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

Introduction

Imagine you’re at a bustling honky-tonk, the air thick with the scent of beer and smoke, when suddenly, the jukebox starts playing a song that makes everyone pause and listen. It’s “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way” by Waylon Jennings, a song that not only honors the legacy of Hank Williams but also questions the direction of country music in the 1970s. This track, filled with raw emotion and honest storytelling, captures the essence of an era and the soul of an artist.

About The Composition

  • Title: Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way
  • Composer: Waylon Jennings
  • Premiere Date: 1975
  • Album: Dreaming My Dreams
  • Genre: Country

Background

“Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way” was written and recorded by Waylon Jennings in 1975. At the time, Jennings was part of the Outlaw Movement in country music, which sought to return control to the artists and away from the commercialized Nashville sound. This song serves as both a tribute to the legendary Hank Williams and a critique of the music industry’s evolution.

The song’s inception stemmed from Jennings’ frustration with the direction country music was heading. He admired Hank Williams’ raw, authentic style and questioned whether the new wave of country musicians were staying true to those roots. Upon its release, the song resonated with many who felt the same way, quickly becoming a hit and solidifying Jennings’ place in country music history.

Musical Style

The musical style of “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way” is characterized by its straightforward, gritty sound. The instrumentation includes electric guitars, bass, and drums, creating a rock-influenced country sound that was emblematic of the Outlaw Movement. The song’s structure is simple yet powerful, with a repetitive chorus that drives home the central message.

Jennings’ vocal delivery is raw and sincere, reflecting his deep respect for Hank Williams and his discontent with the current state of country music. This combination of heartfelt lyrics and robust musical backing makes the song a poignant critique wrapped in a memorable tune.

Lyrics

The lyrics of “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way” are both a homage and a challenge. Jennings questions whether the path he and his contemporaries are on aligns with the authenticity of Hank Williams’ legacy. Lines like “Lord, it’s the same old tune, fiddle and guitar. Where do we take it from here?” reflect his contemplation and critique. The song’s storytelling approach, a hallmark of country music, effectively conveys Jennings’ message and connects with listeners on a personal level.

Performance History

“Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way” has been performed by numerous artists over the years, each bringing their unique style to the classic. Notable performances include those by Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard, both of whom were also prominent figures in the Outlaw Movement. The song’s enduring popularity is a testament to its powerful message and Jennings’ impactful delivery.

Cultural Impact

The cultural impact of “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way” extends beyond its initial release. It has been featured in various media, including films and documentaries about country music, highlighting its significance in the genre’s history. The song also inspired other musicians to stay true to their roots and resist commercial pressures, influencing the direction of country music for years to come.

Legacy

“Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way” remains a beloved classic, celebrated for its honesty and its critique of the music industry. Its relevance continues today, as artists grapple with maintaining authenticity in an ever-evolving industry. Jennings’ tribute to Hank Williams not only honors the past but also serves as a reminder to future generations to stay true to their artistic vision.

Conclusion

“Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way” is more than just a song; it’s a powerful statement about staying true to one’s roots and questioning the status quo. Waylon Jennings’ heartfelt tribute to Hank Williams resonates with listeners, encouraging them to reflect on the music industry’s evolution and the importance of authenticity. For those looking to dive deeper into this iconic track, I recommend listening to Jennings’ original recording and exploring live performances by other artists to appreciate its enduring legacy

Video

Lyrics

Bob Wills Is Still the King (Live)
Here’s a song I wrote on a plane
Between Dallas and Austin goin’ to El Paso, whoops.
Now this is what gave us the idea to come down here,
This is a song about a guy that probably did as much
For our kind of music as anybody.
Well, the Honky Tonks in Texas
Were my natural second home
The way you tip your hat to the ladies
In the rose of San Antone.
I grew up on music
That we call western swing
It don’t matter whose in Austin
Bob Wills is still the king.
Lawd, I can still remember
The way things were back then
In spite of all the hard times
I’d live it all again.
To hear the Texas Playboys
And Tommy Duncan sing
Makes me proud to be from Texas
Where Bob Wills is still the king.
You can hear the Grand Ol Opry
In Nashville, Tennessee
It’s the home of country music
On that we all agree.
But when you cross that ol’ Red River hoss
That just don’t mean a thing
Once youre down in Texas
Bob Wills is still the king.
If you aint never been there
Then I guess you ain’t been told
That you just can’t live in Texas
Unless you got alot of soul.
It’s the home of Willie Nelson
The home of western swing
He’ll be the first to tell you
Bob Wills is still the king…

