Country Music

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Country Music

MERLE HAGGARD CAME OUT OF SAN QUENTIN TO A BAKERSFIELD ALREADY OWNED BY BUCK OWENS. HE DUG DITCHES, PLAYED $10 NIGHTS — THEN BUILT A SOUND STRONG ENOUGH TO MAKE THE CITY ROOM FOR TWO GIANTS. When Merle Haggard returned to Bakersfield after prison, there was already a country star dominating the city. Buck Owens had hits, a band, a growing national audience and a hard-edged California sound that separated Bakersfield from Nashville. For a young singer trying to start again, Buck was impossible to ignore. Merle was nowhere near that level. He later remembered digging ditches during the day and playing four nights a week at High Pockets for about $10 a night. He considered himself only a second-rate musician then, surviving because better players around Bakersfield tolerated him long enough to teach him. Buck’s influence naturally seeped into the music. Haggard studied Owens, Wynn Stewart, Lefty Frizzell and others while trying to work out what his own records should sound like. Years later, he admitted that even as late as “Swinging Doors” in 1966, listeners could still hear him combining elements of Wynn Stewart and Buck Owens. But Merle did not want to remain another Bakersfield singer following a formula someone else had already perfected. His songs began moving somewhere more personal. “Sing a Sad Song” gave him his first national breakthrough. “(My Friends Are Gonna Be) Strangers” followed. Then came “Swinging Doors,” “The Bottle Let Me Down,” “Branded Man” and the records that finally made the comparison with Buck less useful. By the late 1960s, Bakersfield no longer had one giant star. It had two. The public later invented plenty of rivalry between them. Merle eventually married Bonnie Owens, Buck’s former wife, and the two men went decades without appearing together onstage. Stories circulated that Buck had driven Merle out of town or resented him. Buck dismissed most of it. He pointed out that he and Bonnie had divorced years before she even met Merle and said there had never been a serious personal feud between the two men. What did exist was a striking contrast. Buck was disciplined, punctual and commercially precise. Merle was looser, more unpredictable and increasingly interested in writing songs that followed his own instincts whether radio liked them or not. In 1995, after decades of separate careers, they finally shared a Bakersfield stage again. Buck, Merle and Dwight Yoakam closed the night together with “Streets of Bakersfield.” By then, nobody in the crowd needed to decide which man had won Bakersfield. Buck had built one road out of the city. Merle had spent years learning how not to follow it.

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MERLE HAGGARD CAME OUT OF SAN QUENTIN TO A BAKERSFIELD ALREADY OWNED BY BUCK OWENS. HE DUG DITCHES, PLAYED $10 NIGHTS — THEN BUILT A SOUND STRONG ENOUGH TO MAKE THE CITY ROOM FOR TWO GIANTS.

When Merle Haggard returned to Bakersfield after prison, the city already had a country king.

Buck Owens had the hits, the band, the growing national audience, and the bright, hard-driving California sound that made Bakersfield feel like its own answer to Nashville. The Buckaroos were sharp. The records moved fast. Buck had turned the city into more than a place on a map.

For a young singer trying to start again after San Quentin, Buck Owens was impossible to ignore.

Merle was nowhere near that level.

He was not yet the Poet of the Common Man.

He was just an ex-con trying to work, play, listen, and survive.

Bakersfield Did Not Hand Him A Career

Merle later remembered digging ditches during the day.

At night, he played four nights a week at High Pockets for about $10 a night. That was the early version of his comeback — not fame, not myth, not a great outlaw biography already written in advance, but hard labor and cheap gigs in a town full of musicians better than he thought he was.

He considered himself a second-rate musician then.

That honesty matters.

Merle Haggard did not walk out of prison fully formed as a legend. He had raw material: a hard past, a voice with pain in it, a hunger to play, and a city full of players who could either expose him or sharpen him. Bakersfield gave him both.

The better musicians around him tolerated him long enough to teach him.

And he listened.

Buck’s Shadow Was Everywhere

Buck Owens’ influence naturally seeped into the music.

So did Wynn Stewart, Lefty Frizzell, and other singers Merle studied while trying to figure out what his own records should sound like. He was learning inside a specific world — barrooms, bandstands, dance rhythms, steel guitars, Telecasters, and the working-class bite of West Coast country.

Years later, Merle admitted that even as late as “Swinging Doors” in 1966, listeners could still hear him combining elements of Wynn Stewart and Buck Owens.

That admission makes the story stronger, not weaker.

Every original artist begins by borrowing something.

The danger is staying there.

