Jimmy Ruffin - Classic Motown

About the Song

In the realm of soul music, few artists have captured the essence of heartbreak and longing quite like Jimmy Ruffin. With his emotive vocals and poignant delivery, Ruffin’s music has resonated with listeners for decades, transcending generations and cultural boundaries. His 1966 single, What Becomes of the Brokenhearted, stands as a timeless masterpiece, a soul ballad that lays bare the raw emotions of love lost.

What Becomes of the Brokenhearted opens with a melancholic piano melody, setting the stage for Ruffin’s heartfelt vocals. The lyrics paint a vivid picture of a love that has crumbled, leaving the protagonist grappling with the aftermath. Ruffin’s voice cracks with emotion as he sings of the lingering pain, the unanswered questions, and the overwhelming emptiness that follows a broken heart.

The song’s chorus is a poignant plea, a desperate cry for solace amidst the ruins of a shattered relationship. “What becomes of the brokenhearted? Do they just sit around and cry?” Ruffin asks, his voice echoing the despair of countless individuals who have experienced the anguish of love’s demise.

What Becomes of the Brokenhearted is more than just a song about heartbreak; it’s an exploration of the human condition, a testament to the resilience of the spirit in the face of adversity. Ruffin’s vocals convey a profound understanding of the pain of loss, yet they also offer a glimmer of hope, suggesting that even in the darkest of times, love can find a way to mend the broken pieces.

The song’s enduring popularity is a testament to its power to connect with listeners on an emotional level. What Becomes of the Brokenhearted has been covered by numerous artists, each bringing their own interpretation to the song’s timeless message. Ruffin’s original version, however, remains the definitive, capturing the essence of heartbreak with an authenticity that few can match.

What Becomes of the Brokenhearted is a soul ballad that speaks to the universal human experience of love and loss. With its poignant lyrics, emotive vocals, and timeless melody, the song continues to touch the hearts of listeners worldwide, offering solace and understanding in the face of heartbreak.

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Lyrics: What Becomes of the Brokenhearted

As I walk this land with broken dreamsI have visions of many thingsBut happiness is just an illusionFilled with sadness and confusionWhat becomes of the broken-heartedWho had love that’s now departed?I know I’ve got to findSome kind of peace of mindMaybe
The roots of love grow all aroundBut for me they come a-tumblin’ downEvery day heartaches grow a little strongerI can’t stand this pain much longerI walk in shadowsm searching for lightCold and alone, no comfort in sightHoping and praying for someone to careAlways moving and goin’ nowhereWhat becomes of the broken-heartedWho had love that’s now departed?I know I’ve got to findSome kind of peace of mindHelp me
I’m searching, though I don’t succeedBut someone look, there’s a growing needOh, he is lost, there’s no place for beginningAll that’s left is an unhappy endingNow, becomes of the broken-heartedWho had love that’s now departed?I know I’ve got to findSome kind of peace of mind
I’ll be searching everywhereJust to find someone to careI’ll be looking everyday, I know I’m gonna find a wayNothing’s gonna stop me nowI’ll find a way somehowAnd I’ll be searching everywhereI know I gotta find a wayI’ll be looking

You Missed

The ink was barely dry on Whitey Shafer’s latest divorce papers when he sat down to map out the fictional geography of his own heartbreak. Sanger D. Whitey Shafer sat in a Nashville room contemplating his mounting legal bills and a life of complicated romantic exits. He found a bitter sort of comedy in the mess, mapping out a fictional geographic gauntlet across Texas where every town held a woman he owed something to. He did not write this map alone; he penned the lyrics alongside his wife at the time, Lyndia. It was a domestic collaboration built on the foundation of their own fraying reality, documenting a man terrified to cross the state line because of the ghosts waiting in Houston, Lubbock, and Texarkana. When George Strait took the song into the studio, he did not lean into the desperation. He treated the lyrics with a cool, detached resignation that turned a personal wreck into a standard. The fiddle kicked in, clean and bright, masking the reality that the man writing the words was essentially charting his own ruin. There was a profound, quiet irony in how perfectly the arrangement clicked into place while Shafer’s own life was busy unraveling in the background. Years later, the song remains a fixture in every bar from Abilene to Amarillo, a perfect piece of Western swing engineering. History eventually caught up to the lyrics, as Lyndia herself became just another name on the long list of Shafer’s former wives. The upbeat tempo masks the alimony, and the steel guitar rings out over the wreckage of a life turned into a chorus.

