a word, the feeling that a man was trying to stay calm while his whole life was giving way. Pappy Daily did not teach George Jones how to sound like George Jones. He made him understand that someday, he had to.

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A VIRGINIA DJ WROTE ONE SONG FOR ANOTHER SINGER. A YEAR LATER, TOM T. HALL LEFT THE RADIO BOOTH AND WENT TO NASHVILLE WITH NOTHING BUT STORIES. Before Tom T. Hall became country music’s “Storyteller,” he was working a radio shift in Virginia. He had grown up in Olive Hill, Kentucky, writing songs as a boy and playing bluegrass anywhere people would let him. He served in the Army in Germany, performed over Armed Forces Radio, then came home and found work as a disc jockey. The job gave him a microphone, a stack of records, and a front-row seat to the kind of people country songs were supposed to be about. Truck drivers calling in after dark. Farmers listening before dawn. Women asking for songs they could not explain to anyone at home. Hall was writing too. Not songs built around big Nashville ideas. Small stories. A man with a problem. A woman with a secret. A room with a radio on in the corner. He had learned that people would tell you almost anything if you stayed quiet long enough. Then a Nashville publisher named Jimmy Key heard some of his material. Key took one song, “D.J. for a Day,” and gave it to Grand Ole Opry singer Jimmy C. Newman. Newman recorded it in 1963. The song became a Top 10 country hit. For Hall, that one record changed the direction of everything. In 1964, he left Virginia and moved to Nashville to write songs for Newkeys Music. The pay was small. Around fifty dollars a week. He was expected to turn out songs constantly, sometimes several in a day. But the room had changed. The radio booth was gone. Now he was sitting in Nashville, trying to turn all the people he had watched and listened to into songs somebody else could carry to the charts. Soon Dave Dudley recorded “Mad.” Johnnie Wright took “Hello Vietnam” to No. 1. Then came “Harper Valley P.T.A.” for Jeannie C. Riley. “The Year That Clayton Delaney Died.” “Homecoming.” “Old Dogs, Children and Watermelon Wine.” Tom T. Hall did not go to Nashville with a big voice or a polished image. He went with the habit of listening. And somewhere between a Virginia radio booth and a fifty-dollar-a-week songwriting job, country music found the man who could turn ordinary lives into songs people never forgot.

THE SONG HAD BEEN SITTING IN COUNTRY MUSIC FOR NINETEEN YEARS. THEN GENE WATSON RECORDED IT IN FIFTEEN MINUTES AND MADE IT HIS NAME. He came out of Texas, sang in holiness churches with his family, worked an auto body shop in Houston during the day, and played clubs at night. He had recorded for small regional labels. He had watched songs come close without changing his life. Then “Love in the Hot Afternoon” gave him a national hit in 1975, proving that country radio could hear him when it wanted to. But Gene Watson was never a singer built for fast songs or easy records. His voice lived in the slow ones. The songs where the room got quieter after the first line. The kind of country ballads that did not need a big ending because the hurt had already settled in before the chorus came around. “Farewell Party” had been written by Lawton Williams and recorded before. Williams cut it in 1960. Little Jimmy Dickens recorded it. Johnny Bush recorded it. The song had been around Nashville for nearly two decades, waiting for somebody to sing it like the man in the lyric was already looking down at the people gathered around him. In March 1979, Gene Watson went into Cowboy Jack Clement’s studio in Nashville. The session was almost over. “Farewell Party” was not supposed to be the big moment. Watson later recalled that they recorded it at the tail end of the session, in about fifteen minutes. But when he started singing about the last breath leaving his body and friends gathering around, he did not make it sound like a novelty funeral song. He made it sound like a man standing at the edge of his own goodbye. The record climbed to No. 5. It did not go No. 1. It did not need to. “Farewell Party” became the song people asked Gene Watson to sing for the rest of his life. It became the name of his band. Decades later, when he was inducted into the Grand Ole Opry, he closed the night with it. A song that had waited nineteen years for the right voice finally found one. And Gene Watson spent the rest of his career carrying that farewell with him from one stage to the next.