Merle knew he could not spend his career as another Bakersfield singer following a road Buck had already paved. Buck’s sound was too defined. Too successful. Too clearly his. If Merle was going to last, he had to find the place where influence ended and confession began.

The Songs Started Moving Inward

The change came through the songs.

“Sing a Sad Song” gave Merle his first national breakthrough. “(My Friends Are Gonna Be) Strangers” followed. Then came “Swinging Doors,” “The Bottle Let Me Down,” “Branded Man,” and the records that made the comparison with Buck feel less useful.

Those songs did not simply prove Merle could sing.

They revealed what he carried.

Buck’s records often had drive, brightness, snap, and discipline. Merle’s music began to bend toward something darker and more interior — shame, loneliness, prison memory, barroom damage, workingman pride, bad choices, and the kind of regret that did not need much decoration.

The Bakersfield sound was still there.

But Merle was filling it with his own life.

That was the difference.

He was no longer only learning from the city.

He was making the city speak in another voice.

Bakersfield Became Big Enough For Two

By the late 1960s, Bakersfield no longer had one giant country star.

It had two.

That made the public hungry for a rivalry. Stories grew over time. Merle married Bonnie Owens, Buck’s former wife. The two men went decades without appearing together onstage. People suggested Buck resented Merle, or that Merle had been pushed out of town, or that the city could not hold both of them without a feud.

Buck dismissed most of it.

He pointed out that he and Bonnie had divorced years before she even met Merle, and he said there had never been a serious personal feud between the two men.

What did exist was more interesting than a simple fight.

There was contrast.

They Were Different Kinds Of Bakersfield Men

Buck Owens was disciplined, punctual, commercially precise, and fiercely aware of how to make a record hit.

Merle Haggard was looser, more unpredictable, and increasingly willing to follow a song wherever it led, even when that made him harder to contain. Buck made Bakersfield sound like a clean, electric machine. Merle made it sound like a man remembering jail, work, women, drinking, and all the ways life can leave marks.

Both were country.

Both were Bakersfield.

But they did not mean the same thing.

That is why the city needed both of them. Buck proved that a California honky-tonk sound could storm the national charts. Merle proved that the same soil could grow something more wounded, literary, and restless.

One road had already been built.

Merle had to learn how not to merely follow it.

The Stage Finally Held All Three

In 1995, after decades of separate careers, Buck Owens and Merle Haggard finally shared a Bakersfield stage again.

Dwight Yoakam was there too — the younger artist who had helped carry Bakersfield’s sound into a new generation.

The night closed with “Streets of Bakersfield.”

That image carries the whole history neatly: Buck, the man who helped put the city on country music’s national map; Merle, the man who came out of prison and made the city speak with a deeper wound; and Dwight, the heir who reminded younger listeners where the sound had come from.

By then, nobody in the crowd needed to decide which man had won.

Bakersfield had already been enlarged by both of them.

What Merle Haggard’s Bakersfield Road Really Leaves Behind

The deepest part of this story is not only that Merle Haggard became a star after San Quentin.

It is that he came back to a city where someone else already owned the sound.

Buck Owens had the hits.

The Buckaroos had the snap.

Bakersfield already had a national identity.

Merle had ditches to dig, $10 nights at High Pockets, better musicians to learn from, and enough honesty to know he was not yet the man he would become.

So he studied Buck.

He studied Wynn Stewart.

He listened to Lefty Frizzell.

Then he slowly pushed past imitation and began writing the songs only Merle Haggard could have written.

“Sing a Sad Song.”

“Strangers.”

“Swinging Doors.”

“The Bottle Let Me Down.”

“Branded Man.”

By the time those records arrived, Bakersfield was no longer a one-man city.

Buck Owens had built one road out.

Merle Haggard had spent years learning how not to follow it — and in doing so, he made the road wider for everyone who came after.