“I AM NOT ASKING FOR A HERO, JUST SOMEONE TO REMAIN UNTIL THE LIGHTS GO DOWN,” KENNY ROGERS MUTTERED TO THE ENGINEER BEFORE LAYING DOWN THE VOCAL TRACK. He had sung thousands of lines about high-stakes risks and lonesome train rides, but this specific take demanded a vulnerability that made the studio air feel thin. It was the sound of a man who had sold his soul to the industry finally stopping to ask the room if anyone could hear him. Kenny Rogers spent forty years as a professional fixture, a man who projected the image of the invincible gambler and the steady hand in a chaotic world. His voice was a reliable comfort to millions, a deep, warm anchor for listeners who viewed him as someone who always possessed the right answer or the perfect piece of stoic advice. But when the house lights dimmed and the applause faded, that projection often left a heavy, suffocating silence in the dressing room that no amount of platinum records could fill. In 1997, while recording for the album Across My Heart, Rogers stepped away from the usual bravado and the polished, radio-ready persona that defined his later years. He entered the booth to record “See Me Through,” a track that bypassed the typical commercial polish to reveal a man tired of being the permanent pillar of strength. It was not a desperate reach for sympathy, but a quiet, honest confession that the person everyone relies upon is often the one struggling the most to find a reason to remain standing. The song remains a masterclass in professional restraint. There is no soaring crescendo, only the weary, grounded weight of a man asking for someone to simply sit with him through the static. He stopped trying to be the hero for three minutes and instead acknowledged the fragile reality that persists after the spotlight finally goes cold.

“JUST LET ME HAVE THE LAST WORD ON THIS ONE, KENNY,” DOLLY WHISPERED WHILE ADJUSTING HER HEADPHONES. He laughed, that deep rumble hitting the monitors, and let her steer the final chorus into a place neither had planned. The resulting take turned a tired pop standard into an intimate negotiation between two heavyweights who knew exactly how much space to leave for each other. There was an uncanny ease in the way Kenny and Dolly occupied a microphone together, a kind of shorthand that only comes from decades of shared road grease and lonely hotel rooms. When they decided to track that old rhythm and blues staple, Love Is Strange, they weren’t looking for a radio hit. They were looking for the space between the notes, that quiet, dusty air where two lifelong friends could just talk. Kenny brought the heavy, grounded weight of a man who had seen too much, while Dolly possessed that sharp, silver-tongued wit that could cut through any pretense in the room. They didn’t just harmonize; they engaged in a playful, dangerous dance of familiarity. Most duets are forced marriages of convenience, calculated in executive boardrooms to shift units. This was something else entirely. It sounded like an unscripted conversation, a series of knowing glances caught on tape where the melody mattered less than the subtext. You can hear them smiling through the vocal booths, leaning into each other with the kind of comfort that only exists when you stop trying to impress the world and start paying attention to the person standing right next to you. In the final mix, the gloss of the production fades into the background, leaving only the sound of two distinct lives briefly overlapping. It serves as a reminder that the most authentic music often happens when the cameras stop rolling and the tape is left running, capturing the simple, fragile beauty of a human connection that requires no explanation at all.

DOLLY PARTON LIVED HER ENTIRE LIFE IN THE PUBLIC EYE, YET IT TOOK HER FINAL EXIT FOR THE WORLD TO FINALLY SEE THE WOMAN BEHIND THE RHINESTONES. Sally Field stepped onto the stage at the 78th Emmy Awards, not as a Hollywood peer, but as a grieving friend who had known the person that the stage lights usually obscured. Her voice cracked, not with the practiced polish of a televised tribute, but with the raw weight of a woman who remembered the quiet, humbler days on the set of Steel Magnolias. She spoke of the humanity that lived underneath the wigs and the industry machinery, grounding the glittery spectacle in a very human sorrow that transcended the screen. Reba McEntire followed, wearing Dolly’s own butterfly ring—a tactile, heavy piece of history that seemed to vibrate with the ghost of its original owner. As she began “Appalachian Memories,” a grainy clip of Dolly introduced the song, creating a ghostly duet across decades. It was a stark, jarring reminder that while the voice in the recording was immortal, the breathing, weeping woman who once walked the Smoky Mountain ridges was gone. The room went quiet as Reba navigated the song’s mountain roots. There were no cameras for the moments that mattered most to Dolly, only the cold, bright light of the stage and the weight of a jewelry piece that felt far heavier than gold. When the music stopped, the silence that hung in the theater felt less like a ceremony and more like the heavy, still air of a mountain hollow at dusk.