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HE OPENED THE ENVELOPE, SAW JOHN DENVER’S NAME, AND SET COUNTRY MUSIC’S BIGGEST AWARD ON FIRE. Charlie Rich had not come to Nashville as a clean country product. He was born in Colt, Arkansas, raised around gospel, blues, jazz, and cotton-field country. His mother played piano in church. A Black sharecropper named C. J. Allen helped teach him blues piano. By the time Rich found his way through Sun Records, RCA, Smash, Hi, and finally Epic, he had already been too jazzy for country, too country for pop, and too strange for the easy lane. Then 1973 changed everything. “Behind Closed Doors” hit. “The Most Beautiful Girl” hit even bigger. Rich became the Silver Fox, won major awards, and in 1974 took CMA Entertainer of the Year. For one year, the man Nashville had never known how to file became the man holding its highest prize. On October 13, 1975, he walked back onstage at the CMA Awards to name the next Entertainer of the Year. He opened the envelope. John Denver. Rich paused, pulled out a lighter, and burned the card before announcing, “My friend, Mr. John Denver.” Some called it protest. Some called it drunken bad judgment. His son later said Rich had pain medication, gin and tonics, a broken foot, and thought it would be funny — not a personal attack on Denver. The explanation came later. The image stayed first. A white-haired country star. A live television stQage. One burning slip of paper. And a career that never fully stepped out of that smoke.

THEY GOT MARRIED ON A CONCERT STAGE IN WICHITA. LESS THAN THREE YEARS LATER, JEAN SHEPARD WAS LEFT WITH TWO SONS AND A HUSBAND COUNTRY MUSIC COULD ONLY HEAR ON RECORDS. They met inside the world that had already claimed both of them — radio shows, road dates, the Grand Ole Opry, dressing rooms, and the kind of touring life where a singer’s home could feel like whatever town had the next stage. Jean was not fragile. She had already fought her way into hard country when women were still expected to sound sweeter than the men around them. “A Dear John Letter” had taken her to No. 1. The Opry had taken her in. She had survived one bad early marriage and kept her career anyway. Hawkshaw was different. Six-foot-five. Smooth. Charismatic. A West Virginia singer people called “Eleven Yards of Personality.” He had the height, the grin, and the kind of stage presence that made a crowd feel like he had walked in from a bigger life. On November 26, 1960, they married onstage during a concert in Wichita, Kansas. It was not just a courthouse promise. Ken Nelson gave Jean away. A local disc jockey broadcast the ceremony over the radio. The crowd was there. The music world was there. Their private vow entered country history through a microphone. For a while, it looked like the show and the marriage could live together. They toured. They built a home in Goodlettsville. They had a son, Don Robin, named after friends Don Gibson and Marty Robbins. Jean became pregnant again. Then the calendar turned cruel. The marriage that had started in front of an audience ended with Jean carrying the part no audience could sing for her — a toddler, an unborn child, and a husband whose voice kept climbing the chart after he was gone.

JEAN SHEPARD CUT “LONESOME 7-7203” BEFORE HER HUSBAND DID. CAPITOL LEFT IT SITTING. THEN HAWKSHAW HAWKINS RECORDED IT — AND DIED THREE DAYS AFTER ITS RELEASE. The song did not start as Hawkshaw Hawkins’ last hit. It passed through Jean Shepard first. By the early 1960s, Jean was already one of country music’s toughest women. She had come up through honky-tonk, made “A Dear John Letter” a No. 1 duet, joined the Grand Ole Opry, and proved she was not just a pretty harmony voice in a man’s business. Hawkshaw Hawkins was already part of that same Opry world. Tall, smooth, steady, with a career that had stretched from West Virginia radio to national country stages. He and Jean married in 1960. Two singers. Two roads. One house outside Nashville. Then came a Justin Tubb song called “Lonesome 7-7203.” Jean recorded it for Capitol, but the label left it unreleased. The song sat there. A lonely telephone number. A heartbreak line waiting for somebody to dial it. Hawkshaw finally told her that if Capitol was not going to release it, he would record it himself. King Records released his version on March 2, 1963. Three days later, Hawkshaw Hawkins was dead. The plane crash near Camden took him, Patsy Cline, Cowboy Copas, and pilot Randy Hughes. Jean was left with the grief, the children, and the strange sound of her husband’s voice still rising on the radio. Then the song climbed. “Lonesome 7-7203” reached No. 1 after Hawkshaw was gone. Jean had recorded it first. Hawkshaw made it immortal. Country music kept dialing the number after the man who sang it could no longer answer.

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HE OPENED THE ENVELOPE, SAW JOHN DENVER’S NAME, AND SET COUNTRY MUSIC’S BIGGEST AWARD ON FIRE. Charlie Rich had not come to Nashville as a clean country product. He was born in Colt, Arkansas, raised around gospel, blues, jazz, and cotton-field country. His mother played piano in church. A Black sharecropper named C. J. Allen helped teach him blues piano. By the time Rich found his way through Sun Records, RCA, Smash, Hi, and finally Epic, he had already been too jazzy for country, too country for pop, and too strange for the easy lane. Then 1973 changed everything. “Behind Closed Doors” hit. “The Most Beautiful Girl” hit even bigger. Rich became the Silver Fox, won major awards, and in 1974 took CMA Entertainer of the Year. For one year, the man Nashville had never known how to file became the man holding its highest prize. On October 13, 1975, he walked back onstage at the CMA Awards to name the next Entertainer of the Year. He opened the envelope. John Denver. Rich paused, pulled out a lighter, and burned the card before announcing, “My friend, Mr. John Denver.” Some called it protest. Some called it drunken bad judgment. His son later said Rich had pain medication, gin and tonics, a broken foot, and thought it would be funny — not a personal attack on Denver. The explanation came later. The image stayed first. A white-haired country star. A live television stQage. One burning slip of paper. And a career that never fully stepped out of that smoke.

