OldiesButGoodies

Oldies Music

Edwin Starr – War

That's a Cover?: “War” (Edwin Starr / The Temptations) - Cover Me

Introduction:

Released in 1970, Edwin Starr’s “War” is not merely a song; it’s a potent anthem against the senseless violence that plagues humanity. More than just a protest song, it transcends the specific socio-political climate of its time to become a timeless reflection on the human condition. Starr’s raw, impassioned vocals, coupled with the driving funk-infused beat, deliver a message of profound urgency and despair.

The song opens with a stark, almost biblical declaration: “War! Huh, yeah! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!” This refrain, repeated throughout, becomes a mantra, a rallying cry against the absurdity of armed conflict. Starr’s voice, filled with both anger and anguish, embodies the collective grief and frustration of those who have witnessed the devastating consequences of war firsthand.

The lyrics delve into the multifaceted horrors of war, painting vivid pictures of its destructive impact: “Good soldiers fighting fighting, losing fighting, dying, I see blood flowin’, I hear babies cryin’.” The song poignantly highlights the human cost of war, emphasizing the suffering of both combatants and civilians. It exposes the hypocrisy of those who profit from the bloodshed, those who “make money from this pain they inflict upon us.”

“War” transcends the confines of political discourse, exploring the universal themes of human suffering, injustice, and the yearning for peace. It speaks to the inherent absurdity of violence, questioning the very foundations of a society that condones such destructive behavior. The song’s enduring power lies in its ability to resonate with listeners across generations and cultures, reminding us of the devastating consequences of conflict and the urgent need for peace and understanding.

Starr’s delivery is masterful, imbuing the song with a raw, visceral energy that is both captivating and unsettling. His voice, powerful yet vulnerable, conveys the emotional weight of the lyrics, making the listener feel the pain and despair that permeates the song. The backing track, driven by a pulsating bass line and a driving beat, provides the perfect sonic backdrop for Starr’s impassioned vocals, creating a powerful and unforgettable listening experience.

“War” is not just a song; it’s a testament to the power of music to inspire social change. It serves as a poignant reminder of the devastating consequences of conflict and the urgent need for peace and understanding.

Video:

https://youtu.be/01-2pNCZiNk?si=EQ1uz0ZEHnfZmQzi

Related Post

Last night at the Nashville Center carried a different kind of stillness. Not because the music was absent, but because the audience seemed to lean in closer, listening with unusual care. Spencer and Ashley Gibb stepped onto the stage without spectacle—no grand introduction, no dramatic entrance. Just muted lighting and an unhurried calm. As the opening lines of “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart” gently surfaced, the atmosphere shifted. Barry Gibb did not sing. Instead, he remained seated, composed and quiet, hands resting together, gaze steady and reflective. It was a father witnessing his own history echo back to him through two voices he knows by heart. There was no theatrical display, no attempt to heighten the emotion artificially. Only precise phrasing, controlled breath, and the weight of shared memory. At times, the silence between lines spoke louder than the lyrics themselves. It was the kind of performance that doesn’t rely on applause to validate its impact. Some songs grow older alongside us. Others simply wait—patiently—for the right voices to complete what was left unsaid.

GOOD NEWS: “THE ASCENT” World Tour Officially Announced — Hank Marvin, Cliff Richard & The Shadows Join Forces for a Once-in-a-Generation Music Event! Music history is about to take a bold new turn. Hank Marvin, Cliff Richard, and The Shadows have officially announced THE ASCENT — a massive global tour set to light up stages worldwide in 2026.

In 2026, Barry Gibb stands as the final surviving icon of the Bee Gees—a living testament to one of the most influential groups in modern music history. This is a reflective journey through his extraordinary life, his profound loves, his lasting cultural impact, and the timeless songs that continue to resonate across generations.

