Introduction

In the realm of soulful ballads, few songs possess the timeless appeal and emotional resonance that Otis Redding’s ‘Cigarettes And Coffee’ does. This soulful masterpiece, released in 1966, continues to captivate audiences with its evocative lyrics and Redding’s unmistakably powerful voice. Join us on a journey to explore the depths of this classic, learning about the artist, the song’s backstory, and its enduring legacy in the world of music.Otis Redding, Author Information, Published Books, Biography, Photos, Videos, and More ☆

Did You Know?

Did you know that Otis Redding, often referred to as the “King of Soul,” was a trailblazing figure in the world of music? Born in 1941 in Dawson, Georgia, he rose to prominence during the 1960s and left an indelible mark on the soul and R&B genres. Tragically, Redding’s life was cut short in a plane crash in 1967, at the tender age of 26, leaving behind a catalog of unforgettable songs, ‘Cigarettes And Coffee’ being one of them.

The song ‘Cigarettes And Coffee’ is a poignant reflection of the soul singer’s extraordinary talent and deep emotional connection with his music. Its lyrics evoke a sense of longing and nostalgia, and when paired with Redding’s soul-stirring voice, they create a profound emotional impact on the listener. This track serves as a testament to Otis Redding’s ability to reach deep into the hearts of his audience.Otis Redding - This Day In Music

Video

Lyrics: Cigarettes And Coffee

It’s early in the morning
About a quarter ’til three
I’m sitting here talking with my baby
Over cigarettes and coffee, now
And to tell you that
Darling I’ve been so satisfied
Honey, since I met you
Baby, since I met you

All the places that I’ve been around
And all the good looking girls I’ve met
They just don’t seem to fit in
Knowing it’s particularly sad, yeah
But it seems so natural, darling
That you and I are here
Just talking over cigarettes and drinking coffee

And oh, my heart cries out
Love at last I’ve found you, oh now
And honey won’t you let me
Just build my whole life around you
And while how complete, how complete my whole life would be, yeah
If you would take things under consideration
And walk down this aisle with me
And I would love it, yeah

People, I say it’s so early in the morning
Ooh, it’s a quarter ’til three
We’re sitting here talking
Over cigarettes and drinking coffee, now, lord
And I’d like to show you, well
I’ve known nothing but good old joy
Since I met you, darling
Honey, since I’ve met you, baby, yeah

I would love to have another drink of coffee, now
And please, darling, help me smoke just one more cigarette, now
I don’t want no cream and sugar
‘Cause I’ve got you now, darling
But just let me enjoy, help me to enjoy
This good time that we’ll have, baby

It’s so early, so early in the morning
So early, so early in the morning
And I’ve got you
And you’ve got me
And we’ll have each other
And we don’t, we don’t want nothing but joy, y’all
Nothing but joy

You Missed

KENNY ROGERS SOLD MILLIONS BY PLAYING THE STOIC ROCK, BUT DOLLY PARTON COULD SHATTER THAT IMAGE WITH A SINGLE WHISPERED JOKE. During the 1985 Real Love Tour, the lights were hot and the air in the arena was thick with the weight of expectations. Kenny Rogers stood center stage, a man built on the steady, stoic delivery that defined his career. He had made “We’ve Got Tonight” a gold-plated staple with Sheena Easton, turning Bob Seger’s dusty ballad into a slick, radio-ready machine. But tonight was different because Dolly was leaning against his shoulder, her boots digging into the floorboards, looking at him with that mischievous glint that made every scripted line feel like a potential disaster. She leaned into the microphone, voice dripping with honey and sugar, and tossed in a jab about Sheena that wasn’t in the binder. The band hesitated for a fraction of a second, but Kenny didn’t miss a beat. He doubled over, the stoic country icon losing his composure entirely as the audience roared. For those few minutes, the gloss of the arena production fell away, leaving two legends just trying to keep from ruining the song with their own genuine, unvarnished affection. They stood there in the haze of the spotlight, not as stars executing a setlist, but as two friends anchored by the kind of laughter that only comes when you stop caring who is watching. The crowd was just noise in the background, a distant hum against the reality of a shared joke that no record executive could ever replicate or buy.

PATSY CLINE ENTERED THE NATIONAL STAGE LOOKING LIKE A COUNTRY QUEEN, BUT HER FINEST COSTUMES WERE BORN FROM THE DRUDGERY OF A VIRGINIA SEAMSTRESS SHOP. Before the charts cared, the fringe and rhinestones weren’t Hollywood glamour. They were a mother’s labor, hand-stitched by Hilda Hensley in a small house where the bills never quite stopped piling up. While Patsy sweated through shifts at a local poultry plant and stood on small-town stages in the Virginia heat, her mother worked the needle to create the illusion of success. It was a calculated masquerade designed to give the audience a star before she had even found a place to land. The real cost of stardom wasn’t just the late nights or the contract struggles that held her voice captive for years. It was the crushing weight of maintaining that polished, larger-than-life image while her life was anchored to the brutal practicalities of rent and groceries. The clothes served as a barricade, protecting her from the uncertainty of a career that felt like it might never bloom beyond the regional radio dial. When she finally hit the mainstream in 1957, the world saw the voice that would haunt a generation, but they didn’t see the thousands of stitches holding it all together. The transition from a girl in a handmade skirt to an icon happened in the quiet moments between housework and exhaustion. Behind the glare of the stage lights, the fabric remained, worn thin by the desperate, hopeful labor of a woman preparing her daughter for a world she was not yet ready to inhabit.

CARL PERKINS REACHED THE PEAK OF AMERICAN MUSIC WITH HIS BROTHERS BEFORE A SINGLE CRASH IN DELAWARE TORE THE HEART OUT OF HIS SOUND. The Perkins brothers were bound by more than blood; they were a singular unit forged in the tenant fields of Tennessee and polished in the sweat-soaked corners of local honky-tonks. When they stepped into Sun Records, the trio operated with an intuitive, seamless rhythm that only kin could master. Jay’s guitar work acted as the anchor for Carl’s explosive, syncopated lead, creating a sound that didn’t just borrow from country and blues but dismantled the walls between them entirely. Everything pivoted on a dark stretch of road near Dover in 1956. The car wreck didn’t just crush metal and bone; it shattered the band’s momentum at the exact moment their records began climbing the national charts. While Carl survived the wreckage to chase a long, difficult career, the physical toll on Jay was absolute. The man who had stood beside him in every smoky dive bar across the South was gone by 1958, leaving a void that no amount of studio success or acclaim from later rock icons could ever truly fill. Decades later, the stage still held the familiar sight of the Perkins name, as Carl brought his own sons into the fold to anchor his rhythm section. The touring life went on, the miles accumulated, and the crowds continued to cheer, yet the silence in the gaps between songs remained a permanent weight, a quiet reminder of the day the family band was forever cut in two.