The Greatest Oldies Music

Oldies Musics

Frank Ifield – I Remember You

About the Song

Frank Ifield was an English singer who was popular in the late 1950s and early 1960s. He was known for his distinctive yodelling voice and his countrypolitan style of music. Ifield’s biggest hit was “I Remember You”, which was released in 1962. The song reached number one on the charts in the United Kingdom, the United States, and Australia.

“I Remember You” is a ballad about a young man who is reminiscing about his lost love. The song’s lyrics are simple but effective, and the melody is catchy and memorable. Ifield’s yodelling adds a unique touch to the song, and his sincere vocals help to convey the song’s emotional message.

“I Remember You” has become a classic pop standard. It has been covered by many artists over the years, including Elvis Presley, Perry Como, and Frank Sinatra. The song remains a popular choice for weddings and other special occasions.

Here are some additional details about the song:

  • The song was written by Victor Schertzinger and Johnny Mercer.
  • The song was originally recorded by Dorothy Lamour in 1942.
  • Ifield’s version of the song was produced by Norrie Paramor.
  • The song was released on the Columbia Records label.
  • The song’s B-side was “I Listen to My Heart”.
  • The song was a commercial success, reaching number one on the charts in the United Kingdom, the United States, and Australia.
  • The song has been covered by many artists over the years, including Elvis Presley, Perry Como, and Frank Sinatra.

Here are some interesting facts about the song:

  • The song was inspired by Schertzinger’s own experience of heartbreak.
  • The song was originally written for the film The Fleet’s In (1942).
  • Ifield’s version of the song was recorded in a single take.
  • The song was banned by the BBC in 1962 because it was considered to be too sentimental.

Video 

Lyrics: I Remember You

I remember you-oohYou’re the one who made my dreams come trueA few kisses ago
I remember you-oohYou’re the one who said I love you, tooYes, I do, didn’tcha know?
I remember, too, a distant bell and stars that fellLike the rain out of the blue-ooh-ooh-ooh-hoo-hoo-hoo
When my life is throughAnd the angels ask me to recallThe thrill of it allThen I will tell them I remember you-ooh
I remember, too, a distant bell and stars that fellJust like the rain out of the blue-ooh-ooh-ooh-hoo-hoo-hoo
When my life is throughAnd the angels ask me to recallThe thrill of it allThen I will tell them I remember, tell them I rememberTell them I remember 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.