Country Music

Classic Country Music Hits

Country Music

WITHOUT HER, THERE MIGHT NEVER HAVE BEEN A MERLE HAGGARD WE REMEMBER. The timeless classics we know today, like “Mama Tried” and “Working Man,” may never have reached the world without the presence of this remarkable woman. She stood behind him during his most crucial years, offering the support, inspiration, and grounding he needed. In many ways, she was the hidden force that helped shape not only Haggard’s music but also his lasting legacy

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Introduction

From a troubled childhood to the unforgiving walls of a San Quentin prison cell, Merle Haggard certainly overcame plenty of obstacles on his own to get to some of his greatest career highs, but none of it would have been possible without the help of one woman. Haggard would say as much in later interviews, even after the pair divorced following a 13-year marriage.

His final memory with her, although heartbreaking, is a beautiful testament to the love and respect the pair had for one another, even as the natural curvature of their live paths’ led them apart.

Merle Haggard On The Woman Who Came Up With His Hits

Merle Haggard had just divorced from his first wife, Leona Hobbs, when he met Bonnie Owens in sunny California, 1961. The pair began working together musically, and with that, a romantic relationship formed. Haggard and Owens married in 1965. This was the same year the former artist won the Academy of Country Music Award for Female Vocalist of the Year. Despite being at a career high of her own, Owens switched gears around this time. She focused more of her energy on helping Haggard with his career and raising their family.

During a 2012 appearance at the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum, Haggard recalled, “I got into a heated period where I was writing pretty good. It was right after she and I had got married. If I even indicated that I was going to write, well, she was there with a pad and a pen. She didn’t miss anything, you know. There wouldn’t have been no “Mama Tried” or “Working Man Blues” if it wouldn’t have been for her. She took the words down at the right time. I think it was ‘68 or ‘69 we had six BMI Awards that year, and she took down the songs. Each one of them, she took them down.”

Haggard said that included “Today I Started Loving You Again.” The song was inspired by a comment he had made to Owens in the middle of a grueling tour. While embarking on a one-week break from the road, Haggard told Owens he finally had time to love her again. “And she said, ‘What an idea for a song.’”

Haggard wrote the song in one night while Owens was out grabbing him some food. But he gave her a majority of the song’s publishing rights.

A Heartbreaking But Touching Final Memory

Merle Haggard and Bonnie Owens, the woman he credits with helping him create some of the biggest hits of his career, were married for 13 years. They divorced in 1978, but they maintained a positive relationship and even continued touring in the decades that followed. Owens’ health began to decline in the early 2000s, and in 2006, she entered hospice for Alzheimer’s disease. While at the Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum in 2012, Haggard recalled the last time he saw Owens.

Haggard was visiting with several other people when Owens grabbed him by the arm and said, “I got to take you down to the room.” When they entered the room, Haggard saw a giant photo of her and Owens, much younger, on the wall behind her bed. “She looked at me, and she said, ‘He’s my favorite.’ She didn’t identify me with that picture,” Haggard said, his voice shaky.

As devastating of a final memory as that may be, it’s also an incredibly touching testament to how much Bonnie Owens loved Merle Haggard and how much he loved her back. A lifelong marriage might not have been in the cards for the couple. But the music they created and the legacy they built together are prizes enough from a relationship rooted in love and respect—both for one another and the musical genre they helped evolve throughout the 1960s

Video

Lyrics

[Chorus]
Today I started loving you again
I’m right back where I’ve really always been
I got over you just long enough to let my heartache mend
Then today I started loving you again

[Verse]
What a fool I was to think I could get by
With only these few million tears I’ve cried
I should have known the worst was yet to come
And that crying time for me had just begun

[Chorus]
Today I started loving you again
I’m right back where I’ve really always been
I got over you just long enough to let my heartache mend
Then today I started loving you again

