In 1969, Merle Haggard and Bonnie Owens recorded “That Makes Two of Us,” a duet that felt less like performance and more like conversation. Both had carried heartbreak into their union, both knew the weight of starting over. Yet when their voices met, the pain seemed to soften — replaced by a quiet assurance that love, even fragile, could still endure. Merle once reflected, “Bonnie had a way of making every line sound true.” And in this song, truth was all that mattered. Their harmonies didn’t dazzle with polish; they resonated with honesty. For audiences, the duet was more than a melody — it was a glimpse of two people building something steady from broken pieces. “That Makes Two of Us” remains a reminder that music’s greatest gift isn’t perfection. It’s the courage to share your story and find someone willing to sing it with you.

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

Introduction

Some songs feel like they’re less about performance and more about two people simply talking to each other—and inviting us to listen in. “That Makes Two of Us” is one of those songs. Sung by Merle Haggard and Bonnie Owens in the mid-1960s, it captures the easy back-and-forth of a couple whose voices blend as naturally as their shared history.

What makes the song special isn’t just the lyrics—it’s the chemistry. Merle’s voice carries that rugged, honest edge, while Bonnie’s adds warmth and clarity, like a steady hand on the heart. Together, they don’t just sing about love and understanding—they embody it. You can almost imagine them smiling at each other as the lines trade places, two lives woven into one melody.

At the time, duets were often polished and dramatic, but “That Makes Two of Us” stood out for its simplicity. It’s not about fireworks—it’s about connection. The kind of everyday love that’s steady, reassuring, and deeply human. For Merle, still early in his rise, and Bonnie, already a respected voice, the song became another step in a story that was as much personal as it was musical.

Looking back now, it feels like a snapshot: two artists, two partners, capturing a moment in time where love and music spoke the same language. And that’s why “That Makes Two of Us” still feels so tender—it’s not just a duet, it’s a conversation that never really ends.

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Lyrics

Far to sense you’d up and leave, that’s what you say
Don’t you know that the road can run both ways?
Well, I’m so sure that for each other we’re all wrong
And I’m tired of always trying to get along

Well that makes two of us, you’re not the only one
Like you, I’ve had enough, the end has now begun
I guess I’m just as tired of you as you say you are of me
And that makes two of us, we both want to be free

I’m all through with trying to make the gold of us
And I’ve given up on giving in so much
As far as I’m concerned, it’s over but to pack
I could walk away and never once look back

Country Music

A TEXAS RANGER HEARD A TEENAGER SINGING IN JAIL. THREE YEARS LATER, THAT SAME VOICE WAS SITTING AT NO. 1 ON THE COUNTRY CHART. The song did not start in Nashville. It started behind bars in Texas. Johnny Rodriguez was still a teenager, already carrying more trouble than a young man should have had to carry. His father had died. His older brother had died. Then came the night that put him in jail. He sang to pass the time. Not for a producer. Not for a label. Just a young man in a cell with a voice too strong for the walls around it. Texas Ranger Joaquin Jackson heard him. Word moved to Happy Shahan, the man behind Alamo Village, the western movie set near Brackettville. Johnny was brought there to perform. Then Tom T. Hall and Bobby Bare helped open the next door. By 21, Johnny Rodriguez was signed to Mercury Records. In 1973, “You Always Come Back to Hurting Me” went to No. 1. Then came “Ridin’ My Thumb to Mexico,” “That’s the Way Love Goes,” and a run of hits that made him one of country music’s most important Mexican American voices. He sang in English. Then Spanish would slip into the record like home refusing to stay outside. Country music had always been full of border towns, working men, lonely highways, and men trying to outrun bad luck. Johnny Rodriguez did not need to fake any of that. Before Nashville found him, a Texas jail heard him first.

Country Music

BILLY JOE SHAVER BURIED HIS WIFE, HIS MOTHER, AND HIS SON. THEN HIS HEART GAVE OUT ONSTAGE AT GRUENE HALL — AND THE CROWD DIDN’T EVEN KNOW HE WAS DYING. By 2001, Billy Joe Shaver had already lost more than most country songs could hold. He was not a polished Nashville product. He was the Texas songwriter behind much of Waylon Jennings’ Honky Tonk Heroes, the man who wrote like the road had cut him open and left the truth showing. Then the losses came close together. His wife Brenda died in 1999. His mother died that same year. On December 31, 2000, his son Eddy Shaver — his guitar player, his blood, his shadow onstage — died of a drug overdose at 38. Billy Joe kept moving because stopping probably felt worse. On August 25, 2001, he walked onto the stage at Gruene Hall in New Braunfels, Texas. The room was historic. The crowd was there for songs. They did not come to watch a man collapse under the weight of the last two years. Then his chest started failing him. Billy Joe was having a heart attack while performing. He kept going long enough that the audience apparently did not realize how close the night came to turning into his final show. Afterward came surgery. Then recovery. Then another record. Most singers talk about surviving the road. Billy Joe Shaver survived a song, a stage, and a heart that finally tried to quit in the middle of the set.

Country Music

HIS WIFE DIED THE DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING. THREE WEEKS LATER, THE KING OF HONKY-TONK WAS FOUND DEAD IN THE SAME FLORIDA HOME. Gary Stewart was never built like a clean Nashville star. He came out of Kentucky poverty, grew up in Florida, and sang country music like the bottle was already open before the band counted off. In the mid-1970s, people called him the King of Honky-Tonk. “She’s Actin’ Single (I’m Drinkin’ Doubles)” went to No. 1 in 1975. But the road under him was never steady. There was the drinking. The drugs. The old back injury. The disappearing years when country music moved on and Gary Stewart kept slipping further from the bright part of the business. Mary Lou was the person who kept showing up beside him. They had been married for more than 40 years. She had seen the bars, the money, the chaos, the fall, the comeback attempts, and the quiet Florida days after the big moment had passed. Then November 26, 2003 came. Mary Lou died of pneumonia, the day before Thanksgiving. Gary canceled his shows. Friends said he was devastated. On December 16, Bill Hardman, his daughter’s boyfriend and Gary’s close friend, went to check on him at his Fort Pierce home. Gary Stewart was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Fans remember the voice bending around heartbreak like it had nowhere else to go. But the last chapter was not on a stage. It was a widower in Florida, three weeks after losing the woman who had survived the whole honky-tonk storm with him.

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