The Greatest Oldies Music

Oldies Musics

The Manhattans – Wish That You Were Mine

Jersey City loses two musical icons, original members of 'The Manhattans' - nj.com

About the Song

1. The Manhattans’ Soulful Legacy:

Originating from New Jersey, The Manhattans carved a niche for themselves in the R&B and soul music scene. “Wish That You Were Mine” stands as a testament to their ability to evoke deep emotions through their music.

2. The Birth of a Classic:

Released in 1983 as part of their album “Forever by Your Side,” “Wish That You Were Mine” quickly became a classic in the soul and R&B genres. Its emotional depth and soul-stirring composition resonated with audiences around the world.

3. Charting Success:

The Manhattans’ heartfelt rendition climbed the charts, reaching the hearts of many. “Wish That You Were Mine” not only touched the emotional chords of listeners but also secured its place on the Billboard R&B Singles chart, showcasing the widespread appeal of the song.

4. A Love Story in Melody:

The lyrical prowess of “Wish That You Were Mine” narrates a poignant love story, exploring themes of yearning and desire. The harmonious blend of vocals and musical arrangement creates an atmosphere of pure, unfiltered emotion.

5. Enduring Impact:

Decades after its release, “Wish That You Were Mine” remains an anthem for lovers and a classic in The Manhattans’ repertoire. Its enduring impact is a testament to the timeless nature of soulful ballads that transcend generations.The Manhattans | Spotify

Video

Lyrics: Wish That You Were Mine

Waiter, could we have the same table we had yesterday?

Here we are again
Sipping our drinks just like friends
I wonder if they see the sparkle in your eyes
I wonder if they know that I’m not your guy, mm-hm

I wonder if they see
That you don’t belong to me

Wish that you could be mine
Mine
All mine

It’ll be hard for him to understand
I am his friend and he is your man
I wonder what my lady would say
If she knew I met you everyday, mm-hm

Sooner or later
Don’t you know, they’re gonna find out and they’ll hate us

Oh, I wish that you could be mine
Mine
All mine

It’s 2 a.m., the place is gonna close
The bartender looks as though he knows
Everybody’s, everybody’s made it home
Here we sit again all alone

Mm-hm, I’ve got to get up at 8
Don’t you know, I’ve got to explain why I’m so late

Mm, I wish I didn’t have to go home
Whoa-oh-oh-oh-ooh, whoa-oh-oh-oh, go home
I wish that you were mine, baby
Oh, I’d give you the world
And every little thing your little heart desires

My, my, my, yeah

It’ll be hard
So hard for him to understand
I am his friend and don’t you know, he is your man?
I wonder what, I wonder what my lady would say
If she knew I met you everyday
Oh-oh-oh

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Tucked away in a private drawer, far from the polished sets of her television show, lay a bundle of 341 letters. These were not press clippings or scripts; they were brittle, handwritten testimonies from servicemen stationed in remote barracks, deep in war-torn tunnels, and across desolate battlefields. During the long years of the Second World War, as Hollywood presented a glossy, curated image of American life, Donna Reed spent her nights reading these letters and, more remarkably, personally answering them. This was the quiet, invisible work that defined her, long before the public labeled her the quintessential television mother. Behind the camera during her production years, Reed was a different person entirely. She was rarely seen holding a script for a scene; she was more likely to be found hunched over lighting diagrams or studying the intricacies of cinematography. She possessed an uncredited producer’s mind, constantly analyzing how the frame could better reflect the reality of the family she was trying to depict. The studio environment was frequently cold and high-pressured, but she moved through it with a meticulous attention to detail that frustrated those who wanted to treat her as merely another pretty face in the cast. These tactile remnants—the stacks of ink-stained paper and the forgotten notes on camera angles—tell the story of a woman who never truly fit the box Hollywood built for her. While the world remembers the steady, comforting image of a television home, she lived a life carved out of hard labor and deep empathy. She carried the weight of those soldiers’ stories and the technical burdens of the studio floor until her final days, forever balancing the fragility of her public image against the demanding, gritty reality of her actual life.

In the winter of 1956, Elvis Presley did not quietly arrive on the American scene; he tore through it like a shockwave. Breaking sharply away from the safe, coat-and-tie crooners who dominated black-and-white television screens, he introduced a raw, electric friction—dressed in bold, unconventional styles and moving with a physical freedom that sent tremors through polite society and left the older generation deeply unsettled. Network cameras scrambled, nervously cutting away or framing him strictly from the chest up to conceal the provocative rhythm of his performance, while mainstream critics dismissed the frenzy as a fleeting, vulgar fad. Yet every attempt to muzzle or contain him only added fuel to the fire. The harder the guardians of culture tried to push him back, the louder young America demanded to let him in.

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Oldies Musics

Tucked away in a private drawer, far from the polished sets of her television show, lay a bundle of 341 letters. These were not press clippings or scripts; they were brittle, handwritten testimonies from servicemen stationed in remote barracks, deep in war-torn tunnels, and across desolate battlefields. During the long years of the Second World War, as Hollywood presented a glossy, curated image of American life, Donna Reed spent her nights reading these letters and, more remarkably, personally answering them. This was the quiet, invisible work that defined her, long before the public labeled her the quintessential television mother. Behind the camera during her production years, Reed was a different person entirely. She was rarely seen holding a script for a scene; she was more likely to be found hunched over lighting diagrams or studying the intricacies of cinematography. She possessed an uncredited producer’s mind, constantly analyzing how the frame could better reflect the reality of the family she was trying to depict. The studio environment was frequently cold and high-pressured, but she moved through it with a meticulous attention to detail that frustrated those who wanted to treat her as merely another pretty face in the cast. These tactile remnants—the stacks of ink-stained paper and the forgotten notes on camera angles—tell the story of a woman who never truly fit the box Hollywood built for her. While the world remembers the steady, comforting image of a television home, she lived a life carved out of hard labor and deep empathy. She carried the weight of those soldiers’ stories and the technical burdens of the studio floor until her final days, forever balancing the fragility of her public image against the demanding, gritty reality of her actual life.