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The Everly Brothers – “This Is The Last Song I’m Ever Going To Sing” (1968)

Phil Everly Dies; Transformed Rock 'N' Roll With Brother Don : The Two-Way : NPR

About the Song

“This Is the Last Song I’m Ever Going to Sing” by The Everly Brothers is a curious and intriguing track from their 1968 album Roots. The title alone is a dramatic statement, leading listeners to wonder if the duo was contemplating retirement.

While the song itself is a solid country ballad, showcasing the Everlys’ signature harmonies and emotional depth, it’s the context of its release that adds an extra layer of interest. It came at a time when the duo’s popularity was waning, and the music industry was undergoing significant changes.

The song’s title, therefore, can be interpreted as a reflection of the challenges they were facing or perhaps a more poetic expression of their artistic journey. Regardless, it remains a fascinating piece of their discography, offering a glimpse into the minds of two iconic musicians at a pivotal point in their careers.

Don Everly: One half of legendary rock'n'roll duo | The Independent

Video

Lyrics: This Is The Last Song I’m Ever Going To Sing

This is the last song I’m ever going to sing
The last time I’ll play my old guitar
I wasted my life and I didn’t gain a thing
Oh I’m never gonna be a starI came to Nashville a long time ago
People said that I could be a star
But all that I remember is loneliness and hunger
Oh sure didn’t get so farThis is the last song I’m ever going to sing
The last time I’ll play my old guitar
I wasted my life and I didn’t gain a thing
Oh I’m never gonna be a starThe big time operators made a fool out of me
It sure don’t feel so good to fail
I’ve slept on every park bench in every park in Nashville
Oh I slept in a Nashville jail

This is the last song I’m ever going to sing
The last time I’ll play my old guitar
I wasted my life and I didn’t gain a thing
Oh I’m never gonna be a star
Oh I’m never gonna be a star
Oh never gonna be a star
Oh I’m never gonna be a star

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Elvis Presley’s greatest musical gift was not putting words onto paper. It was hearing something inside a song that other people sometimes could not hear yet. Give him someone else’s melody and lyrics, and he could reshape the emotion through his phrasing, timing and voice until the recording felt intensely personal.

The musicians at RCA Studio B were ready to make records. They were not ready for the way Elvis Presley entered the room. During his celebrated Nashville sessions in 1970, bassist Norbert Putnam remembered Elvis appearing in dramatic fashion—wearing a flowing black cape and carrying an ornate cane. Putnam later recalled the impression that it was almost as though “a prince had walked into the room.”

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.

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Elvis Presley’s greatest musical gift was not putting words onto paper. It was hearing something inside a song that other people sometimes could not hear yet. Give him someone else’s melody and lyrics, and he could reshape the emotion through his phrasing, timing and voice until the recording felt intensely personal.

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The musicians at RCA Studio B were ready to make records. They were not ready for the way Elvis Presley entered the room. During his celebrated Nashville sessions in 1970, bassist Norbert Putnam remembered Elvis appearing in dramatic fashion—wearing a flowing black cape and carrying an ornate cane. Putnam later recalled the impression that it was almost as though “a prince had walked into the room.”

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Lisa Marie Presley grew up in a house visited by some of the most famous people in the world, yet the person who mattered most to her was the man everyone else called the King. To millions, Elvis Presley was an untouchable superstar. To Lisa, he was the father who loved to spoil her, make her laugh and turn ordinary moments at Graceland into childhood adventures.

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BOB DYLAN AND JOHNNY CASH SHATTERED THE WALLS OF NASHVILLE WITHOUT FIRING A SINGLE SHOT. Columbia Studio A sat thick with the smell of stale coffee and cigarette smoke on a February morning in 1969. While the rock world was chasing ghosts in psychedelic haze, Bob Dylan stepped into the epicenter of American country music with a voice that sounded like it had been dragged across gravel. He wasn’t there to challenge the gatekeepers at the Opry; he was there to find the heartbeat of a sound he had loved from afar. Johnny Cash walked through the heavy studio doors, guitar in hand, and for two days, the rigid borders of genre simply dissolved into the air. They didn’t record some grand manifesto to change the industry. Instead, they sat on stools and tore through old folk standards and each other’s deep cuts, letting the microphones capture the loose, unvarnished truth of a collaboration that felt more like a porch gathering than a major label session. Carl Perkins added his own licks to the mix, blending the percussive snap of rock and roll with the lonesome ache of a country ballad. It was a deliberate, quiet rebellion that treated the traditions of both worlds as neighbors rather than strangers. When the tape stopped rolling, they walked away having proved that the lines drawn by radio programmers were mostly make-believe. The Ryman Auditorium stage eventually welcomed a new kind of guest, and the air in Nashville felt lighter, forever changed by two men who knew that music didn’t need permission to belong everywhere at once.