Country Music

Classic Country Music Hits

Country Music

George Jones – Somebody Wants Me Out Of The Way

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

Introduction

The first time I heard “Somebody Wants Me Out of the Way” by George Strait, I was driving down a winding country road, the sunset painting the sky with hues of orange and pink. The song’s heartfelt lyrics and classic country melody resonated deeply with me, capturing the essence of love’s complexities and the fears that often accompany it.

About The Composition

  • Title: Somebody Wants Me Out of the Way
  • Composer: Written by Dickey Lee and J.B. Rudd; performed by George Strait
  • Release Date: March 9, 1992
  • Album: Holding My Own
  • Genre: Country

Background

“Somebody Wants Me Out of the Way” is a track from George Strait’s twelfth studio album, Holding My Own. At the time of its release, Strait was already a towering figure in country music, known for his traditional sound and storytelling prowess. The song was penned by esteemed songwriters Dickey Lee and J.B. Rudd, both of whom have contributed significantly to the country genre.

The early 1990s were a transformative period for country music, with new artists and sounds emerging. Amidst this evolution, Strait remained a steadfast champion of traditional country music. “Somebody Wants Me Out of the Way” reflects this commitment, offering listeners a classic country narrative infused with genuine emotion. While the song didn’t top the charts, it was well-received by fans who appreciated its authentic portrayal of relational tension and vulnerability.

Musical Style

The song embodies traditional country music elements, featuring a blend of steel guitar, fiddle, and a steady rhythm section. Strait’s smooth baritone voice delivers the lyrics with a sincerity that draws listeners into the story. The arrangement is understated, allowing the emotional weight of the lyrics to take center stage. This simplicity enhances the song’s impact, making it a memorable piece in Strait’s extensive catalog.

Lyrics

“Somebody Wants Me Out of the Way” delves into themes of love, jealousy, and insecurity. The protagonist senses a looming threat to his relationship, feeling that someone is trying to come between him and his loved one. The lyrics poignantly express the anxiety and fear that can accompany deep affection, highlighting the vulnerability inherent in love. The storytelling is direct yet evocative, a hallmark of classic country songwriting.

Performance History

While the song may not be a staple in George Strait’s live performances, it holds a special place among fans who appreciate his deeper cuts. It showcases Strait’s ability to convey complex emotions with subtlety and grace. Over the years, “Somebody Wants Me Out of the Way” has maintained its appeal, often being revisited by those exploring the breadth of Strait’s music.

Cultural Impact

The song contributes to George Strait’s legacy as the “King of Country,” reinforcing his role in preserving the traditional sounds of the genre. During a time when country music was increasingly influenced by pop and rock elements, Strait’s adherence to classic styles provided a touchstone for authenticity. “Somebody Wants Me Out of the Way” exemplifies this commitment, influencing both contemporaries and emerging artists who value the roots of country music.

Legacy

The enduring significance of “Somebody Wants Me Out of the Way” lies in its timeless exploration of universal emotions. Its themes remain relatable, resonating with listeners who have experienced similar feelings of doubt and fear in relationships. The song continues to be a testament to George Strait’s impact on country music, highlighting his talent for selecting songs that speak to the human experience.

Conclusion

Revisiting “Somebody Wants Me Out of the Way” reminds me of the power of simplicity in music. George Strait’s ability to connect with listeners through heartfelt storytelling and traditional melodies is truly remarkable. I encourage anyone interested in exploring authentic country music to listen to this song, as well as the entire Holding My Own album. One recording I particularly recommend is the original studio version, where Strait’s vocals and the song’s instrumentation perfectly capture the essence of classic country

Video

Lyrics

Somebody keeps paying my bar tab
But the bartender won’t tell me who
He gives me six cold ones to go when he closes
And slips me a dollar or two
My woman is keeping me busy
And I’m afraid to go ask her why but the more
I keep drinking, the more I keep thinking
There’s somebody new in her life
Somebody wants me out of the way
And I bet I’ll find out when I go home today
Here comes the waitress with a loaded down tray
Somebody wants me out of the way
Now, my woman is under suspicion
And all I can see in my mind
It’s two cheating lovers who love under cover
And the covers they’re under is mine
Somebody wants me out of the way
And I bet I’ll find out when I go home today
Here come the waitress with a loaded down tray
Somebody wants me out of the way
Somebody wants me out of the way

