Country Music

Classic Country Music Hits

Country Music

Blake Shelton – Ol’ Red

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

Introduction

“Ol’ Red” is a captivating narrative set to music, showcasing the ingenious plot of a man using his wits to escape from a southern prison farm. The song’s lore is deepened by its rich storytelling tradition in country music, involving a prisoner, a loyal but unsuspecting dog named Ol’ Red, and a clever escape ignited by love.

About The Composition

  • Title: Ol’ Red
  • Composer: James “Bo” Bohon, Don Goodman, Mark Sherrill
  • Premiere Date: Initially recorded by George Jones in 1990
  • Album/Opus/Collection: Featured on George Jones’s album “You Oughta Be Here with Me” and later covered by Blake Shelton on his self-titled 2001 album
  • Genre: Country

Background

“Ol’ Red” was not just a song but a portrayal of clever human psychology and the power of love. It became well-known through Blake Shelton’s rendition, which added a personal touch and brought a deeper narrative feel to the music. Shelton’s version peaked at number 14 on the US Hot Country Songs chart and is certified 2× Platinum in the United States.

Musical Style

This song combines traditional country elements with a storytelling approach that captures listeners’ imaginations. Its simple yet effective instrumentation supports the narrative, letting the lyrics drive the emotional weight and the unfolding drama of the story.

Lyrics/Libretto

The lyrics of “Ol’ Red” are crafted to tell a story of escape and clever manipulation. The protagonist, serving time in jail, forms a plan involving the titular dog, Ol’ Red, using the animal’s predictable behavior against the guards to facilitate an escape. Key themes include betrayal, strategy, and the unexpected twists of fate, encapsulated by the line “Love got me in here and love got me out.”

Performance History While originally recorded by George Jones, it was Blake Shelton’s version that brought “Ol’ Red” widespread acclaim, making it a staple in his performances and a favorite among fans of narrative country songs.

Cultural Impact

The song has left a significant mark on country music, often cited for its vivid storytelling and the emotional connection it fosters with listeners. Its themes of freedom and ingenuity resonate widely, making it a memorable example of country music’s narrative power.

Legacy

“Ol’ Red” continues to be celebrated in country music circles for its narrative depth and musicality. It has influenced other artists and songs, becoming more than just a track—it’s a piece of cultural storytelling that continues to inspire and entertain.

Conclusion

“Ol’ Red” is a testament to the storytelling tradition in country music, beautifully weaving themes of love, freedom, and strategic cunning into a song that resonates with many. Its enduring popularity encourages new listeners to explore its layers and appreciate the craft of musical storytelling. For those interested in experiencing the song in full, listening to Blake Shelton’s rendition or exploring its roots with George Jones’s original version is highly recommended

Video

Lyrics

Well, I caught my wife with another man
And it cost me ninety-nine
On a prison farm in Georgia
Close to the Florida line
Well, I’ve been here for two long years
I finally made the warden my friend
And so he sentenced me to a life of ease
Takin’ care of Ol’ Red
Now, Ol’ Red, he’s the damnedest dog
That I’ve ever seen
Got a nose that can smell a two day trail
He’s a four legged trackin’ machine
You can consider yourself mighty lucky
To get past the gators and the quicksand beds
But all these years that I’ve been here
Ain’t nobody got past Red
And the warden sang
Come on somebody, why don’t you run?
Ol’ Red’s itchin’ to have a little fun
Get my lantern, get my gun
Red’ll have you treed ‘fore the mornin’ comes
Well, I paid off the guard and I slipped out a letter
To my cousin up in Tennessee
Oh, and he brought down a blue tick hound
She was pretty as she could be
Well, they penned her up in the swampland
‘Bout a mile just south of the gate
And I’d take Ol’ Red for his evening run
I’d just drop him off and wait
And the warden sang
Come on somebody, why don’t you run?
Ol’ Red’s itchin’ to have a little fun
Get my lantern, get my gun
Red’ll have you treed ‘fore the mornin’ comes
Now, Ol’ Red got real used to seein’
His lady every night
And so I kept him away for three or four days
And waited ’til the time got right
Well, I made my run with the evening sun
And I smiled when I heard ’em turn Red out
‘Cause I was headed north to Tennessee
And Ol’ Red was headed south
And the warden sang
Come on somebody, why don’t you run?
Ol’ Red’s itchin’ to have a little fun
Get my lantern, get my gun
Red’ll have you treed ‘fore the mornin’ comes
Now there’s red haired blue ticks all in the South
Love got me in here and love got me out

Related Post

Country Music

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.

Country Music

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.

Country Music

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.

You Missed

Country Music

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.

Country Music

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.

Country Music

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.

Country Music

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.