Country Music

Classic Country Music Hits

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JOHNNY PAYCHECK SPENT FOUR YEARS PLAYING BASS BEHIND GEORGE JONES. AT THE TIME, COUNTRY MUSIC DIDN’T KNOW HIM AS THE MAN WHO WOULD SING “TAKE THIS JOB AND SHOVE IT.” HIS NAME WAS STILL DONNY YOUNG — AND HIS OWN RECORDS HAD GONE NOWHERE. By 1962, Paycheck had already tried to make it as a solo singer. Singles for Decca and Mercury failed to break through, so he did what talented musicians often did when Nashville wasn’t ready for them: he went to work behind people who had already made it. He played with Porter Wagoner, Faron Young and Ray Price before finding the job that lasted. George Jones hired him. From 1962 to 1966, Paycheck was the frontman and bass player for Jones’s band, the Jones Boys. Night after night, he stood behind one of the greatest voices in country music, playing bass, opening shows and singing harmony. His voice can be heard backing Jones on records including “The Race Is On” and “Love Bug.” But Paycheck was never meant to stay in the background. By 1965, Donny Young had become Johnny Paycheck. He recorded “A-11,” which reached No. 26 on the country chart. Then in 1966, “The Lovin’ Machine” became his first Top 10 hit. George Jones didn’t make Johnny Paycheck famous. But for four years, before most country fans knew Paycheck’s name, Jones trusted him to stand onstage every night and help carry the music. The audience discovered Johnny Paycheck later. George Jones had already heard him.

Before Johnny Paycheck Was a Name, He Was the Man Behind George Jones

Long before country music knew the voice of Johnny Paycheck, it knew a different name: Donny Young. In the early 1960s, he was still trying to find his place in Nashville. His solo records for Decca and Mercury had not broken through, and the kind of success that can change a career seemed to keep drifting just out of reach.

That is often where the story turns for a talented singer. Some walk away. Some keep recording. And some do what Donny Young did: they keep playing music, even if it means doing it from the shadows.

Before the hits came, Donny Young worked with several of the biggest names in country music, including Porter Wagoner, Faron Young, and Ray Price. Then George Jones hired him. From 1962 to 1966, he was part of the Jones Boys, George Jones’s band, where he served as both bass player and frontman. Night after night, Donny Young stood behind one of country music’s greatest voices, helping hold the music together while also singing harmony.

It was not a glamorous role, but it was an important one. He was part of the sound. He could be heard backing George Jones on recordings including The Race Is On and Love Bug, adding the kind of steady support that makes a band feel full and alive.

Still, Donny Young was never built to stay in the background forever. By 1965, he had changed his name to Johnny Paycheck, and something began to shift. His single A-11 reached No. 26 on the country chart, giving him a real foothold at last. The next year, The Lovin’ Machine pushed him even further, becoming his first Top 10 hit.

George Jones did not make Johnny Paycheck famous. But George Jones gave Johnny Paycheck room to grow while the rest of the world was still catching up.

That is what makes this chapter so compelling. For years, the audience saw a working sideman. George Jones saw a singer with his own future. When the spotlight finally found Johnny Paycheck, it felt sudden to everyone else. In truth, the rise had been building all along.

Later, Johnny Paycheck would become known for the hard-edged voice and rebel spirit that made him unforgettable. But the roots of that story were planted earlier, in the years when Donny Young was learning the business from behind the bandstand. Sometimes greatness begins in the background. Sometimes the man who ends up singing about walking away from a bad job first spends years helping other people shine.

George Jones had already heard him. The audience discovered Johnny Paycheck later.

