My Guy': Mary Wells Makes Motown Gold As She Turns 21 | uDiscover

About the Song

Mary Wells, a name synonymous with the golden age of Motown, gifted the world with countless hits, but perhaps none as enduring as “My Guy”. Released in 1964, this upbeat and infectious tune quickly climbed the charts, becoming an anthem for young love and adoration.

At the heart of “My Guy” is a simple yet powerful message: the overwhelming joy and contentment found in a loving relationship. Wells, with her sweet and soulful voice, paints a vivid picture of a woman deeply in love. Every lyric is a declaration of affection, a celebration of her partner’s virtues. The song is a testament to the power of love to lift one’s spirits and make life feel complete.

Musically, “My Guy” is a prime example of the Motown sound. The arrangement is tight and polished, with a driving rhythm and a catchy melody that instantly gets stuck in your head. The horns add a touch of sophistication, while the background vocals provide a lush and harmonious backdrop. The song’s production is impeccable, showcasing the talents of the Motown Records team.

One of the most striking aspects of “My Guy” is its authenticity. Wells’ performance is filled with genuine emotion, making it easy for listeners to connect with her on a personal level. Her delivery is both confident and vulnerable, capturing the complexities of romantic love.

The song’s popularity can be attributed to several factors. First, its universal theme of love resonates with people of all ages and backgrounds. Second, the infectious melody and catchy lyrics make it easy to remember and sing along to. And third, the song’s association with the Motown sound, which was incredibly popular in the 1960s, helped to propel it to the top of the charts.

“My Guy” remains a timeless classic, a testament to the enduring power of music. It is a song that can lift your spirits, make you smile, and remind you of the simple joys of life. Whether you’re a longtime fan of Motown or simply appreciate great music, this song is definitely worth a listen.Mary Wells Sings My Guy - Wikipedia

Video 

Lyrics: My Guy 

Nothing you can say can tear me away
From my guy
Nothing you could do, ’cause I’m stuck like glue
To my guyI’m sticking to my guy like a stamp to a letter
Like birds of a feather we stick together
I’m tellin’ you from the start
I can’t be torn apart from my guyNothing you could do could make me be untrue
To my guy (my guy)
Nothing you could buy could make me tell a lie
To my guy (my guy)I gave my guy my word of honor
To be faithful and I’m gonna
You’d best be believing
I won’t be deceiving my guy

As a matter of opinion, I think he’s tops
My opinion is he’s the cream of the crop
As a matter of taste to be exact
He’s my ideal as a matter of fact

No muscle bound man could take my hand
From my guy (my guy)
No handsome face could ever take the place
Of my guy (my guy)

He may not be a movie star
But when it comes to being happy, we are
There’s not a man today who can take me away
From my guy

No muscle bound man could take my hand
From my guy (my guy)
No handsome face could ever take the place
Of my guy (my guy)

He may not be a movie star
But when it comes to being happy, we are
There’s not a man today who can take me away
From my guy (what’cha say?)

There’s not a man today who could take me away
From my guy (Tell me more!)
There’s not a man today who could take me away
From my guy

You Missed

WHEN THE ELITE CENSORS TOLD AN OIL-RIG ROUGHNECK TO SIT DOWN AND BEND THE KNEE, TOBY KEITH TOLD THEM WHERE TO STICK IT—TURNING WHITE-HOT POST-9/11 RAGE INTO AN UNBREAKABLE AMERICAN ANTHEM. Toby Keith wasn’t manufactured in a sterile Nashville boardroom; he was forged in the grease of Oklahoma oil rigs and the grueling grind of semi-pro football fields. He understood the backbone of this country because he lived it, working with his hands long before he ever held a platinum record. When the towers fell on September 11, that working-class grit instantly transformed into pure, righteous fury. While coastal gatekeepers and media pundits were still tiptoeing around the tragedy, Toby took just twenty minutes to pour his anger onto paper. He didn’t write a sanitized, corporate-approved lullaby; he wrote a raw battle cry dedicated to his father—a veteran who had lost an eye serving his nation—and every young soldier packing their bags for foreign deserts. Predictably, the industry’s self-appointed taste-makers threw a fit. A famous morning news anchor infamously blacklisted him from a national Fourth of July television special, demanding a public apology for the song’s unapologetic defiance. Toby didn’t hedge, didn’t soften the edges, and sure as hell didn’t apologize. He looked them dead in the eye, delivered a flat “No,” and took his music straight to the people who mattered most: the troops standing in the dirt of the world’s most dangerous war zones. While safer stars hid behind studio walls, Toby flew directly into the line of fire, playing for men and women who understood the true cost of freedom. He left this earth far too soon, but he carved out a permanent, bulletproof truth: never apologize for who you are, and never back down from loving the country that raised you.

