OldiesButGoodies

Country

Merle Haggard – Running Kind

The Running Kind: Listening to Merle Haggard (American Music Series): Cantwell, David: 9781477322369: Amazon.com: Books

Introduction:

In January 1978, a poignant ballad titled “Running Kind” emerged from the unmistakable baritone of country music legend Merle Haggard. Backed by his trusted band The Strangers, the song became the second and final single released from Haggard’s introspective album, A Working Man Can’t Get Nowhere Today.

Haggard, a songwriter known for his unflinching portrayal of the working class experience, used “Running Kind” to paint a vivid picture of a man perpetually on the move. This wasn’t the carefree journey of a wanderer, but the desperate struggle of someone perpetually chasing elusive opportunities. The song resonated deeply with blue-collar audiences who identified with the frustrations of a system seemingly stacked against them.

“Running Kind” wasn’t a chart-topping smash hit, but its impact transcended commercial success. It became a cornerstone of Haggard’s live performances, a powerful anthem for those toiling away in unappreciated jobs. The song’s enduring legacy is further cemented by its inclusion on compilation albums and its influence on other country artists. Notably, Radney Foster covered “Running Kind” for the 1994 tribute album Mama’s Hungry Eyes: A Tribute to Merle Haggard, with his version finding a respectable position on the country music charts. Even the legendary Johnny Cash couldn’t resist the song’s raw emotion, collaborating with Tom Petty for a rendition included in Cash’s posthumous box set Unearthed.

Produced by Ken Nelson and Charles “Fuzzy” Owen, “Running Kind” reflects the signature sound of Haggard’s Bakersfield era. The song is a masterclass in stripped-down country music. Haggard’s raspy vocals take center stage, accompanied by the twang of steel guitar, the rhythmic strumming of acoustic guitars, and a simple yet effective drumbeat. This minimalist approach allows the raw emotion of the lyrics to shine through, creating a powerful connection with the listener.

“Running Kind” stands as a testament to Merle Haggard’s singular songwriting ability. It’s more than just a song; it’s a window into the soul of a working man, a lament for the forgotten, and a reminder of the struggles faced by those who keep the wheels of society turning.

Video:

https://youtu.be/fH3CXGEbqRA?si=-oCTEzQn3hb4Ifbl

Lyrics:

I was born the runnin’ kindWith leavin’ always on my mindHome was never home to me at any timeEvery front door found me hopin’I would find the back door openThere just had to be an exitFor the runnin’ kind
Within me there’s a prisonSurrounding me aloneAs real as any dungeon with its walls of stoneI know runnin’s not the answerYeah, but runnin’s been my natureAnd a part of meThat keeps me movin’ on
I was born the runnin’ kindWith leavin’ always on my mindHome was never home to me at any timeEvery front door found me hopin’I would find the back door openThere just had to be an exitFor the runnin’ kind
I was born the runnin’ kindWith leavin’ always on my mindHome was never home to me at any timeEvery front door found me hopin’I would find the back door openThere just had to be an exitFor the runnin’ kind

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“FOUR DECADES UNDER THE LIGHTS — AND STILL, ONE MERLE HAGGARD SONG COULD SILENCE A ROOM.” Merle Haggard never defined his legacy by hardware on a shelf. Awards came — of course they did — but compared to the magnitude of his cultural imprint, they felt almost incidental. His real measure wasn’t engraved in metal. It was etched into people. Country music has never belonged solely to pristine arenas or carefully choreographed award shows. It thrives where life is unpolished. In dimly lit taverns where working hands cradle longneck bottles after a brutal week. In smoky dance halls glowing under flickering neon, where strangers sway together as if they’ve shared a lifetime. At scratched-up bar tops where someone always scrolls the jukebox and chooses the one song that hurts just enough to feel true. That’s where Merle still lives. Step into a weathered roadside joint off Route 66 and wait. Before long, the opening lines of “Mama Tried” or the lonesome cry of “Silver Wings” will float from a tired speaker in the corner. Conversations soften. A few faces brighten with recognition. Others fall into that heavy, reflective stillness — the kind that comes when a lyric touches something private and long carried. Because Merle Haggard was never about monuments or headlines. He was about truth. His voice carried grit, regret, pride, defiance — the full, complicated spectrum of the American working-class soul. He didn’t polish the edges. He didn’t disguise the scars. He sang them exactly as they were. And in doing so, he gave millions permission to confront their own. Trophies tarnish. Plaques gather dust. But honesty — the raw, unvarnished kind Merle delivered — refuses to fade. It lingers in melody. It echoes in memory. It survives wherever someone presses play and lets a song say what they couldn’t. Forty years on stage built the legend. One voice made it eternal.

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1978 CLOSED THE CHAPTER — BUT NEVER ERASED THE STORY. Years after the divorce papers were signed, Merle Haggard stepped quietly into a modest room to see Bonnie Owens one final time. There were no stage lights, no steel guitars humming in the background, no applause waiting on the other side of a curtain. Just silence — the kind that carries more truth than any lyric ever could. He didn’t come as a legend. He didn’t come as a former husband. He came as a man remembering where it all began. Merle spoke little. Maybe he didn’t trust his voice. Maybe there was nothing left to explain. Mostly, he listened — to the softness in Bonnie’s breathing, to the quiet strength that had always defined her. Time had reshaped her face, but not the place she held in his story. Not the woman who believed in him before the crowds did. Not the partner who stood beside him when the road was uncertain and the dream still fragile. For a brief, suspended moment, the years seemed to loosen their grip. They were no longer bound by marriage, nor divided by its ending. They were simply two souls who had once built something brave together — two artists who shared faith in each other long before fame complicated everything. When Merle finally walked out, the air felt heavier. He sat alone in his car, engine untouched, hands resting motionless against the wheel. The silence followed him there too. Not bitter. Not regretful. Just full. Some love stories don’t survive the years in the way we expect them to. They don’t always stay intact. But some bonds are etched deeper than vows. They change form. They outgrow titles. And even when the chapter ends, the history refuses to fade.

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“FOUR DECADES UNDER THE LIGHTS — AND STILL, ONE MERLE HAGGARD SONG COULD SILENCE A ROOM.” Merle Haggard never defined his legacy by hardware on a shelf. Awards came — of course they did — but compared to the magnitude of his cultural imprint, they felt almost incidental. His real measure wasn’t engraved in metal. It was etched into people. Country music has never belonged solely to pristine arenas or carefully choreographed award shows. It thrives where life is unpolished. In dimly lit taverns where working hands cradle longneck bottles after a brutal week. In smoky dance halls glowing under flickering neon, where strangers sway together as if they’ve shared a lifetime. At scratched-up bar tops where someone always scrolls the jukebox and chooses the one song that hurts just enough to feel true. That’s where Merle still lives. Step into a weathered roadside joint off Route 66 and wait. Before long, the opening lines of “Mama Tried” or the lonesome cry of “Silver Wings” will float from a tired speaker in the corner. Conversations soften. A few faces brighten with recognition. Others fall into that heavy, reflective stillness — the kind that comes when a lyric touches something private and long carried. Because Merle Haggard was never about monuments or headlines. He was about truth. His voice carried grit, regret, pride, defiance — the full, complicated spectrum of the American working-class soul. He didn’t polish the edges. He didn’t disguise the scars. He sang them exactly as they were. And in doing so, he gave millions permission to confront their own. Trophies tarnish. Plaques gather dust. But honesty — the raw, unvarnished kind Merle delivered — refuses to fade. It lingers in melody. It echoes in memory. It survives wherever someone presses play and lets a song say what they couldn’t. Forty years on stage built the legend. One voice made it eternal.

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