 

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BRIAN WILSON COULDN’T FACE THE ROAD AGAIN. THE MAN THEY CALLED TO COVER HIS FALSETTO WAS AN ARKANSAS GUITAR PLAYER WITH NO HITS OF HIS OWN. By late 1964 Glen Campbell had played on records half of America owned and none of them carried his face. He was 28, a Wrecking Crew regular, cutting sessions for Sinatra, Dean Martin, Nat King Cole and Merle Haggard, and he had played six-string bass on the Beach Boys’ “I Get Around.” Then Wilson broke down on a flight to Houston and the band, with a two-week tour booked, needed someone by the next night. Campbell debuted with them on December 24, 1964, at the Sam Houston Coliseum, playing bass and singing the falsetto parts Wilson had written for himself. He held the spot into the spring of 1965. They asked him to make it permanent. He said no, and later put the reason plainly: “They couldn’t afford me.” Bruce Johnston took over, and Campbell went back to sessions and to singles that went nowhere. What he did not know was that Wilson had written him a thank-you. It was a song called “Guess I’m Dumb,” co-written with Russ Titelman, offered first to the Beach Boys and turned down by everyone in the band except Carl. Wilson produced and arranged it for Campbell instead. Capitol released it on June 7, 1965. It never charted at all, and it remains one of the most beautiful records either man ever put his name to.

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In 1968, Norro Wilson was going nowhere as a singer at Smash Records. He asked Rory Bourke to help him write a hit. They wrote about a man searching for the woman who walked out on him. They started describing her — tall, short, blonde, brunette — then stopped. Any description would shut somebody out. So they left her undescribed. Everybody, Wilson figured, has one. He cut it as “Hey Mister.” Nobody cared. He took it to producer Billy Sherrill again and again. Sherrill wasn’t interested. Wilson’s next single, “Mama McCluskie,” told nearly the same story. It failed too. Then he played Sherrill that second failure. Sherrill heard something — not in either record, but in both. He lifted a few lines out of one, worked them into the chorus of the other, and gave the result a new title. He handed it to Charlie Rich at Epic. Released in August 1973, it went to No. 1 on the Billboard pop, country and adult contemporary charts and sold over a million copies. Rich reached the top one day after turning 41. Nothing new was written. The hit was already there, split across two records nobody wanted.

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GLEN CAMPBELL CRIED THE FIRST TIME HE HEARD “WICHITA LINEMAN.” THE SONG WASN’T EVEN FINISHED YET. Jimmy Webb had written it in a single afternoon in 1968, after Campbell phoned asking for another song built around a place. Webb reached back to the Oklahoma panhandle, to fifty flat miles of highway and one man on top of a telephone pole with a handset to his ear, gone in seconds. He sent the demo to Capitol with a warning for producer Al De Lory that the third verse wasn’t written yet. Campbell didn’t care. “When I heard it I cried,” he said later, “because I was homesick.” On May 27 the Wrecking Crew cut the track in Hollywood, Carol Kaye’s descending bass figure opening it. When they reached the empty stretch where a third verse belonged, Campbell borrowed Kaye’s six-string Danelectro bass and played the melody there instead — no words, just that low, tremolo-soaked line standing in for everything the lineman couldn’t say. Webb heard nothing for weeks. When he finally ran into Campbell and told him the song wasn’t done, Campbell said: “Well, it’s done now!” The record reached No. 3 on the Hot 100 and No. 1 on the country chart. It sits in the Grammy Hall of Fame and in the Library of Congress. Nearly sixty years on, Webb still calls it unfinished, and the verse he never wrote is exactly why the song aches the way it does.

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JOHNNY PAYCHECK SPENT FOUR YEARS PLAYING BASS BEHIND GEORGE JONES. AT THE TIME, COUNTRY MUSIC DIDN’T KNOW HIM AS THE MAN WHO WOULD SING “TAKE THIS JOB AND SHOVE IT.” HIS NAME WAS STILL DONNY YOUNG — AND HIS OWN RECORDS HAD GONE NOWHERE. By 1962, Paycheck had already tried to make it as a solo singer. Singles for Decca and Mercury failed to break through, so he did what talented musicians often did when Nashville wasn’t ready for them: he went to work behind people who had already made it. He played with Porter Wagoner, Faron Young and Ray Price before finding the job that lasted. George Jones hired him. From 1962 to 1966, Paycheck was the frontman and bass player for Jones’s band, the Jones Boys. Night after night, he stood behind one of the greatest voices in country music, playing bass, opening shows and singing harmony. His voice can be heard backing Jones on records including “The Race Is On” and “Love Bug.” But Paycheck was never meant to stay in the background. By 1965, Donny Young had become Johnny Paycheck. He recorded “A-11,” which reached No. 26 on the country chart. Then in 1966, “The Lovin’ Machine” became his first Top 10 hit. George Jones didn’t make Johnny Paycheck famous. But for four years, before most country fans knew Paycheck’s name, Jones trusted him to stand onstage every night and help carry the music. The audience discovered Johnny Paycheck later. George Jones had already heard him.

