Through the hillbilly music of the 1920s, the honky-tonk of the Forties and Fifties, the Bakersfield movement of the Sixties, bluegrass, Western swing, outlaw and contemporary pop, country songs still continue to break our hearts. Like no other musical genre, country stories of loss and heartbreak turn the old “tear in my beer” cliché into a sad, salty reality. So grab a few tissues and check out our list of the 40 saddest country songs ever written.
Songwriters Hank Cochran and Harlan Howard were sure their new "I Fall to Pieces" would be a hit, but before it reached Patsy Cline, singers Brenda Lee ("too country") and Roy Drusky ("too feminine") both passed. But when the latter left the studio, however, Cline made sure that it wouldn't reach anyone else. "Drusky, that's a hit song you just let go," she remarked, "and I'm gonna get Owen [Bradley, Decca producer] to let me have it." That's how Drusky tells it, at least. According to Howard's wife Jan, Cline hated the song and refused to record it. Either way, "I Fall to Pieces" was put to tape in late 1960 and became the biggest country single of the following year. While the song's restrained honky-tonk beat emanates composure, Cline tries her best to do the same, keeping herself together in the presence of an old love wants her to be just his friend.
Lyricist Brent Baxter's mother was an English teacher who used the phrase "as empty as a Monday morning church" to explain poetry to her students. Over a simple yet classic Erin Enderlin melody, Baxter applied that metaphor to the heart of an inconsolate widower enraged with God. The song was considered by Lee Ann Womack and Terri Clark before finding its ideal interpreter in the melodrama-averse Alan Jackson, whose quietly desperate performance suggests that Patty Loveless' backing vocal is all that stands between him and the abyss.
Deciding which of Jones' sad songs is sadder than the next is like trying to decide whether coal is blacker than the bottom of the ocean or midnight on a moonless night. A husband's walkthrough of his empty house fresh after his wife has left for good, "The Grand Tour" marks the moment when Jones found synergy with Epic Records producer Billy Sherrill, whose downtown violins were initially seen as antithetical to Jones' honky-tonk roots but ultimately functioned as the castle that isolates the king from the world. Typically, the song is read as a story about Jones' painful divorce from fellow country star Tammy Wynette, finalized the year the song came out. One of its co-writers? George Richey, who married Wynette a few years later.
At the heart of this song by early Nineties crew Pirates of the Mississippi is the stirring image of a man kneeling down to deliver the "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep" bedtime prayer — pleading someone care for his best friend, a dog named Jake, if his owner should die before he wakes. However, "Feed Jake" is much deeper than the ballad of an orphaned pet. Remarkably progressive for a circa-1991 country song, "Jake" champions the rights of the homeless and lends support to the gay community: "Now, if you get an ear pierced, some will call you gay/But if you drive a pick-up, they'll say, 'No, you must be straight'/What we are and what we ain't, what we can and what we can't/Does it really matter?"
A classic in country music's ever-flourishing You-Think-You've-Got-Problems subgenre, "God's Will," the slow-burning piano ballad and emotional capstone to McBride's 2003 album Martina, valorizes a young boy with braces on his legs and a permanent, resilient smile on his face. Written by Barry Dean and Tom Douglas (and inspired by Dean's daughter), its lyrics dole out one Forrest Gump-channeling, Pinterest-worthy heart-suplex after another: "'Hey Jude' was his favorite song/At dinner he'd ask to pray/And then he'd pray for everybody in the world but him."
This Jim Weatherley-penned Charley Pride track never specifically says what happened to the woman whose memory can't be put away, but the way Pride sings it, it's safe to assume she's probably dead. The song, which became his 21st Number One on the Country chart when it came out in 1979, walks through all the things the narrator hid of his lost love. Gifts she gave him, the pillow she slept on and her drawers of clothes are all par for the course, but the lyrics get particularly sob-worthy with the devastatingly realistic mention of picking up "her hairpins and curlers/That she dropped on her side of the bed."
The Singing Cowboy's 1931 breakout hit and lifelong calling card — co-written with Jimmy Long at a railroad depot, and a gentle, pre-eulogistic apology to Dear Old Dad for slowly worrying him half into the grave — was the first Gold record ever, which hopefully was some consolation. A robust 80-plus years later, everyone from Simon & Garfunkel (sweet, delicate) to Jim Reeves (booming, authoritative) to Johnny Cash (reverent, quavering) to the Everly Brothers (intricate, definitive) to Sesame Street (furry, blue) to Billie Joe Armstrong and Norah Jones (um, hmm) has taken a shot at it.
A lithe, soulful, organ-driven eulogy slinking amid the duo's otherwise semi-raucous 2005 LP Hillbilly Deluxe, "Believe" tells the morbidly uplifting tale of "Old Man Wrigley" (no connection to the Chicago Cubs, which would be sadder), a neighborhood widower patiently waiting for the day he'll rejoin his wife and son in the hereafter. After drawing it up with superstar songwriter Craig Wiseman, Ronnie Dunn just absolutely sang the hell out of it, darting ahead of the beat and belting with a preacher's conviction. It just snuck into the country Top 10, but higher honors awaited it: "Believe" took the 2006 CMA for Song of the Year.