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Country Music

WYNN STEWART HELPED BUILD THE BAKERSFIELD SOUND. THEN BUCK OWENS AND MERLE HAGGARD WALKED THROUGH THE DOOR HE HAD OPENED. Before Bakersfield became a name people used like a promise, Wynn Stewart was already making the records. He had come west from Missouri, found his way into California clubs, and started cutting against the soft, polished country Nashville was selling in the late 1950s. Wynn’s music had sharp electric guitar, steel guitar that did not hide in the background, and a beat that felt closer to a bar than a ballroom. He was not trying to make country prettier. He was trying to make it sound like the people who were actually listening to it after work. “Wishful Thinking” broke through in 1960. Then came Las Vegas. Wynn opened the Nashville Nevada Club, played six nights a week, and built a band around musicians who understood the new West Coast sound before anybody had given it a name. Roy Nichols played guitar. Ralph Mooney played steel. The room became a kind of school for young country musicians who did not fit the Nashville mold. One of them was Merle Haggard. In 1962, Merle was still trying to find a way in. He came to Wynn’s club, filled in on bass, and impressed Stewart enough to get hired. Later, Wynn gave him a song called “Sing a Sad Song.” Merle made it his first national hit. Buck Owens was moving in the same direction. So was the whole Bakersfield scene: loud Telecasters, hard-edged rhythm, songs that did not apologize for being country. Then the men who followed Wynn became bigger names than Wynn ever did. Buck Owens built a run of No. 1 records. Merle Haggard became one of the central voices in country music. Their records carried the sound farther than Wynn’s ever had. The history books learned to say Buck and Merle when they talked about Bakersfield. But the people who had been there remembered the order of things. Wynn Stewart had already built the room. The others just made it famous.

Country Music

WILLIE NELSON SOLD “NIGHT LIFE” FOR $150 BECAUSE HE NEEDED MONEY. RAY PRICE TOOK IT LATER AND TURNED THAT BROKE SONG INTO THE SOUND OF EVERY HONKY-TONK AFTER MIDNIGHT. Ray Price was already a country power by the time “Night Life” reached him. He had come out of Texas, sung close to Hank Williams, built the Cherokee Cowboys into one of the sharpest bands in country music, and helped push the shuffle beat into the heart of honky-tonk. By the early 1960s, Price was not just recording hits. He was running a world younger musicians wanted to enter. Willie Nelson was one of those younger men. Back then, Willie was still fighting for money, driving between Pasadena and Houston, playing the Esquire Ballroom, and watching the kind of people who came alive after dark. Out of those late drives came “Night Life.” But the song did not save him right away. Pappy Daily did not think it sounded country enough. Willie needed cash, so he sold the song to Paul Buskirk for $150. Then Ray Price cut it. In 1963, “Night Life” became the title track of Price’s album. It did not explode up the chart like a normal smash. The single only reached No. 28. But that missed the real story. Ray Price made the song part of his stage identity. For years, he used it to open shows, walking the crowd straight into a room full of smoke, loneliness, neon, and people who belonged more to night than morning. Willie had written the song while he was still trying to survive. Ray Price gave it a home. And every time that band kicked in after midnight, “Night Life” no longer sounded like a song Willie had sold cheap. It sounded like the door opening to the world Ray Price owned.

