Skip to main content

It's Been A Good Year For The Roses

We just lost George Jones. After the life he lived, the fact that he made it to 81 is almost unbelievable. Booze, pills...an all-around rough life. He always looked like he enjoyed it though. His face was pockmarked and etched with lines and he often looked rode hard and put away wet...but he always seemed to have a twinkle in his eyes. That's a look you can't fake. No matter how you live your life, you SHOULD enjoy it. Lesson learned, I guess.

Most folks will probably remember him for the song "He Stopped Loving Her Today", which is an amazing song. "The King Is Gone (And So Are You)" has always been my favorite George Jones song...but one that you should give a listen to, I think, is "It's Been A Good Year For The Roses".

Penned by songwriter Jerry Chestnut, only George Jones could ever, in my ears, do this song justice. It's a country heart breaker for grownups. Sure, Elvis Costello had a hit with it too...but as good as his version is, it pales in comparison to the Possum's version.

In the song, George sings about his wife of three years, intimating that she's leaving him. He never says for sure that she's going or where or why...but he intimates it. The most the listener knows about her is she smokes, drinks coffee, she just packed something, and turned to walk away. That's it.  When he sings the line "After three full years of marriage, it's the first time that you haven't made the bed", his voice breaks...just a bit. Whether by design or sheer studio luck, that line, for me, defines the entire song.

It's a man's song. A man too stubborn and/or proud to beg the woman he loves to stay. Or perhaps a man who loves his woman so much that he can't stand to make her unhappy another day and knows that he can't change who he is, so he lets her go.

This song is from the point of view of a man who outwardly has always been strong and house proud. In that generation, the man worked and brought home the money that built and kept that home. Nowhere in the lyrics does he ever say a bad word about her. The marriage was just over...at least for a time.  There was nothing left to say...except maybe "I love you, please stay"...but those were words a man of that generation had a hard time saying.

If you've never been married, you'll never fully get the power of Jones' singing on this track. If you've ever gone through a separation or divorce, this hits dangerously close to heart and home.

George Jones had a lot of hits over the years and this was merely one of them. But it's a good one and it will probably stand the test of time. Maybe it's not as poetic as "He Stopped Loving Her Today" but it could serve as the prequel to the man in that song. The ol' Possum must've known a thing or two about heartbreak to be able to sing these songs so genuinely.

I never got to see George Jones perform. I always wanted to though. I just didn't want to get to the show and find out that No Show Jones had struck again. I've always heard he was a great performer. Oddly, of all the people I know in Nashville and show business in general, not a one of them knew Jones personally. They may have worked with him or had occasional dealings with him...but none were close to him. It's always made me wonder what was going on inside that man. I guess we're never likely to know....but it's been a good year for the roses anyway.

Rest In Peace Possum!


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

TRIBUTE BANDS: The Dubious Art of Selling Somebody Else's Identity

Anyone who knows me in any way knows my stance on so-called "tribute acts". They're bullshit. I, like any working musician, have played other people's music. It's kinda how being a working musician operates. My classically trained musician friends routinely perform the works of the great composers; Bach, Beethoven, Brahms, Mozart, etc. Anyone who's played in a bar band in the past 60 years has probably played at least one song by The Rolling Stones or Chuck Berry. Nothing wrong with that. Never has been. But at what point did folks switch from doing covers to paying "tribute" to another act, essentially creating entire commercial enterprises built around imitating the identity, appearance, sound, and presentation of established performers (aka FAMOUS BANDS)? OK, say you really, really like U2 ( I'm sure someone does ). You know that you're highly unlikely to reach their level of success. So, you do the next best thing: pretend you ARE them! Y...

A LOST CONVERSATION WITH MR. MALKOVITCH

A busted-up wheelchair  on cracked concrete. Just another day waiting for a call from St. Pete. Pants soiled. Eyes open. God won't take my calls. No coffee, no cigarettes. Just wondering where it all went wrong. A life of memories and too many regrets. I fought your damned war  along with all the other vets. The doctor told me I need pills but never said who'd pay the bill. Told I gotta work  by a guy in a suit who doesn't know the meaning of the word. Demons in my head. The Devil on my mind. Social media says AI will end mankind. What's left to lose? My eyes? My sight? My ears are ringing and have been all night. You gaze right past me. Just walk on by. Never a kind word. No Hello. No good-bye. The temperature is falling just not fast enough. The sun refuses  to let me give up. I push myself further my legs a mere joke. A mile in a day. I heard the Lord spoke - to dozens or hundreds or thousands or more. Yet no one was listening. They all locked their doors. Nothing...

САМ В МРАКА

Здравейте, приятели! Ето за вас още една зле преведена история, мое дело. Идеална за сезона на Хелоуин! Приятно четене! - MM Беше му студено. Това поне знаеше със сигурност. Мускулите му бяха схванати, сякаш бе спал накриво върху неудобна повърхност. Главата леко го болеше. Бавно отвори очи. Докато зрението му се опитваше да привикне към сумрака, в ума му изплува една-единствена мисъл. „Къде, по дяволите, се намирам?“ Първото, което забеляза, беше таванът. Пожълтяла мазилка, напукана на няколко места, с тъмнокафяво петно, разпростряло се от мястото, където някога вероятно е имало лампа. От дупка близо до средата висеше късо парче електрически кабел. Лежеше върху гол дървен под. Дъските студенееха под гърба му, а във въздуха се носеше слаб мирис на влажно дърво и стар прах. Под него се долавяше и друга миризма, едва забележима, но несъмнена. Застоялата, землиста миризма на нещо, останало затворено много, много дълго. Бавно се подпря на лакът. Стаята беше малка, може би три на четири мет...