Alan Jackson Shares Tribute After News of Jimmy Buffett's Death

About the Song

“It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere” is a song performed by American country music singers Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett. It was released in June 2003 as the lead single from Jackson’s compilation album Greatest Hits Volume II. The song was written by Jim “Moose” Brown and Don Rollins.

The song is a lighthearted anthem about relaxation and enjoying life. The lyrics describe two friends who are tired of their workdays and are looking forward to the end of the day when they can finally relax and have a drink. The song has a catchy melody and a laid-back vibe, making it a popular choice for parties and get-togethers.

“It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere” was a huge success, reaching number one on the Billboard Hot Country Songs chart for eight weeks. It also peaked at number 17 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart and was the biggest pop hit for Jackson since the 1970s. The song won the Country Music Association Award for Vocal Event of the Year in 2003.

The song has been covered by many artists, including Kenny Chesney, Rascal Flatts, and Little Big Town. It has also been featured in several movies and television shows.

Here are some additional facts about “It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere”:

  • The song was recorded in Nashville, Tennessee, in February 2003.
  • The music video for the song was directed by David Hogan.
  • The song was included on Jackson’s Greatest Hits Volume II and Buffett’s Live at Fenway Park albums.
  • The song has been certified platinum by the RIAA for sales of over 1 million copies in the United States.

Jimmy Buffett's lasting influence on country music

Video 

Lyrics: It’s Five O’ Clock Somewhere 

The sun is hot and that old clock is movin’ slow
An’ so am I
Work day passes like molasses in wintertime
But it’s July
I’m gettin’ paid by the hour, an’ older by the minute
My boss just pushed me over the limit
I’d like to call him somethin’
I think I’ll just call it a dayPour me somethin’ tall an’ strong
Make it a “Hurricane” before I go insane
It’s only half-past twelve but I don’t care
It’s five o’clock somewhereOh, this lunch break is gonna take all afternoon
An’ half the night
Tomorrow mornin’, I know there’ll be hell to pay
Hey, but that’s alright
I ain’t had a day off now in over a year
Our Jamaican vacation’s gonna start right here
If the phone’s for me
You can tell ’em I just sailed awayAnd pour me somethin’ tall an’ strong
Make it a “Hurricane” before I go insane
It’s only half-past twelve but I don’t care
It’s five o’clock somewhereI could pay off my tab, pour myself in a cab
An’ be back to work before two
At a moment like this, I can’t help but wonder
What would Jimmy Buffett do?
Funny you should ask Alan, I’d say:
“Pour me somethin’ tall an’ strong
Make it a “Hurricane” before I go insane
It’s only half-past twelve but I don’t care”
Pour me somethin’ tall an’ strong
Make it a “Hurricane” before I go insane
It’s only half-past twelve but I don’t care
He don’t care
And I don’t care
It’s five o’clock somewhere

What time zone am I on? What country am I in?
It doesn’t matter, it’s five o’clock somewhere
It’s always on five in Margaritaville, come to think of it
Yeah, I heard that
You been, there haven’t you?
Yes sir
I seen your boat there
I’ve been to Margaritaville a few times
Alright, that’s good
Stumbled all the way back
Okay, just wanna make sure you can keep it between the navigational beacons
Ha ha ha ha, between the buoys, I tell you
Alright. Well, it’s five o’clock. Let’s go somewhere
I’m ready, crank it up
Let’s get out of here
I’m gone

 

You Missed

The argument in the studio lasted for days, with a producer demanding a funeral on record and a singer who was already living his own slow fade insisting the song was a commercial suicide. By 1980, the man they called No-Show Jones was more myth than musician. His life off-stage was a wreckage of cocaine and broken contracts, and his voice, though still legendary, seemed to be running out of places to hide. When producer Billy Sherrill brought him “He Stopped Loving Her Today,” Jones fought it. He hated the pacing, argued over the melody, and kept trying to turn the ballad into a slow-moving mimicry of a Kristofferson tune. He didn’t want to sing about a man who only finds peace in the grave, mostly because the darkness in the song felt too much like his own. Sherrill refused to back down. He kept the writers, Bobby Braddock and Curly Putman, in a loop of rewrites, demanding they push the funeral imagery further, dragging the listener through every ounce of the protagonist’s refusal to let go. In the studio, the atmosphere was thick with friction. Jones wasn’t just performing a character; he was wrestling with a mirror. It was a slow, agonizing process of bargaining that finally broke when Jones delivered a vocal that felt like a confession. The final take caught the exact moment where pain stops being a performance. The strings swelled, the steel guitar moaned in the background, and the reality of the record landed with a heavy, final quiet. It was not a polished hit; it was a scar captured on tape.