You Missed

Country

On April 6, 2016, Merle Haggard quietly turned 79. There were no balloons, no spotlight cutting through the dark, no roaring audience echoing lyrics that had defined generations. Instead, there was stillness. A modest room. A body worn by time. A man who had already poured his truth into every verse he would ever sing. Phone calls came in from old friends. Somewhere nearby, his songs drifted softly through the air — familiar melodies that once filled arenas now settling gently into the background. Those closest to him sensed something unspoken. This birthday did not carry the warmth of celebration. It carried reflection. He wasn’t talking about upcoming tours. He wasn’t sketching out new plans. He simply listened — as if absorbing the quiet after a lifetime of noise. There was no grand finale, no dramatic curtain call. Just a pause. The next morning, he was gone. Country music didn’t say goodbye beneath blazing stage lights or during an emotional final encore. It lost him in the hush that followed his 79th birthday — after the candles had burned down, after the last well-wishers had hung up the phone, after the road that had called his name for decades finally fell silent. And that is what makes it linger. The final milestone he marked wasn’t a farewell performance or a triumphant send-off. It was a birthday — subdued, unfinished — that quietly closed the book on one of the most enduring voices in American country. No spectacle. No dramatic exit. Just the stillness that follows a life fully sung. Sometimes the heaviest silence is not the one after applause. It’s the one that comes when the music simply stops.

Country

FOUR MONTHS AFTER JUNE’S DEPARTURE — JOHNNY CASH SEEMED READY TO CROSS THE LINE. When June Carter Cash passed away, a heavy stillness settled over the home in Hendersonville — a silence so deep that even friends could sense it without a word being spoken. Johnny carried on in the only way he knew how. He continued to record. He remained seated in his familiar chair. He kept dressing in black. Yet those closest to him understood that something fundamental had shifted. The steady flame that once anchored him appeared to flicker in the distance. He did not unravel. He did not rage. Instead, he moved with a quiet deliberation — like a man straining to hear a call rising above the world’s noise. There was no dramatic collapse, no public display of sorrow. Only a softer presence, as if part of him had already begun the journey. A few days before his passing, he confided to a visitor, “The pain is gone… but the silence is loud.” It wasn’t the voice of despair. It was the voice of acceptance — calm, resolute, almost peaceful. On September 12, 2003, the world grieved the loss of the Man in Black. But for those who truly knew him, it felt less like a farewell and more like the closing of a distance that had grown too wide to bear. Because sometimes love does not disappear when the last note fades. It transforms. It becomes the quiet light that guides you home.

Country

A devoted father and his young daughter stood side by side beneath the stage lights, Indy’s fragile voice blending with Rory Feek’s as they sang the very hymn her late mother, Joey, once held so close to her heart. “That’s Important To Me” echoed once more—no longer just a song, but a bridge between worlds. As their harmonies rose, it felt like a quiet reunion beyond this life, a sacred moment where time seemed to pause and heaven itself leaned in to listen. Tears streamed across faces far beyond the theater walls. Indy’s voice—gentle, unguarded, and achingly sincere—carried a purity that wrapped every lyric in tenderness, as though Joey’s spirit lingered in each trembling note.

Oldies Music

Last night at the Nashville Center carried a different kind of stillness. Not because the music was absent, but because the audience seemed to lean in closer, listening with unusual care. Spencer and Ashley Gibb stepped onto the stage without spectacle—no grand introduction, no dramatic entrance. Just muted lighting and an unhurried calm. As the opening lines of “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart” gently surfaced, the atmosphere shifted. Barry Gibb did not sing. Instead, he remained seated, composed and quiet, hands resting together, gaze steady and reflective. It was a father witnessing his own history echo back to him through two voices he knows by heart. There was no theatrical display, no attempt to heighten the emotion artificially. Only precise phrasing, controlled breath, and the weight of shared memory. At times, the silence between lines spoke louder than the lyrics themselves. It was the kind of performance that doesn’t rely on applause to validate its impact. Some songs grow older alongside us. Others simply wait—patiently—for the right voices to complete what was left unsaid.