Country Music

MEL STREET HAD A NEW RECORD ENTER THE COUNTRY CHART ON HIS BIRTHDAY. BY NIGHTFALL, GEORGE JONES WOULD BE SINGING AT HIS FUNERAL. By 1978, Mel Street had already spent most of the decade making records for people who still wanted country music to hurt. “Borrowed Angel.” “Lovin’ on Back Streets.” “Smokey Mountain Memories.” “If I Had a Cheating Heart.” He was never built for the clean, easy side of Nashville. His voice belonged to the late-night side of the business — the jukebox still playing after the room had emptied, the man at the bar trying to act like he was fine, the woman who had already walked out before the song began. That year, Mel signed with Mercury Records. On paper, it looked like another chance to start over. A new label. A new single. Another run at the charts after years of changing companies and fighting to keep his name in front of country radio. The song was called “Just Hangin’ On.” It entered the chart on October 21, 1978. That was also Mel Street’s birthday. But the records did not tell the whole story. Behind the hits and the road dates, Street had been struggling with depression and alcoholism. The same man who could make loneliness sound almost elegant onstage was carrying a private weight no chart position could explain away. Before that day was over, Mel Street was dead at his home in Hendersonville, Tennessee. Then country music did what it often does after losing someone too soon. It kept playing the songs. Four more Mel Street singles reached the charts after he was gone. Radio still had his voice. Fans still had the records. The career, from the outside, still looked like it was moving forward. At his funeral, George Jones sang “Amazing Grace.” And somewhere in that church, the title of Mel Street’s last new single must have landed differently. “Just Hangin’ On.”

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Country Music

WYNN STEWART HELPED BUILD THE BAKERSFIELD SOUND. THEN BUCK OWENS AND MERLE HAGGARD WALKED THROUGH THE DOOR HE HAD OPENED. Before Bakersfield became a name people used like a promise, Wynn Stewart was already making the records. He had come west from Missouri, found his way into California clubs, and started cutting against the soft, polished country Nashville was selling in the late 1950s. Wynn’s music had sharp electric guitar, steel guitar that did not hide in the background, and a beat that felt closer to a bar than a ballroom. He was not trying to make country prettier. He was trying to make it sound like the people who were actually listening to it after work. “Wishful Thinking” broke through in 1960. Then came Las Vegas. Wynn opened the Nashville Nevada Club, played six nights a week, and built a band around musicians who understood the new West Coast sound before anybody had given it a name. Roy Nichols played guitar. Ralph Mooney played steel. The room became a kind of school for young country musicians who did not fit the Nashville mold. One of them was Merle Haggard. In 1962, Merle was still trying to find a way in. He came to Wynn’s club, filled in on bass, and impressed Stewart enough to get hired. Later, Wynn gave him a song called “Sing a Sad Song.” Merle made it his first national hit. Buck Owens was moving in the same direction. So was the whole Bakersfield scene: loud Telecasters, hard-edged rhythm, songs that did not apologize for being country. Then the men who followed Wynn became bigger names than Wynn ever did. Buck Owens built a run of No. 1 records. Merle Haggard became one of the central voices in country music. Their records carried the sound farther than Wynn’s ever had. The history books learned to say Buck and Merle when they talked about Bakersfield. But the people who had been there remembered the order of things. Wynn Stewart had already built the room. The others just made it famous.

Country Music

WILLIE NELSON SOLD “NIGHT LIFE” FOR $150 BECAUSE HE NEEDED MONEY. RAY PRICE TOOK IT LATER AND TURNED THAT BROKE SONG INTO THE SOUND OF EVERY HONKY-TONK AFTER MIDNIGHT. Ray Price was already a country power by the time “Night Life” reached him. He had come out of Texas, sung close to Hank Williams, built the Cherokee Cowboys into one of the sharpest bands in country music, and helped push the shuffle beat into the heart of honky-tonk. By the early 1960s, Price was not just recording hits. He was running a world younger musicians wanted to enter. Willie Nelson was one of those younger men. Back then, Willie was still fighting for money, driving between Pasadena and Houston, playing the Esquire Ballroom, and watching the kind of people who came alive after dark. Out of those late drives came “Night Life.” But the song did not save him right away. Pappy Daily did not think it sounded country enough. Willie needed cash, so he sold the song to Paul Buskirk for $150. Then Ray Price cut it. In 1963, “Night Life” became the title track of Price’s album. It did not explode up the chart like a normal smash. The single only reached No. 28. But that missed the real story. Ray Price made the song part of his stage identity. For years, he used it to open shows, walking the crowd straight into a room full of smoke, loneliness, neon, and people who belonged more to night than morning. Willie had written the song while he was still trying to survive. Ray Price gave it a home. And every time that band kicked in after midnight, “Night Life” no longer sounded like a song Willie had sold cheap. It sounded like the door opening to the world Ray Price owned.