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BRIAN WILSON COULDN’T FACE THE ROAD AGAIN. THE MAN THEY CALLED TO COVER HIS FALSETTO WAS AN ARKANSAS GUITAR PLAYER WITH NO HITS OF HIS OWN. By late 1964 Glen Campbell had played on records half of America owned and none of them carried his face. He was 28, a Wrecking Crew regular, cutting sessions for Sinatra, Dean Martin, Nat King Cole and Merle Haggard, and he had played six-string bass on the Beach Boys’ “I Get Around.” Then Wilson broke down on a flight to Houston and the band, with a two-week tour booked, needed someone by the next night. Campbell debuted with them on December 24, 1964, at the Sam Houston Coliseum, playing bass and singing the falsetto parts Wilson had written for himself. He held the spot into the spring of 1965. They asked him to make it permanent. He said no, and later put the reason plainly: “They couldn’t afford me.” Bruce Johnston took over, and Campbell went back to sessions and to singles that went nowhere. What he did not know was that Wilson had written him a thank-you. It was a song called “Guess I’m Dumb,” co-written with Russ Titelman, offered first to the Beach Boys and turned down by everyone in the band except Carl. Wilson produced and arranged it for Campbell instead. Capitol released it on June 7, 1965. It never charted at all, and it remains one of the most beautiful records either man ever put his name to.

Chưa phân loại

In 1968, Norro Wilson was going nowhere as a singer at Smash Records. He asked Rory Bourke to help him write a hit. They wrote about a man searching for the woman who walked out on him. They started describing her — tall, short, blonde, brunette — then stopped. Any description would shut somebody out. So they left her undescribed. Everybody, Wilson figured, has one. He cut it as “Hey Mister.” Nobody cared. He took it to producer Billy Sherrill again and again. Sherrill wasn’t interested. Wilson’s next single, “Mama McCluskie,” told nearly the same story. It failed too. Then he played Sherrill that second failure. Sherrill heard something — not in either record, but in both. He lifted a few lines out of one, worked them into the chorus of the other, and gave the result a new title. He handed it to Charlie Rich at Epic. Released in August 1973, it went to No. 1 on the Billboard pop, country and adult contemporary charts and sold over a million copies. Rich reached the top one day after turning 41. Nothing new was written. The hit was already there, split across two records nobody wanted.

Chưa phân loại

GLEN CAMPBELL CRIED THE FIRST TIME HE HEARD “WICHITA LINEMAN.” THE SONG WASN’T EVEN FINISHED YET. Jimmy Webb had written it in a single afternoon in 1968, after Campbell phoned asking for another song built around a place. Webb reached back to the Oklahoma panhandle, to fifty flat miles of highway and one man on top of a telephone pole with a handset to his ear, gone in seconds. He sent the demo to Capitol with a warning for producer Al De Lory that the third verse wasn’t written yet. Campbell didn’t care. “When I heard it I cried,” he said later, “because I was homesick.” On May 27 the Wrecking Crew cut the track in Hollywood, Carol Kaye’s descending bass figure opening it. When they reached the empty stretch where a third verse belonged, Campbell borrowed Kaye’s six-string Danelectro bass and played the melody there instead — no words, just that low, tremolo-soaked line standing in for everything the lineman couldn’t say. Webb heard nothing for weeks. When he finally ran into Campbell and told him the song wasn’t done, Campbell said: “Well, it’s done now!” The record reached No. 3 on the Hot 100 and No. 1 on the country chart. It sits in the Grammy Hall of Fame and in the Library of Congress. Nearly sixty years on, Webb still calls it unfinished, and the verse he never wrote is exactly why the song aches the way it does.