Conway Twitty – It’s Only Make Believe

Introduction:

A Love Song Born on the Road: The Story of “It’s Only Make Believe”

In the late 1950s, a young, aspiring rock and roll singer named Harold Lloyd Jenkins, who would later become known as Conway Twitty, was touring Canada with his band. During a break at the Flamingo Lounge in Hamilton, Ontario, Jenkins and his drummer, Jack Nance, began crafting a heartfelt ballad about the yearning for unrequited love. This impromptu collaboration would soon become one of the most enduring love songs in music history.

The song, initially titled “I’ll Try,” was recorded in Nashville’s legendary Bradley Studios on May 7, 1958. However, it was the B-side, “It’s Only Make Believe,” that captured the hearts of listeners. Released in July 1958, the single climbed the charts, eventually reaching the coveted number one spot on the Billboard Hot 100 in November of that year. It remained at the top for two weeks, solidifying Twitty’s place in music history.

“It’s Only Make Believe” resonated with audiences due to its raw emotion and relatable lyrics. The song’s protagonist expresses his deep love for someone who may not reciprocate his feelings, leading to a poignant sense of longing and uncertainty. Twitty’s soulful vocals, combined with the song’s simple yet powerful melody, created a timeless masterpiece that continues to be cherished by music lovers around the world.

Video:

https://youtu.be/0XbM7G-zJDY?si=9hf4O4W2UiSEnT3-

It's Only Make Believe (https://youtu.be/0XbM7G-zJDY?si=9hf4O4W2UiSEnT3-)

67 YEARS IN HIS FATHER’S SHADOW — UNTIL THE DAY HE WALKED OUT OF IT. For nearly seven decades, Marty lived under a name that echoed louder than his own voice. The world didn’t see a man — it saw a legacy. “Merle’s son.” The heir. The continuation. The pressure was relentless: sing like him, write like him, become him. Behind the curtain, though, Marty was fighting a private war. “I used to believe that if I didn’t rise to my dad’s level… I was failing everyone,” he admitted. “I felt like a ghost trailing behind a giant.” The cruel irony? He never lacked talent. His voice was richer, more weathered, carved from lived experience rather than imitation. He toured relentlessly. He wrote songs with quiet gravity. He carried stages on his own terms. But comparison is a thief — and for years, it stole his confidence, muting a voice that deserved to be heard. Living next to a legend like Merle Haggard isn’t inspiration — it’s suffocation if you’re not careful. Every note Marty sang was measured against history. Every performance dissected through the lens of legacy. The applause never felt fully his. And then, at 67, something broke — or maybe something finally healed. No more chasing a ghost. No more trying to resurrect a myth. No more shrinking inside a famous last name. Today, Marty stands not as an extension of Merle Haggard, but as a man who survived the weight of it. “I’m done trying to be my father,” he says. “I don’t want to be the next Merle Haggard. I want to be Marty — and sing what’s true.” After 67 years, he didn’t inherit the crown. He took back his name.

AT 23, MERLE HAGGARD STEPPED OUT OF A PRISON CELL—AND THE WORLD NEVER FORGOT HIS NAME. On November 3, 1960, a young Merle Haggard walked out of San Quentin on parole, carrying the weight of more than two years behind bars—and a reputation that refused to stay locked up. Freedom didn’t wipe the slate clean; it only made the judgment louder. Every stage he stood on, every lyric he sang, the past followed like a shadow no spotlight could erase. Then came Branded Man. It wasn’t an apology. It was a confrontation. Seven years after the iron gates slammed shut behind him, that raw, semi-autobiographical song exploded to No. 1, transforming a criminal record into a country music anthem. The album soared to the top of the charts as well, as if the man society tried to mark forever had seized the pen and rewritten the story in his own hand. What truly happened between the prison yard and that first No. 1 hit? The answer isn’t shouted—it’s hidden in the silences, in the verses, and in the life he fought to reclaim.

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They didn’t groove. They didn’t grin. On December 5, 1975, the Bee Gees stepped onto live television — and unraveled in perfect harmony. No flashing lights. No disco fever. Just three voices trembling on the edge of collapse. It wasn’t a performance. It was a public fracture disguised as music. That night, the spotlight didn’t make them shine — it exposed the cracks. Witness the moment the silence between the notes said more than the song itself… right before the world would watch them rise from the ashes and detonate into legend.