HE SHAPED THE SOUNDTRACK OF MODERN AMERICAN MUSIC AS A MASTER SESSION GOD FOR SINATRA AND ELVIS, YET HIS FINAL JOURNEY ENDED QUIETLY WHERE IT ALL BEGAN—BURIED WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE OF THE ARKANSAS DIRT ROAD THAT RAISED HIM. Long before he stood under blinding stadium lights as a solo superstar with six Grammys and nine No. 1 anthems, Glen Campbell was the invisible musical genius powering the legendary Wrecking Crew. His peerless guitar work anchored the defining records of Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, and the Beach Boys, establishing him as one of the most versatile virtuosos in music history. Yet, beneath the Hollywood glamour and chart-topping success, Campbell never lost touch with his humble beginnings in Billstown, Arkansas—a speck on the map so small most cartographers ignore it. When Alzheimer’s disease began clouding his final years, his family and collaborators ensured his artistry was preserved in the most poignant way possible, meticulously building his swan song, Adios, out of vocals recorded years prior while he still had the strength. Tragically, by the time the album was released in 2017, the ravages of the disease meant Campbell couldn’t remember recording it or even comprehend his final Grammy nomination. But the music spoke with an eloquence that bypassed the silence, offering a heartbreaking farewell from an icon slipping away. When he passed away in August 2017, there were no grand public spectacles or televised motorcades; his family laid him to rest in a private ceremony at the Campbell family cemetery just a day later, letting the news reach the world only after he was safely back in the earth. Tributes poured in from titans like Dolly Parton, Brian Wilson, and Brad Paisley, celebrating a man who brought unmatched grace and class to the stage. He spent a lifetime playing on thousands of other artists’ masterpieces, but his final act was returning home, proving that a true legend’s compass always points back to where the heart first learned to beat.

EIGHTEEN NUMBER-ONE HITS, A FEARLESS NASCAR RACING STREAK, AND A VOICE AS TIMELESS AS THE ARROW-STRAIGHT HIGHWAYS OF THE WEST—YET THE MAN WHO SANG ABOUT DYING ALONE GOT ONLY EIGHT SHORT WEEKS TO ENJOY HIS CROWN BEFORE THE FINAL CURTAIN FELL.Marty Robbins was never just a singer; he was a living relic of the American frontier who happened to possess one of the most pristine tenors in country music history. Across a blistering twenty-nine-year career, he wrote over 500 songs, notched forty-three Top 10 records, and split his adrenaline between recording immortal masterpieces like “El Paso” and burning rubber on professional NASCAR tracks. When Nashville finally inducted him into the Country Music Hall of Fame in late 1982, it was long-overdue validation for a workhorse who treated every stage like it was his first. True to his restless spirit, he didn’t use those final eight months to slow down or coast on his laurels; he kept right on working, writing, and performing until his body finally cried uncle.When 1,500 mourners overflowed Woodlawn Funeral Home in Nashville—packing out the main chapel, spilling into three smaller rooms, and lining the hallways—they were joined by country royalty. Johnny and June Carter Cash, Eddy Arnold, Roy Acuff, Charley Pride, and Little Jimmy Dickens—the very man who had discovered him nearly three decades prior—sat shoulder to shoulder to bid farewell to a titan. Reverend W.C. Lankford offered the ultimate eulogy, noting that while doctors had desperately tried to mend Marty’s failing physical heart, Marty had spent a lifetime healing thousands of others through the sheer emotional weight of his songs. Though they laid him to rest quietly in the middle Tennessee hills away from the cameras and crowds, the cowboy who chased the West Texas horizon left behind a trail of music that time can never touch.

SHE BUILT AN ENTIRE CAREER ON AIRING HER HUSBAND’S FAULTS AND SLAMMING THE DOOR ON HIS DRINKING, YET THERE WAS ONE MELODY SHE GUARDED LIKE A SECRET UNTIL DEATH FORCED HER TO FINALLY WHISPER IT. Loretta Lynn didn’t hide the bruising reality of her marriage behind closed doors; she put it right on the radio, turning the turbulence of her life with Oliver “Doo” Lynn into chart-topping gold. Anthems like “Don’t Come Home A-Drinkin’ (With Lovin’ on Your Mind)” laid bare his flaws and her own fierce refusal to be broken, and remarkably, Doo wore those records like a badge of honor, proud of the woman who could punch through steel. For nearly five decades—navigating four kids before her twentieth birthday, his notorious affairs, and the cyclic heartbreaks of leaving and returning—songwriting was her armor. It was how she processed a love that was equal parts sanctuary and battlefield, proving that real survival in country music required looking the ugliness of life dead in the eye. But as Doo lay dying in 1996, battling the crushing weight of diabetes and heart failure, that armor finally cracked. In those fragile, final days by his hospital bed, he asked her for a song she had intentionally avoided performing around him for years—not out of bitterness, but because the emotion ran too deep to ever survive a full verse. Sitting in the quiet room, she tried. She couldn’t finish the words, her voice fracturing under the immense weight of a half-century shared history. Yet, even as her voice failed, the message landed. It captured the raw, complicated truth of a woman who once admitted she sometimes hated him, but never, not for a single second, stopped loving him.