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Canned Heat’s Musical Odyssey: The Making of ‘Going Up The Country’

Introduction

Welcome to the world of musical time travel! Today, we dive into the enchanting sounds of the late 1960s and explore the iconic song, “Going Up The Country” by the legendary American blues rock band, Canned Heat. This timeless track, released in 1968, not only captured the essence of an era but also left an indelible mark on the world of music. Join us on this journey as we uncover the history, the magic, and the legacy behind “Going Up The Country”.Canned Heat - Wikipedia

Did You Know?

  • Woodstock Connection: “Going Up The Country” became synonymous with the Woodstock Music & Art Fair held in 1969. Canned Heat’s electrifying performance of this song on the Woodstock stage remains etched in the memories of those who attended.
  • Boogie and Blues Fusion: Canned Heat, formed in 1965, was known for blending elements of blues, rock, and boogie into their music. “Going Up The Country” was a perfect example of their distinctive sound, featuring Alan Wilson’s harmonica and Bob Hite’s distinctive vocals.
  • Soundtrack Stardom: The song has been featured in numerous films, TV shows, and commercials over the years, solidifying its status as a timeless classic. Its infectious rhythm and feel-good vibes make it a go-to choice for filmmakers looking to capture the spirit of the 1960s.
  • Canned Heat’s Enduring Legacy: Canned Heat, with their unique style and memorable tracks like “Going Up The Country,” continues to influence musicians across genres. Their impact on the world of music is immeasurable.

Heroes of Woodstock; A Sit-down with Canned Heat

Now that you’re armed with some fascinating tidbits about “Going Up The Country” and Canned Heat, let’s take a trip down memory lane and enjoy the music that defined an era. Check out the video below to experience the magic of Canned Heat’s timeless hit! 🎤🎸🎶

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Lyrics: Going Up The Country 

I’m going up the country, babe, don’t you wanna go?
I’m going up the country, babe, don’t you wanna go?
I’m going to some place where I’ve never been before.

I’m going, I’m going where the water tastes like wine.
Well, I’m going where the water tastes like wine.
We can jump in the water, stay drunk all the time.

I’m gonna leave this city, got to get away.
I’m gonna leave this city, got to get away.
All this fussing and fighting, man, you know I sure can’t stay.

Now baby, pack your leaving trunk, you know we’ve got to leave today,
Just exactly where we’re going I cannot say, but
We might even leave the USA,
‘Cause there’s a brand new game that I want to play.

No use of you running, or screaming and crying,
‘Cause you’ve got a home as long as I’ve got mine.

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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.”

Country

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.

Country

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.