THEY GOT MARRIED ON A CONCERT STAGE IN WICHITA. LESS THAN THREE YEARS LATER, JEAN SHEPARD WAS LEFT WITH TWO SONS AND A HUSBAND COUNTRY MUSIC COULD ONLY HEAR ON RECORDS. They met inside the world that had already claimed both of them — radio shows, road dates, the Grand Ole Opry, dressing rooms, and the kind of touring life where a singer’s home could feel like whatever town had the next stage. Jean was not fragile. She had already fought her way into hard country when women were still expected to sound sweeter than the men around them. “A Dear John Letter” had taken her to No. 1. The Opry had taken her in. She had survived one bad early marriage and kept her career anyway. Hawkshaw was different. Six-foot-five. Smooth. Charismatic. A West Virginia singer people called “Eleven Yards of Personality.” He had the height, the grin, and the kind of stage presence that made a crowd feel like he had walked in from a bigger life. On November 26, 1960, they married onstage during a concert in Wichita, Kansas. It was not just a courthouse promise. Ken Nelson gave Jean away. A local disc jockey broadcast the ceremony over the radio. The crowd was there. The music world was there. Their private vow entered country history through a microphone. For a while, it looked like the show and the marriage could live together. They toured. They built a home in Goodlettsville. They had a son, Don Robin, named after friends Don Gibson and Marty Robbins. Jean became pregnant again. Then the calendar turned cruel. The marriage that had started in front of an audience ended with Jean carrying the part no audience could sing for her — a toddler, an unborn child, and a husband whose voice kept climbing the chart after he was gone.

JEAN SHEPARD CUT “LONESOME 7-7203” BEFORE HER HUSBAND DID. CAPITOL LEFT IT SITTING. THEN HAWKSHAW HAWKINS RECORDED IT — AND DIED THREE DAYS AFTER ITS RELEASE. The song did not start as Hawkshaw Hawkins’ last hit. It passed through Jean Shepard first. By the early 1960s, Jean was already one of country music’s toughest women. She had come up through honky-tonk, made “A Dear John Letter” a No. 1 duet, joined the Grand Ole Opry, and proved she was not just a pretty harmony voice in a man’s business. Hawkshaw Hawkins was already part of that same Opry world. Tall, smooth, steady, with a career that had stretched from West Virginia radio to national country stages. He and Jean married in 1960. Two singers. Two roads. One house outside Nashville. Then came a Justin Tubb song called “Lonesome 7-7203.” Jean recorded it for Capitol, but the label left it unreleased. The song sat there. A lonely telephone number. A heartbreak line waiting for somebody to dial it. Hawkshaw finally told her that if Capitol was not going to release it, he would record it himself. King Records released his version on March 2, 1963. Three days later, Hawkshaw Hawkins was dead. The plane crash near Camden took him, Patsy Cline, Cowboy Copas, and pilot Randy Hughes. Jean was left with the grief, the children, and the strange sound of her husband’s voice still rising on the radio. Then the song climbed. “Lonesome 7-7203” reached No. 1 after Hawkshaw was gone. Jean had recorded it first. Hawkshaw made it immortal. Country music kept dialing the number after the man who sang it could no longer answer.

SHE SAID A MAN WITH A GUN WAS WAITING IN THE BACK SEAT. DAYS LATER, TAMMY WYNETTE STILL WALKED ONSTAGE IN SOUTH CAROLINA. Tammy Wynette already knew what it meant to sing pain for a living. By 1978, she was not just a country star. She was the woman behind “Stand by Your Man,” “D-I-V-O-R-C-E,” “I Don’t Wanna Play House,” and the kind of songs that made broken homes sound like they had wallpaper, bills, children, and nowhere clean to hide. Her life had become part of the story too. Marriages. George Jones. Public fights. Illness. A voice that could make surrender sound noble even when the woman singing it was barely holding the pieces together. Then came October 4, 1978. Tammy had gone shopping at Green Hills in Nashville for a birthday gift for her daughter. When she returned to her car, she later said a masked man was hiding in the back seat with a gun. He forced her to drive, beat her, and released her about 80 miles away in Giles County. The story sounded like something too strange even for country music. Questions followed. Rumors followed. No one was ever convicted. The mystery stayed attached to her name for the rest of her life. But Tammy still had a calendar. A few days later, bruised and shaken, she appeared for a concert in Columbia, South Carolina. The fans saw the First Lady of Country Music under the lights. What they could not fully see was the woman who had just been left on a Tennessee roadside, trying to explain a nightmare nobody could neatly close. Loretta Lynn turned poverty into defiance. Patsy Cline turned survival into steel. Tammy Wynette turned private wreckage into a voice so controlled it almost hid the damage.