Country Music

MEL STREET HAD A NEW RECORD ENTER THE COUNTRY CHART ON HIS BIRTHDAY. BY NIGHTFALL, GEORGE JONES WOULD BE SINGING AT HIS FUNERAL. By 1978, Mel Street had already spent most of the decade making records for people who still wanted country music to hurt. “Borrowed Angel.” “Lovin’ on Back Streets.” “Smokey Mountain Memories.” “If I Had a Cheating Heart.” He was never built for the clean, easy side of Nashville. His voice belonged to the late-night side of the business — the jukebox still playing after the room had emptied, the man at the bar trying to act like he was fine, the woman who had already walked out before the song began. That year, Mel signed with Mercury Records. On paper, it looked like another chance to start over. A new label. A new single. Another run at the charts after years of changing companies and fighting to keep his name in front of country radio. The song was called “Just Hangin’ On.” It entered the chart on October 21, 1978. That was also Mel Street’s birthday. But the records did not tell the whole story. Behind the hits and the road dates, Street had been struggling with depression and alcoholism. The same man who could make loneliness sound almost elegant onstage was carrying a private weight no chart position could explain away. Before that day was over, Mel Street was dead at his home in Hendersonville, Tennessee. Then country music did what it often does after losing someone too soon. It kept playing the songs. Four more Mel Street singles reached the charts after he was gone. Radio still had his voice. Fans still had the records. The career, from the outside, still looked like it was moving forward. At his funeral, George Jones sang “Amazing Grace.” And somewhere in that church, the title of Mel Street’s last new single must have landed differently. “Just Hangin’ On.”

Country Music

AT THIRTEEN, MARTY STUART LEFT MISSISSIPPI TO PLAY MANDOLIN FOR LESTER FLATT. BY THE TIME HE CAME HOME, HE WAS CARRYING PIECES OF COUNTRY MUSIC HISTORY IN HIS HANDS. Marty Stuart was still a kid in Philadelphia, Mississippi when bluegrass started pulling harder than school ever did. He had learned guitar and mandolin young. He played with a local gospel group called the Sullivans. The boys could hold their own, but nobody was mistaking them for Nashville yet. They were just children from Mississippi trying to play the music they loved well enough that somebody important might notice. Then Roland White noticed. White was playing mandolin for Lester Flatt’s band, the Nashville Grass. In 1972, he heard Marty and invited him to sit in at a show in Delaware. Marty was thirteen years old. Lester Flatt had already spent decades helping define bluegrass beside Earl Scruggs. To a boy who had grown up on those records, being asked to play with him was not an opening act. It was like being called into the room where the whole history of the music was still alive. Marty did not go home. He joined Flatt’s band and spent the next years on buses, backstage floors, festival grounds, and long drives between shows. He was young enough to still be in school, but his classroom had become the road. Lester Flatt taught him the discipline of a bandstand. Curly Seckler, Roland White, and the older players taught him how a song had to sit before it could breathe. Marty was not just learning licks. He was learning how country music carried itself. Then Lester Flatt died in 1979. Marty was twenty. A year later, Johnny Cash asked him to join his road band. That took him into another branch of the same family tree — another man who had lived long enough to become more than a singer, another stage where history kept showing up in boots and black clothes. Decades later, Marty Stuart became known for more than the records he made himself. He became one of country music’s keepers. Old guitars. Nudie suits. handwritten lyrics. stage clothes. photographs. the kind of objects that would have been thrown in a closet, sold off, or forgotten after somebody died. Marty kept collecting them because he had learned early what happens when the people who built the music are gone.