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Oldies Musics

‘Yesterday Once More’ – The Carpenters

Introduction

“The Carpenters – Yesterday Once More” is a musical gem that transcends time, instantly whisking you away to an era of cherished memories. This iconic song, performed by the legendary sibling duo Karen and Richard Carpenter, has held a special place in the hearts of music enthusiasts since its release in 1973. Let’s delve into this timeless melody, its captivating story, and the remarkable artist behind it.A magical night at Hollywood Bowl honoring The Carpenters, Donna Summer and Jean-Yves Thibaudet

Did You Know?

  • Karen Carpenter’s mesmerizing voice, often described as one of the purest in music history, is the centerpiece of “Yesterday Once More” Her vocal prowess and emotional depth left an indelible mark on the music industry.
  • Released as a single from The Carpenters’ album “Now & Then,” “Yesterday Once More” became an instant classic, peaking at number two on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.
  • The song’s nostalgic lyrics, penned by John Bettis and Richard Carpenter, beautifully capture the essence of longing for the good old days, making it relatable to audiences across generations.
  • Karen Carpenter’s untimely passing in 1983 was a profound loss to the music world, but her legacy lives on through songs like “Yesterday Once More,” which continue to inspire and uplift.Carpenters (the Band) Songs, Music, and History

Video

Lyrics: Yesterday Once More

When I was young
I’d listen to the radio
Waitin’ for my favorite songs
When they played I’d sing along
It made me smile

Those were such happy times
And not so long ago
How I wondered where they’d gone
But they’re back again
Just like a long lost friend
All the songs I loved so well

Every Sha-la-la-la
Every Wo-o-wo-o
Still shines
Every shing-a-ling-a-ling
That they’re startin’ to sing’s
So fine

When they get to the part
Where he’s breakin’ her heart
It can really make me cry
Just like before
It’s yesterday once more

Lookin’ back on how it was
In years gone by
And the good times that I had
Makes today seem rather sad
So much has changed

It was songs of love that
I would sing to then
And I’d memorize each word
Those old melodies
Still sound so good to me
As they melt the years away

Every Sha-la-la-la
Every Wo-o-wo-o
Still shines
Every shing-a-ling-a-ling
That they’re startin’ to sing’s
So fine

All my best memories
Come back clearly to me
Some can even make me cry
Just like before
It’s yesterday once more

Every Sha-la-la-la
Every Wo-o-wo-o
Still shines
Every shing-a-ling-a-ling
That they’re startin’ to sing’s
So fine

Every Sha-la-la-la
Every Wo-o-wo-o
Still shines
Every shing-a-ling-a-ling
That they’re startin’ to sing’s
So fine

Related Post

Elvis Presley’s greatest musical gift was not putting words onto paper. It was hearing something inside a song that other people sometimes could not hear yet. Give him someone else’s melody and lyrics, and he could reshape the emotion through his phrasing, timing and voice until the recording felt intensely personal.

The musicians at RCA Studio B were ready to make records. They were not ready for the way Elvis Presley entered the room. During his celebrated Nashville sessions in 1970, bassist Norbert Putnam remembered Elvis appearing in dramatic fashion—wearing a flowing black cape and carrying an ornate cane. Putnam later recalled the impression that it was almost as though “a prince had walked into the room.”

STONEWALL JACKSON ASKED TOM T. HALL TO WRITE A PRISON SONG, BUT HALL COULD NOT DO IT BECAUSE HE HAD NEVER ACTUALLY BEEN TO PRISON. Tom T. Hall spent his early career turning out the kind of polished, commercial hits that Nashville publishers lived for. He could write what people expected, but he always felt like a fraud. When Stonewall Jackson approached him requesting a prison song—hoping to capture that rugged, authentic aura Johnny Cash was building—Hall hit a wall. He stared at his notepad, realized he had no genuine experience with a cell, and flatly refused to fake it. He was a songwriter, not an actor, and his pride kept him from writing about a world he didn’t know. His wife, Dixie, cut through the tension with a simple reminder: he had indeed spent a week in a county jail in Kentucky after a traffic violation. That memory was not cinematic or heroic. It was just mundane, quiet, and uncomfortable. It involved bad food, the sound of iron bars, and the slow, agonizing crawl of days where the jailer’s wife suddenly started looking like the most beautiful woman on earth. He stopped writing songs that invented generic situations and started reporting the people and places he actually encountered. The result was his first number one hit, written like a man telling a story across a kitchen table. Stonewall Jackson never got his song, but Hall finally found his own voice in the silence of that jail cell.

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Oldies Musics

Elvis Presley’s greatest musical gift was not putting words onto paper. It was hearing something inside a song that other people sometimes could not hear yet. Give him someone else’s melody and lyrics, and he could reshape the emotion through his phrasing, timing and voice until the recording felt intensely personal.

Oldies Musics

The musicians at RCA Studio B were ready to make records. They were not ready for the way Elvis Presley entered the room. During his celebrated Nashville sessions in 1970, bassist Norbert Putnam remembered Elvis appearing in dramatic fashion—wearing a flowing black cape and carrying an ornate cane. Putnam later recalled the impression that it was almost as though “a prince had walked into the room.”

Country

Lisa Marie Presley grew up in a house visited by some of the most famous people in the world, yet the person who mattered most to her was the man everyone else called the King. To millions, Elvis Presley was an untouchable superstar. To Lisa, he was the father who loved to spoil her, make her laugh and turn ordinary moments at Graceland into childhood adventures.

Country

BOB DYLAN AND JOHNNY CASH SHATTERED THE WALLS OF NASHVILLE WITHOUT FIRING A SINGLE SHOT. Columbia Studio A sat thick with the smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke on a February morning in 1969. While the rock world was chasing ghosts in psychedelic haze, Bob Dylan stepped into the epicenter of American country music with a voice that sounded like it had been dragged across gravel. He wasn’t there to challenge the gatekeepers at the Opry; he was there to find the heartbeat of a sound he had loved from afar. Johnny Cash walked through the heavy studio doors, guitar in hand, and for two days, the rigid borders of genre simply dissolved into the air. They didn’t record some grand manifesto to change the industry. Instead, they sat on stools and tore through old folk standards and each other’s deep cuts, letting the microphones capture the loose, unvarnished truth of a collaboration that felt more like a porch gathering than a major label session. Carl Perkins added his own licks to the mix, blending the percussive snap of rock and roll with the lonesome ache of a country ballad. It was a deliberate, quiet rebellion that treated the traditions of both worlds as neighbors rather than strangers. When the tape stopped rolling, they walked away having proved that the lines drawn by radio programmers were mostly make-believe. The Ryman Auditorium stage eventually welcomed a new kind of guest, and the air in Nashville felt lighter, forever changed by two men who knew that music didn’t need permission to belong everywhere at once.