PAPPY DAILY HEARD GEORGE JONES SING LIKE HANK WILLIAMS, LEFTY FRIZZELL, AND ROY ACUFF. THEN HE ASKED HIM ONE QUESTION: “CAN YOU SING LIKE GEORGE JONES?” When George Jones came back to Texas after the Marines, he had a guitar, a young family, and a voice built out of other men’s records. Roy Acuff had been the first hero. Hank Williams had shown him how much pain a country song could carry. Lefty Frizzell had taught him what could happen when a singer stretched one word until it sounded like five. George listened hard enough that their voices began showing up inside his own. In 1954, he cut his first record for Starday. The title was “No Money in This Deal.” It was recorded in a small East Texas house with trucks passing outside. The sound was rough. The records did not sell. George kept cutting songs, but the young singer on those early sides still sounded like he was trying to win an audition for the ghosts who had raised him. Then Pappy Daily stepped in. Daily was not a singer. He was a jukebox man, a record man, and the producer-manager who saw something in George before Nashville did. He had heard the kid imitate Roy Acuff. He had heard Hank Williams in the high, lonesome edge of the voice. He had heard Lefty Frizzell in the phrasing. One day, Daily asked him the question George needed to hear. He said, “George, I’ve heard you sing like Roy Acuff, Hank Williams, Lefty Frizzell. I just want to know one thing: Can you sing like George Jones?” That question did not turn George into a star overnight. There were still small labels, cheap studios, failed singles, and years before “White Lightning,” “She Thinks I Still Care,” and the records that would make his voice impossible to confuse with anybody else’s. But it gave him a direction. George never stopped carrying Hank, Lefty, and Roy inside the way he sang. He later admitted that Lefty shaped his phrasing more than anyone. But eventually the borrowed pieces became something else — the long held notes, the crack in the middle of a word, the feeling that a man was trying to stay calm while his whole life was giving way. Pappy Daily did not teach George Jones how to sound like George Jones. He made him understand that someday, he had to.

GEORGE JONES WAS SO NERVOUS PLAYING GUITAR FOR HANK WILLIAMS THAT HE BLEW THE SOLO. HANK WAS STILL THE REASON HE NEVER LEFT MUSIC. Before George Jones became the voice people called country music’s greatest, he was a skinny teenager trying to stay close to a radio microphone in Beaumont, Texas. He had already been singing for tips on street corners. He had already learned that a guitar could do more for a poor kid than most people around him expected. By the late 1940s, he had found work around KRIC Radio, playing wherever there was a slot, a local show, or a singer who needed another guitar. Then Hank Williams came through town. For George, Hank was not just another guest on the program. He was the man whose records had taken over his head. George later said he could barely think about anything else when Hank had a new song on the radio. Hank Williams was the sound he wanted to become before he had any idea that a singer needed his own sound to last. In 1949, Hank appeared live at KRIC. George was asked to play lead guitar on “Wedding Bells.” The moment came, and George froze. He was so excited about standing near Hank Williams that he blew the solo. The notes went wrong. The part he had probably practiced in his mind a hundred times came apart in front of the one person he wanted to impress most. But Hank did not make George forget the night. He made him remember it forever. George kept playing. He went into the Marines. He came back to Texas. He made records nobody bought at first. He sang too much like Hank, too much like Lefty Frizzell, too much like every hero whose voice had filled his childhood radio. Then, slowly, George Jones found the break in his own voice. The one that could hold a note until it sounded like a man had nowhere left to hide. Years later, George would become one of the few singers country music placed beside Hank Williams instead of behind him. But before all of that, he was just a nervous kid in a Beaumont radio studio, missing a guitar solo because Hank Williams had walked into the room.