There's a toughness to Merle's sentimentality in this 1967 song befitting its real-life source material. It's a eulogy to fellow San Quentin inmate "Rabbit" Hendricks, who killed a police officer during a botched escape attempt and was sent to the gas chamber. We can only wonder what last song was sad and sweet enough for the death row prisoner to request his "guitar-playing friend" to peform.
"This is the first serious song I ever wrote," Van Zandt told the audience before introducing this somber tune on his 1973 record Live at the Old Quarter. Originally released on 1968's For the Sake of the Song, it's the solemn story of a boozy rambler struggling to see the point of a fruitless existence that precedes eternal silence, ending with this tragic couplet: "His name's Codeine, he's the nicest thing I've seen/Together we're going to wait around and die." It's delicately heartbreaking and eerily prophetic to Van Zandt's early demise at 52 from alcoholism. Still, he was hesitant to play it at concerts since, as he said, "Nobody wants to hear blues on blues on blues." Turns out, they sure do. "That's what music's all about, when you hear something and you don't really have a choice," said Alex Turner of Arctic Monkeys of Van Zandt's work, "but to think, 'Oh fuck, all right, I'm going there.'"
Mary Gauthier didn't begin her career until the age of 35, after struggling through alcoholism and drug addiction. But she certainly made up for lost time, with her 2005 major label debut, Mercy Now, proving a unique gift for stellar storytelling and composing characters that speak subtly to the human condition. On the title track, Gauthier seeks forgiveness and compassion from the micro to the macro level, using an unfolding lyrical device inspired by a similar mechanism on Lucinda Williams' "I Changed the Locks." "I honestly didn't even know if it was a good song or not after I finished it," she has said. "I played it for my publisher and it was received with a yawn, and I think that threw me off. Once people started responding to it, I realized I might need a new publisher."
Inspired by a magazine article on war casualties, Tim McGraw and Brad and Brett Warren wrote "If You're Reading This" in the spring of 2007. The song's lyrics are in the form of a letter a soldier has written in case he dies in combat, with personal goodbyes to his mother, father and wife. McGraw performed the song for the first time at the ACM Awards in May 2007, and was joined onstage by military families who lost loved ones while in service to their country. Radio stations begin playing what was essentially a bootlegged version, which gained momentum with each passing week until the singer's label issued an official release.
In Steve Wariner's touching tale of loss, mourning and faith, the protagonist endures both the death of his grandmother and his young wife — who dies tragically after giving birth to their daughter. To cope with those losses, he's told that whenever it rains, it means there are "holes in the floor of heaven and her tears are pouring down. That's how you know she's watching, wishing she could be here now." In an extra twist, the song closes on their daughter's rainy wedding day. Thankfully, the lyrics didn't exactly mirror Wariner's real life. "I had just lost my grandmother not long before that," Wariner told CMT. "Billy [Kirsch, co-songwriter] and I were both drawing on the perspective of our grandparents for the first verse. And then just kind of used our creative liberty to paint the picture."
In Red Sovine's best song, "Phantom 309," an out-of-luck traveler encounters the supernatural when he hitches a ride from a mysterious trucker named Big Joe. In his saddest, "Teddy Bear," a different trucker has some CB radio talk with a lonely boy who is "crippled and can't walk." Eventually, he gives the boy a ride in his rig, the boy's mom calls to thank him and Sovine himself sniffles the song to a close: "I'll sign off now, before I start to cry/May God ride with ya', 10-4 goodbye." "My ol' friend Teddy Bear" would later reappear in the singer's "Little Joe" — about a faithful dog who helps the same narrator get around after a thunder-storm crash somehow leaves him blind.
Even though he broke through as a West Coast cowpunk, the Kentucky-born Yoakam remains a Southern boy through and through. With its keening fiddle and general morbidity, "I Sang Dixie" is as forlorn as a Civil War lament, recounting a vagrant's sad and lonely death on a "damned old L.A. street" before concluding, "No more pain, and now he's safe back home in Dixie." It's one of several homesick songs Yoakam wrote after inspirational visits back home, and it was in his repertoire for nearly a decade before he released it. Pete Anderson, Yoakam’s producer-guitarist collaborator, regarded it as a hole card. “I thought it was his best song… a Number One record,” Anderson said in Don McCleese’s 2012 Yoakam biography A Thousand Miles From Nowhere. He was right. Released as a single off 1988's dark Buenos Noches From a Lonely Room, "Dixie" became Yoakam’s second Number One hit.
"I Don't Call Him Daddy" tells the tale of a divorced couple and the young son caught in between them. In Dad's absence, Mama's new live-in boyfriend "takes care of things" — but despite this, the little boy refuses to call this new man, "Daddy," loyally assuring, "he can never be like you." Written by Reed Nielsen, "I Don't Call Him Daddy" was first recorded by Kenny Rogers, who released it as a single in 1987. The song never cracked the country Top 40 for Rogers, but Supernaw's version stayed at Number One for two weeks in December 1993. In a sad real-life twist, Supernaw has been cited for failure to pay child support.
When Ray Charles' career reached its late-Seventies nadir, the then 50-year-old singer found that Nashville, of all places, hadn't forgotten about him: Clint Eastwood duet "Beers to You" reached the country Top 50, a Loretta Lynn Opry gig was a rowdy hit and his fall 1980 Hee Haw appearance was so successful that Buck Owens joked,