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HE DID NOT SING HONKY-TONK LIKE A MEMORY. GARY STEWART SANG IT LIKE THE BAR HAD JUST CLOSED AROUND HIM. Gary Stewart did not fit the clean version of country music. He had the piano, the tremble in his voice, the broken timing that made every line sound a little too close to falling apart. “Drinkin’ Thing,” “Out of Hand,” and “She’s Actin’ Single (I’m Drinkin’ Doubles)” gave him hits in the mid-1970s, but the records were never built for polite radio comfort. He made drinking songs feel dangerous again. The men in Gary Stewart songs did not raise a glass because life was good. They drank because someone had left, because the lights were low, because the band was playing the last song and there was nowhere else to go. He could take an ordinary country phrase and make it sound like the man saying it had already been awake for three nights. Time magazine called him the King of Honky-Tonk. But Nashville never fully learned how to sell him. He was too wild for the safe side of country, too country for the rock side, too raw to turn into a smooth television personality. While other singers adapted to the cleaner sound of the 1980s, Gary stayed close to the rooms that had made him: piano bars, dim stages, and crowds who understood that a perfect note was less important than a believable wound. The hits slowed. The industry moved on. But the people who loved real honky-tonk never did. Gary Stewart’s records kept finding their way back to singers, musicians, and fans who wanted country music before it learned how to hide its bruises. He was not the man Nashville could package neatly. He was the man it could not replace.

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GEORGE JONES ALMOST RAN FROM WILLIE NELSON’S 80,000-PERSON PICNIC. THEN HE WALKED ONSTAGE AND STOLE THE WHOLE DAY. July 4, 1976. Gonzales, Texas. Willie Nelson’s Fourth of July Picnic had turned a ranch into a country-rock city for the weekend. Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, Leon Russell, Jerry Jeff Walker, Ernest Tubb, Roger Miller — the crowd came for a new kind of Texas music, loud and young and loose around the edges. George Jones did not think he belonged there. He came from another country world: honky-tonks, heartbreak ballads, rhinestone suits, and the old rules of Nashville. By then, his drinking and missed dates had already begun to damage his reputation. He was walking toward a crowd of roughly 80,000 people who looked more like Willie Nelson’s future than George Jones’s past. For a moment, he nearly left. Then he went on. The old country singer walked into the middle of the outlaw picnic and did what George Jones could still do when the lights came up: he made the song matter more than the setting. The crowd did not turn away. They listened. By the end of the day, George had become the unexpected center of the festival. The *Houston Post* called him the undisputed star of that year’s Willie Nelson Picnic. Other writers treated the performance as proof that traditional country had not been pushed aside by the new Texas movement. It was not a comeback. Not yet. George would still fall harder after that. The drinking would get worse. The missed shows would pile up. His name would become a problem for promoters before it became a legend again. But on that July day in Gonzales, he did not look like a man being left behind. He looked like the voice the whole new country crowd had been built on.

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THE SONG DID NOT ASK FOR A MODERN BAR. IT ASKED FOR AN OLD JUKEBOX, A GLASS, AND ERNEST TUBB STILL SINGING SOMEWHERE IN THE CORNER. Vern Gosdin had always sounded like he belonged to a country music that was already disappearing. He came out of Alabama gospel harmonies, moved through California folk clubs, sang in duos, fought through small labels, and eventually became one of the few men in Nashville who could hold a note long enough to make heartbreak feel physical. By the late 1980s, country radio was changing again. The production was getting brighter. The songs were getting smoother. Vern had just fought his way back with “Chiseled in Stone,” but he did not respond by trying to sound younger. He went further into the world he understood best. Then came “Set ’Em Up Joe.” Written by Hank Cochran, Dean Dillon, and Buddy Cannon, the song was built around an old barroom ritual: pour the drink, turn on the jukebox, and let Ernest Tubb sing “Walking the Floor Over You.” It was not nostalgia for the sake of nostalgia. It was a song about a man using the old country records as company after someone had left. Vern cut it in 1988. His voice made the song sound less like tribute than confession. The title became a line country fans could say before a sad night began. Ernest Tubb’s name was not there as decoration. He was the ghost in the room — the old voice on the jukebox, still helping strangers survive the closing hour. “Set ’Em Up Joe” went to No. 1. For Vern Gosdin, it became proof that traditional country had not died. It had only been waiting for somebody to sing it without apology.

