B. J. Thomas – Hooked on a Feeling

Hooked on a Feeling - song and lyrics by B.J. Thomas | Spotify

About the Song

Before Blue Swede’s iconic cover took the world by storm in 1973, “Hooked on a Feeling” belonged to B.J. Thomas. Released in 1968 on his album “On My Way,” Thomas’s original version laid the groundwork for this enduring pop anthem.

The song’s charm lies in its infectious melody and relatable lyrics. Written by Mark James, the song captures the youthful innocence of infatuation. Thomas’s smooth vocals deliver lines like “I’m hooked on a feeling, I’m high on believing” with a touch of boyish wonder. The lyrics paint a picture of a young man completely consumed by his feelings for someone special.

What truly elevates the song is the unique instrumentation. Featuring the distinctive sound of the electric sitar, played by guitarist Reggie Young, “Hooked on a Feeling” injects a touch of psychedelic flair into its pop core. The result is a sound that’s both familiar and fresh, perfectly capturing the carefree spirit of the late 1960s.

B.J. Thomas’s “Hooked on a Feeling” may be overshadowed by its more famous cover, but it holds its own as a significant contribution to pop music history. The song’s infectious energy, relatable lyrics, and unique instrumentation continue to resonate with listeners today. It’s a reminder of the power of a catchy melody and the universal experience of young love.

B.J. Thomas, 'Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head' Singer, Dead at 78 – Rolling Stone

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Lyrics: Hooked on a Feeling

I can’t stop this feelin’
Deep inside of me
Girl, you just don’t realize
What you do to meWhen you hold me in your arms so tight
You let me know everything’s alrightI
I’m hooked on a feelin’
High on believin’
That you’re in love with meLips are sweet as candy
The taste stays on my mind
Girl, you keep me thirsty
For another cup of wineI got it bad for you, girl
But I don’t need a cure
I’ll just stay addicted
And hope I can endureAll the good love when we’re all alone
Keep it up girl, yeah you turn me onI
I’m hooked on a feelin’
High on believin’
That you’re in love with me

All the good love when we’re all alone
Keep it up girl, yeah you turn me on

I
I’m hooked on a feelin’
I’m high on believin’
That you’re in love with me

A BROKEN CONSOLE GAVE MARTY ROBBINS’ “DON’T WORRY” A SOUND NOBODY COULD RECREATE. SO AN ENGINEER BUILT A DEVICE TO COPY THE MISTAKE — AND FUZZ GUITAR WAS BORN. Grady Martin sat in a Nashville studio with a six-string Danelectro bass, expecting to lay down a standard session. Instead, a transformer inside the recording console gave up the ghost. It sputtered and spat, shredding the signal into a jagged, compressed roar that defied the clean, polished aesthetic of the era. Rather than pulling the plug, Robbins and engineer Glenn Snoddy kept the take. They knew the electricity felt raw, dangerous, and entirely alive. When the record hit the airwaves in 1961, musicians swarmed the booth asking how they had coaxed such a sound from the iron. The truth was far more mundane: it was a mechanical failure that vanished as soon as the broken desk was repaired. Snoddy spent months chasing that phantom resonance, tearing apart circuits and twisting wires in a desperate attempt to capture the lightning he had accidentally bottled during those few minutes of tracking. Eventually, he teamed with Revis Hobbs to manufacture the defect. They built a transistor circuit to replicate the clipping signal, birthing the Maestro FZ-1 Fuzz-Tone. What started as a piece of dying equipment in a country studio became the sonic signature of rock and roll. The distortion lived on, divorced from the original machine, lingering in the static of every feedback-heavy solo that followed long after the console was discarded.

BUCK OWENS WAS SO TERRIFIED OF MANHATTAN THAT HE ALMOST TURNED DOWN THE CHANCE TO PLAY THE MOST FAMOUS STAGE IN THE WORLD. By the spring of 1966, Buck Owens was the undisputed king of the airwaves. His records didn’t just top the charts; they defined a new, muscular strain of country music born in the dance halls of Bakersfield. While Nashville was busy adding strings and polishing edges to court pop audiences, Buck stayed true to the biting twang of his Telecaster and the relentless drive of his band, the Buckaroos. He was a force of nature in California, but the thought of carrying that raw sound into the hallowed halls of New York City rattled him to his core. He actually instructed his manager to decline the invitation to Carnegie Hall. He didn’t believe the Manhattan crowd would understand the Bakersfield sound, fearing his music would die in that cavernous, high-brow room. When he finally walked onto that stage on March 25, he didn’t bring a watered-down version of his act. He brought Don Rich on fiddle, Tom Brumley on steel, and a rhythmic precision that had been tempered by thousands of hours of playing roadhouses. They tore through the set with a jagged, high-octane intensity that didn’t require a single edit for the live album. There was no pretense, no apology, and no Nashville smoothing. By the time they finished, the urban elite were left with nothing to do but listen to the honest, unvarnished truth of a working man’s music vibrating off the walls.

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.

A KENTUCKY BASEMENT DEMO RECORDED ON A HANDHELD DEVICE BROKE NASHVILLE’S POLISHED MACHINE AND CHANGED COUNTRY RADIO FOREVER. In 1999, the Nashville establishment was drowning in pop-leaning, heavily produced crossover records that kept their distance from the rural grit of Kentucky. When label executives finally arrived at Troy Gentry’s mother’s house, they weren’t looking for a revolution; they were just checking the inventory. Sitting on folding chairs, they held a cheap handheld recorder, capturing the raw, bluegrass-leaning bones of “Hillbilly Shoes.” It was supposed to be a polite audition, but Eddie Montgomery and Troy Gentry were playing with an intensity that didn’t know how to keep quiet. They didn’t want the polish. They wanted the friction of George Jones rubbed against the serrated edge of Lynyrd Skynyrd. When they hit the studio, they injected electric teeth into those bluegrass skeletons, layering thick rock riffs and sawing fiddles over a rhythm section that hit like a physical force. The song hit Billboard charts two weeks before it was even scheduled for release, effectively forcing the label’s hand and moving the entire release date of their debut album forward. By the time the 2000 CMA Awards rolled around, the industry had no choice but to recognize the shift. The duo snatched the Vocal Duo of the Year title, ending an eight-year dynasty. That trophy was a heavy, cold reminder that authentic, boot-mudded country had finally reclaimed its rightful territory.