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

Introduction

Imagine you’re on a long, winding road, the kind where the horizon seems to stretch forever. The radio crackles to life, and suddenly, Charley Pride’s voice fills the car, singing about San Antone. For many, this song is more than just a melody; it’s a soundtrack to life’s moments of longing and wandering, evoking memories of simpler times and distant places. “Is Anybody Goin’ to San Antone” isn’t just a song; it’s a journey that resonates deeply with anyone who’s ever felt the tug of the open road.

About The Composition

  • Title: Is Anybody Goin’ to San Antone
  • Composer: Glenn Martin and Dave Kirby
  • Premiere Date: 1970
  • Album/Opus/Collection: Charley Pride’s 10th Album
  • Genre: Country

Background

“Is Anybody Goin’ to San Antone” was born at a time when country music was undergoing significant shifts. Released in 1970, it became one of Charley Pride’s most iconic hits, further solidifying his place in the country music hall of fame. The song, penned by Glenn Martin and Dave Kirby, taps into themes of heartache and the quest for solace, a narrative as old as time itself. The tune quickly climbed the charts, becoming a number-one hit on the country music charts. It wasn’t just a success in terms of numbers; the song struck a chord with audiences, especially those who found themselves far from home or grappling with the emotional complexities of love and loss.

Musical Style

Musically, “Is Anybody Goin’ to San Antone” exemplifies the classic country sound of the late 1960s and early 1970s. The song is characterized by its smooth, easygoing tempo and the twang of steel guitars that give it that unmistakable country flair. Charley Pride’s rich baritone voice carries the melody with a mix of warmth and melancholy, making the song both comforting and wistful. The arrangement is straightforward, with a focus on storytelling through music—a hallmark of country music at its best.

Lyrics/Libretto

The lyrics of “Is Anybody Goin’ to San Antone” are a poignant reflection of a man on the run, seeking to escape the pain of a broken heart. Lines like “Anyplace is alright as long as I can forget I’ve ever known her” encapsulate the essence of the song’s narrative—a desire to leave behind memories that hurt too much to keep. The mention of San Antone (San Antonio) adds a geographical anchor, a destination that symbolizes a fresh start or at least a temporary respite from sorrow.

Performance History

Since its release, “Is Anybody Goin’ to San Antone” has seen numerous performances by Charley Pride, becoming a staple in his live shows. The song’s popularity led to its inclusion in many of Pride’s greatest hits compilations and has been covered by various artists over the years, each bringing their unique style to the classic tune. Its enduring appeal is evident in how it continues to resonate with audiences, both in live performances and through countless recordings.

Cultural Impact

The song’s impact extends beyond the realm of country music. It has been featured in films and television shows, often used to evoke a sense of nostalgia or to underscore scenes of travel and introspection. For many, it’s a song that captures the spirit of a bygone era, a reminder of the simplicity and emotional depth that characterized much of the country music from that time.

Legacy

“Is Anybody Goin’ to San Antone” remains one of Charley Pride’s most beloved songs, a testament to his legacy as one of country music’s pioneering African American artists. The song’s themes of loss, escape, and the search for peace are universal, making it a timeless piece that continues to touch new generations of listeners. Its place in the country music canon is secure, not just as a hit song, but as a cultural artifact that speaks to the enduring power of music to capture the human experience.

Conclusion

“Is Anybody Goin’ to San Antone” is more than just a song; it’s a journey through the heart of country music, a trip down memory lane that invites listeners to reflect on their own experiences of love, loss, and the search for a place to call home. Whether you’re a longtime fan of Charley Pride or new to his music, this song offers something for everyone—a chance to sit back, listen, and let the music take you to a place where the past and present meet in harmony. If you haven’t yet, find a quiet moment, put on this song, and let yourself be transported to San Antone

Video

Lyrics

Rain drippin’ off the brim of my hat
It sure is cold today
Here I am walkin’ down 66
Wish she hadn’t done me that way
Sleepin’ under a table in a roadside park
A man could wake up dead
But it sure seems warmer than it did
Sleepin’ in our king-sized bed
Is anybody goin’ to San Antone
Or Phoenix, Arizona?
Any place is alright as long as I
Can forget I’ve ever known her
Wind whippin’ down the neck of my shirt
Like I ain’t got nothin’ on
But I’d rather fight the wind and rain
Than what I’ve been fightin’ at home
Yonder comes a truck with the U.S. Mail
People writin’ letters back home
Tomorrow, she’ll probably want me back
But I’ll still be just as gone
Is anybody goin’ to San Antone
Or Phoenix, Arizona?
Any place is alright as long as I
Can forget I’ve ever known her

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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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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.