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Country Music

GEORGE JONES NEARLY DIED IN A 1999 CAR CRASH. MONTHS LATER, HE RECORDED “CHOICES”—A SONG HE DIDN’T EVEN WANT TO SING—AND IT BECAME ONE OF THE MOST PERSONAL RECORDS OF HIS LIFE. By the late 1990s, George Jones had already survived almost everything country music could throw at a man. The hits, the drinking, the missed shows, the marriages, the comeback attempts—all of it had become part of the legend. But by 1998, commercial momentum had slowed, and Jones was no longer treated by mainstream country radio as an automatic presence. Then, on March 6, 1999, he crashed his Lexus near his home in Franklin, Tennessee. Jones was seriously injured. The wreck left him with a ruptured liver, internal bleeding, and other injuries that required emergency treatment. Investigators later determined he had been drinking before the crash. For a man who had spent years trying to put alcohol behind him, the accident was a brutal public relapse. During recovery, Jones was presented with “Choices,” written by Billy Yates and Mike Curtis. He resisted it. The lyric was too close: a man looking back at the decisions that had shaped his life, admitting that consequences did not arrive by accident. Jones reportedly felt uncomfortable singing something that sounded so autobiographical. He recorded it anyway. Released later in 1999, “Choices” became one of the strongest late-career records Jones ever made. It won the Grammy for Best Male Country Vocal Performance and reintroduced him to an audience that had begun treating him more like history than a current artist. Then came the CMA Awards. Jones was invited to perform “Choices,” but the broadcast reportedly offered him only a shortened version of the song. He declined to appear. Alan Jackson was on the show that night. During his own performance of “Pop a Top,” Jackson suddenly stopped his band, turned toward “Choices,” and sang part of Jones’s song instead—an unscripted gesture of protest on live television. The room understood immediately. Jones had spent much of his career being treated as the man who could not get out of his own way. In 1999, one of the youngest stars on country television stopped his own song to make sure the older man’s voice was heard.

Country Music

DON RICH SPENT 16 YEARS HELPING BUILD THE BUCK OWENS SOUND. THEN A MOTORCYCLE CRASH KILLED HIM AT 32 —AND BUCK LATER SAID PART OF THE JOY WENT OUT OF MUSIC WITH HIM. By 1974, Buck Owens had already spent years near the top of country music. The Buckaroos had helped define the Bakersfield sound, and Don Rich was central to it. He had first met Buck in the late 1950s, then became guitarist, fiddler, bandleader and the high harmony voice heard on many of Buck’s biggest records. The Country Music Hall of Fame calls their partnership crucial to Owens’s career. Then the partnership ended in a single night. On July 17, 1974, Rich was riding his motorcycle when he was killed in a crash. He was only 32. Buck kept working. Hee Haw continued. The business empire continued. There were still records, shows and radio interests to manage. But the musical center had changed. Rich had not simply been another replaceable player in the Buckaroos. His guitar lines and harmony singing were built into the identity of songs such as “Act Naturally,” “Together Again,” “I’ve Got a Tiger by the Tail” and “Sam’s Place.” During Buck’s peak years, Owens and Rich had worked with essentially the same road band in the studio, which gave the records their unusually tight, live sound. After Rich’s death, Buck’s chart dominance faded during the second half of the 1970s. There were other reasons: changing country tastes, the demands of television and Buck’s growing business interests. But Owens himself never treated Don’s death as just another personnel change. Years later, when Buck was thinking about where he wanted to be buried, he talked about moving Don Rich’s grave near his own family plot. “He’d want to be with me,” Buck said. That detail says more about their relationship than any list of records. Don Rich had spent 16 years standing beside Buck Owens onstage. More than two decades after the crash, Buck was still thinking about where he wanted Don standing when the music was over.

Country Music

CONWAY TWITTY AND LORETTA LYNN WERE ALREADY MAJOR SOLO STARS WHEN THEY STARTED SINGING TOGETHER. THEIR FIRST DUET WENT TO No. 1 — AND THE CHEMISTRY BECAME SO CONVINCING THAT FANS SPENT YEARS WONDERING WHETHER THE LOVE SONGS WERE REAL. By 1971, neither Conway Twitty nor Loretta Lynn needed a duet partner. Loretta had already built a run of major hits and was one of country music’s strongest female stars. Conway had completed his move from pop into country and was stacking up No. 1 records of his own. Putting them together was not a rescue plan for either career. It was an experiment. Their first major release as a duo was “After the Fire Is Gone,” a song built around two married people finding something in each other that had disappeared at home. The voices fit almost immediately. Loretta’s sharp, plainspoken delivery pushed against Conway’s smoother, heavier phrasing. Instead of sounding like two stars politely sharing a record, they sounded like two people in the middle of the argument the song described. “After the Fire Is Gone” went to No. 1 in 1971 and later earned them a Grammy. So they kept going. “Lead Me On” followed. Then came “Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man,” “As Soon as I Hang Up the Phone,” “Feelin’s” and others. The partnership became so successful that Conway and Loretta won the CMA’s Vocal Duo of the Year award four consecutive times from 1972 through 1975. But the records created another problem. People believed them. Onstage, Conway and Loretta could lean into a lyric, trade looks and deliver a cheating song with enough tension that audiences began assuming something must be happening away from the microphones too. Loretta repeatedly dismissed the idea. Her marriage to Oliver “Doolittle” Lynn was famously complicated, but Conway was a close friend, not a secret lover. The two families knew each other, and Doo himself was part of the world around their touring and recording partnership. That did not stop the rumors. In a strange way, the misunderstanding became proof of what made the duo work. Country audiences were hearing two experienced solo singers who knew how to make every line sound personal — even when the story belonged only to the song. They eventually recorded together for more than a decade, even as both continued successful solo careers. When Conway died suddenly in 1993, Loretta lost more than an old duet partner. She lost the one singer whose voice had spent years sitting directly across from hers. The records remained convincing enough that decades later, new listeners could still hear “After the Fire Is Gone” without needing to know where the performance ended and the friendship began.

