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Oldies Musics

Perry Como – If

Introduction

“If” by Perry Como is a timeless ballad that resonates with its heartfelt lyrics and soothing melody. Released in 1951, the song showcases Perry Como’s velvety voice and impeccable phrasing, captivating listeners with its tender sentiment and romantic allure. With its evocative lyrics and gentle orchestration, “If” continues to touch the hearts of audiences, reaffirming Perry Como’s status as one of the most beloved crooners of his time. Join us as we explore the enchanting world of Perry Como’s “If.”

Did You Know?

  • “If” was written by Tolchard Evans and Robert Hargreaves, with lyrics by Stanley Damerell. It was first recorded by British crooner Al Bowlly in 1934 before Perry Como’s rendition popularized the song in the United States.
  • Perry Como’s recording of “If” reached No. 1 on the Billboard charts, solidifying his reputation as a chart-topping artist.
  • The song’s poignant lyrics and Como’s emotive delivery struck a chord with listeners, earning it widespread acclaim and enduring popularity.
  • “If” remains a staple in Perry Como’s repertoire and continues to be cherished by fans of classic vocal music for its timeless beauty and romantic charm.

Video

Lyrics: If

If they made me a king
I’d be but a slave to you
If I had everything
I’d still be a slave to you
If I ruled the night
Stars and moon so bright
Still I’d turn for light to youIf the world to me bowed
Yet, humbly I’d flee to you
If my friends were a crowd
I’d turn in my need to you
If I ruled the earth
What would life be worth
If I hadn’t the right to you

[Instrumental Interlude]

If I ruled the night
Stars and moon so bright
Still I’d turn for light to you
If the world to me bowed
Yet, humbly I’d flee to you
If my friends were a crowd
I’d turn in my need to you
If I ruled the earth
What would life be worth
If I hadn’t the right to you

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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.

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Waylon Jennings spent his life filling concert halls and radio airwaves, but his final days were quiet, spent in the seclusion of his Arizona home. The contrast was painful: a man known by so many could still find himself far removed from the crowds. When he died on February 13, 2002, the world lost an icon. His family faced a silence no hit record could fill. He had asked for a quiet burial, taking back some of the privacy he had shared with the public since the sixties. Five weeks later, friends and family gathered at the Ryman Auditorium, where his absence became painfully clear. The memorial brought them together, though nothing could bring back the man they remembered. Travis Tritt, Shooter, and others put their grief into the music, playing the instruments that had once accompanied him. There was something haunting about hearing his songs in a room full of people celebrating him, knowing he was no longer there to listen. Near the end of the service, a recording of Waylon’s voice filled the auditorium. He sounded so clear and present that, for a moment, it was hard to believe he was gone. The audience roared back, caught between the pleasure of hearing him again and the pain of knowing they never would in person. Their response carried both recognition and grief. For those few moments, the voice everyone knew met the loss his family lived with, and the people at the Ryman were left to reckon with the quiet, personal cost of his extraordinary life.

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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.