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GEORGE JONES ALMOST RAN FROM WILLIE NELSON’S 80,000-PERSON PICNIC. THEN HE WALKED ONSTAGE AND STOLE THE WHOLE DAY. July 4, 1976. Gonzales, Texas. Willie Nelson’s Fourth of July Picnic had turned a ranch into a country-rock city for the weekend. Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, Leon Russell, Jerry Jeff Walker, Ernest Tubb, Roger Miller — the crowd came for a new kind of Texas music, loud and young and loose around the edges. George Jones did not think he belonged there. He came from another country world: honky-tonks, heartbreak ballads, rhinestone suits, and the old rules of Nashville. By then, his drinking and missed dates had already begun to damage his reputation. He was walking toward a crowd of roughly 80,000 people who looked more like Willie Nelson’s future than George Jones’s past. For a moment, he nearly left. Then he went on. The old country singer walked into the middle of the outlaw picnic and did what George Jones could still do when the lights came up: he made the song matter more than the setting. The crowd did not turn away. They listened. By the end of the day, George had become the unexpected center of the festival. The *Houston Post* called him the undisputed star of that year’s Willie Nelson Picnic. Other writers treated the performance as proof that traditional country had not been pushed aside by the new Texas movement. It was not a comeback. Not yet. George would still fall harder after that. The drinking would get worse. The missed shows would pile up. His name would become a problem for promoters before it became a legend again. But on that July day in Gonzales, he did not look like a man being left behind. He looked like the voice the whole new country crowd had been built on.

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THE SONG DID NOT ASK FOR A MODERN BAR. IT ASKED FOR AN OLD JUKEBOX, A GLASS, AND ERNEST TUBB STILL SINGING SOMEWHERE IN THE CORNER. Vern Gosdin had always sounded like he belonged to a country music that was already disappearing. He came out of Alabama gospel harmonies, moved through California folk clubs, sang in duos, fought through small labels, and eventually became one of the few men in Nashville who could hold a note long enough to make heartbreak feel physical. By the late 1980s, country radio was changing again. The production was getting brighter. The songs were getting smoother. Vern had just fought his way back with “Chiseled in Stone,” but he did not respond by trying to sound younger. He went further into the world he understood best. Then came “Set ’Em Up Joe.” Written by Hank Cochran, Dean Dillon, and Buddy Cannon, the song was built around an old barroom ritual: pour the drink, turn on the jukebox, and let Ernest Tubb sing “Walking the Floor Over You.” It was not nostalgia for the sake of nostalgia. It was a song about a man using the old country records as company after someone had left. Vern cut it in 1988. His voice made the song sound less like tribute than confession. The title became a line country fans could say before a sad night began. Ernest Tubb’s name was not there as decoration. He was the ghost in the room — the old voice on the jukebox, still helping strangers survive the closing hour. “Set ’Em Up Joe” went to No. 1. For Vern Gosdin, it became proof that traditional country had not died. It had only been waiting for somebody to sing it without apology.

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SHE WAS ACTING SINGLE. HE WAS DRINKING DOUBLES. AND ONE HONKY-TONK SONG TURNED GARY STEWART INTO THE VOICE OF EVERY MAN WHO STAYED TOO LONG AT THE BAR. Before Gary Stewart became the King of Honky-Tonk, he had already learned how to make a song sound unsteady without ever losing the note. He came out of Kentucky and Florida, played piano, wrote songs, worked small rooms, and carried a voice that did not sound polished enough for easy Nashville. It had a high, wounded tremble in it. The kind of voice that could make a man sound one drink from crying and one drink from fighting. Then RCA gave him a chance. In 1974, “Drinkin’ Thing” hit. Then came “Out of Hand.” By 1975, Gary Stewart was not just another country singer trying to get heard. He had found a lane nobody else was filling quite the same way — piano-driven honky-tonk, sharp rhythm, desperate men, women leaving, neon lights, and no real promise that anybody was going home. Then Wayne Carson wrote “She’s Actin’ Single (I’m Drinkin’ Doubles).” The title alone sounded like a whole broken marriage compressed into one barstool. Released in 1975, it became Gary Stewart’s only No. 1 country hit. For one week, the man with the shaking voice and the piano-bar ache stood at the top of country radio. The song turned him into an emblem for the people who did not leave when the party was over. “She’s Actin’ Single” made him famous. But it also gave country music one of its most honest barroom portraits: not a man having fun, not a man getting revenge — just a man trying to drown the sound of somebody else walking away.