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Country Music

MERLE HAGGARD CAME OUT OF SAN QUENTIN TO A BAKERSFIELD ALREADY OWNED BY BUCK OWENS. HE DUG DITCHES, PLAYED $10 NIGHTS — THEN BUILT A SOUND STRONG ENOUGH TO MAKE THE CITY ROOM FOR TWO GIANTS. When Merle Haggard returned to Bakersfield after prison, there was already a country star dominating the city. Buck Owens had hits, a band, a growing national audience and a hard-edged California sound that separated Bakersfield from Nashville. For a young singer trying to start again, Buck was impossible to ignore. Merle was nowhere near that level. He later remembered digging ditches during the day and playing four nights a week at High Pockets for about $10 a night. He considered himself only a second-rate musician then, surviving because better players around Bakersfield tolerated him long enough to teach him. Buck’s influence naturally seeped into the music. Haggard studied Owens, Wynn Stewart, Lefty Frizzell and others while trying to work out what his own records should sound like. Years later, he admitted that even as late as “Swinging Doors” in 1966, listeners could still hear him combining elements of Wynn Stewart and Buck Owens. But Merle did not want to remain another Bakersfield singer following a formula someone else had already perfected. His songs began moving somewhere more personal. “Sing a Sad Song” gave him his first national breakthrough. “(My Friends Are Gonna Be) Strangers” followed. Then came “Swinging Doors,” “The Bottle Let Me Down,” “Branded Man” and the records that finally made the comparison with Buck less useful. By the late 1960s, Bakersfield no longer had one giant star. It had two. The public later invented plenty of rivalry between them. Merle eventually married Bonnie Owens, Buck’s former wife, and the two men went decades without appearing together onstage. Stories circulated that Buck had driven Merle out of town or resented him. Buck dismissed most of it. He pointed out that he and Bonnie had divorced years before she even met Merle and said there had never been a serious personal feud between the two men. What did exist was a striking contrast. Buck was disciplined, punctual and commercially precise. Merle was looser, more unpredictable and increasingly interested in writing songs that followed his own instincts whether radio liked them or not. In 1995, after decades of separate careers, they finally shared a Bakersfield stage again. Buck, Merle and Dwight Yoakam closed the night together with “Streets of Bakersfield.” By then, nobody in the crowd needed to decide which man had won Bakersfield. Buck had built one road out of the city. Merle had spent years learning how not to follow it.

Country Music

GEORGE JONES NEARLY DIED IN A 1999 CAR CRASH. MONTHS LATER, HE RECORDED “CHOICES”—A SONG HE DIDN’T EVEN WANT TO SING—AND IT BECAME ONE OF THE MOST PERSONAL RECORDS OF HIS LIFE. By the late 1990s, George Jones had already survived almost everything country music could throw at a man. The hits, the drinking, the missed shows, the marriages, the comeback attempts—all of it had become part of the legend. But by 1998, commercial momentum had slowed, and Jones was no longer treated by mainstream country radio as an automatic presence. Then, on March 6, 1999, he crashed his Lexus near his home in Franklin, Tennessee. Jones was seriously injured. The wreck left him with a ruptured liver, internal bleeding, and other injuries that required emergency treatment. Investigators later determined he had been drinking before the crash. For a man who had spent years trying to put alcohol behind him, the accident was a brutal public relapse. During recovery, Jones was presented with “Choices,” written by Billy Yates and Mike Curtis. He resisted it. The lyric was too close: a man looking back at the decisions that had shaped his life, admitting that consequences did not arrive by accident. Jones reportedly felt uncomfortable singing something that sounded so autobiographical. He recorded it anyway. Released later in 1999, “Choices” became one of the strongest late-career records Jones ever made. It won the Grammy for Best Male Country Vocal Performance and reintroduced him to an audience that had begun treating him more like history than a current artist. Then came the CMA Awards. Jones was invited to perform “Choices,” but the broadcast reportedly offered him only a shortened version of the song. He declined to appear. Alan Jackson was on the show that night. During his own performance of “Pop a Top,” Jackson suddenly stopped his band, turned toward “Choices,” and sang part of Jones’s song instead—an unscripted gesture of protest on live television. The room understood immediately. Jones had spent much of his career being treated as the man who could not get out of his own way. In 1999, one of the youngest stars on country television stopped his own song to make sure the older man’s voice was heard.

Country Music

DON RICH SPENT 16 YEARS HELPING BUILD THE BUCK OWENS SOUND. THEN A MOTORCYCLE CRASH KILLED HIM AT 32 —AND BUCK LATER SAID PART OF THE JOY WENT OUT OF MUSIC WITH HIM. By 1974, Buck Owens had already spent years near the top of country music. The Buckaroos had helped define the Bakersfield sound, and Don Rich was central to it. He had first met Buck in the late 1950s, then became guitarist, fiddler, bandleader and the high harmony voice heard on many of Buck’s biggest records. The Country Music Hall of Fame calls their partnership crucial to Owens’s career. Then the partnership ended in a single night. On July 17, 1974, Rich was riding his motorcycle when he was killed in a crash. He was only 32. Buck kept working. Hee Haw continued. The business empire continued. There were still records, shows and radio interests to manage. But the musical center had changed. Rich had not simply been another replaceable player in the Buckaroos. His guitar lines and harmony singing were built into the identity of songs such as “Act Naturally,” “Together Again,” “I’ve Got a Tiger by the Tail” and “Sam’s Place.” During Buck’s peak years, Owens and Rich had worked with essentially the same road band in the studio, which gave the records their unusually tight, live sound. After Rich’s death, Buck’s chart dominance faded during the second half of the 1970s. There were other reasons: changing country tastes, the demands of television and Buck’s growing business interests. But Owens himself never treated Don’s death as just another personnel change. Years later, when Buck was thinking about where he wanted to be buried, he talked about moving Don Rich’s grave near his own family plot. “He’d want to be with me,” Buck said. That detail says more about their relationship than any list of records. Don Rich had spent 16 years standing beside Buck Owens onstage. More than two decades after the crash, Buck was still thinking about where he wanted Don standing when the music was over.

Country Music

CONWAY TWITTY AND LORETTA LYNN WERE ALREADY MAJOR SOLO STARS WHEN THEY STARTED SINGING TOGETHER. THEIR FIRST DUET WENT TO No. 1 — AND THE CHEMISTRY BECAME SO CONVINCING THAT FANS SPENT YEARS WONDERING WHETHER THE LOVE SONGS WERE REAL. By 1971, neither Conway Twitty nor Loretta Lynn needed a duet partner. Loretta had already built a run of major hits and was one of country music’s strongest female stars. Conway had completed his move from pop into country and was stacking up No. 1 records of his own. Putting them together was not a rescue plan for either career. It was an experiment. Their first major release as a duo was “After the Fire Is Gone,” a song built around two married people finding something in each other that had disappeared at home. The voices fit almost immediately. Loretta’s sharp, plainspoken delivery pushed against Conway’s smoother, heavier phrasing. Instead of sounding like two stars politely sharing a record, they sounded like two people in the middle of the argument the song described. “After the Fire Is Gone” went to No. 1 in 1971 and later earned them a Grammy. So they kept going. “Lead Me On” followed. Then came “Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man,” “As Soon as I Hang Up the Phone,” “Feelin’s” and others. The partnership became so successful that Conway and Loretta won the CMA’s Vocal Duo of the Year award four consecutive times from 1972 through 1975. But the records created another problem. People believed them. Onstage, Conway and Loretta could lean into a lyric, trade looks and deliver a cheating song with enough tension that audiences began assuming something must be happening away from the microphones too. Loretta repeatedly dismissed the idea. Her marriage to Oliver “Doolittle” Lynn was famously complicated, but Conway was a close friend, not a secret lover. The two families knew each other, and Doo himself was part of the world around their touring and recording partnership. That did not stop the rumors. In a strange way, the misunderstanding became proof of what made the duo work. Country audiences were hearing two experienced solo singers who knew how to make every line sound personal — even when the story belonged only to the song. They eventually recorded together for more than a decade, even as both continued successful solo careers. When Conway died suddenly in 1993, Loretta lost more than an old duet partner. She lost the one singer whose voice had spent years sitting directly across from hers. The records remained convincing enough that decades later, new listeners could still hear “After the Fire Is Gone” without needing to know where the performance ended and the friendship began.