Bobby McFerrin Discography | Discogs

About the Song

Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” is more than just a song; it’s an infectious melody that has been uplifting spirits for decades. Released in 1988, this unique track captured the hearts of millions worldwide and remains a timeless classic. What sets “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” apart is its simplicity and its ability to evoke a sense of joy and optimism.

One of the most striking features of this song is its a cappella style. Bobby McFerrin, a virtuoso vocalist, creates a rich and full sound using only his voice. His vocal percussion and harmonies are nothing short of extraordinary, and they give the song a distinctive and memorable quality. The absence of any instruments forces the listener to focus solely on the power of the human voice, making the lyrics all the more impactful.

The lyrics themselves are incredibly simple yet profound. The repeated refrain, “Don’t worry, be happy”, is a universal message that resonates with people of all ages and backgrounds. It’s a gentle reminder to find joy in the simple things and to let go of stress and anxiety. The song’s upbeat tempo and positive lyrics create a sense of euphoria, making it difficult not to tap your foot or hum along.

“Don’t Worry, Be Happy” was a groundbreaking success, becoming the first a cappella song to top the Billboard Hot 100 chart. It won a Grammy Award for Best Pop Vocal Performance, and it has been featured in countless films, television shows, and commercials. The song’s enduring popularity is a testament to its timeless appeal.

Beyond its commercial success, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” has had a significant cultural impact. It has become an anthem for positivity and optimism, inspiring people to look on the bright side of life. The song’s message of happiness and contentment is particularly relevant in today’s fast-paced and often stressful world.

Whether you’re a longtime fan of Bobby McFerrin or you’re just discovering his music for the first time, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” is a song that is sure to bring a smile to your face. Its catchy melody, uplifting lyrics, and innovative a cappella style make it a truly special piece of music. So, the next time you’re feeling down, put on this classic tune and let the music lift your spirits.

Bobby McFerrin sings Turkish songs on

Video

Lyrics: Don’t Worry Be Happy

Here’s a little song I wrote
You might want to sing it note for note
Don’t worry, be happy
In every life we have some trouble
When you worry you make it double
Don’t worry, be happy
Don’t worry, be happy now

Ooh, ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry)
Ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Be happy)
Ooh oo-ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry, be happy)
Ooh, ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry)
Ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Be happy)
Ooh oo-ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry, be happy)

Ain’t got no place to lay your head
Somebody came and took your bed
Don’t worry, be happy
The landlord say your rent is late
He may have to litigate
Don’t worry, be happy
(Look at me I’m happy)

Ooh, ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry)
Ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Be Happy)
Ooh oo-ooh oo-ooh
Here I give you my phone number
When you worry call me, I make you happy
Ooh, ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry)
Ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Be happy)
Ooh oo-ooh oo-ooh

Ain’t got no cash, ain’t got no style
Ain’t got no gal to make you smile
But don’t worry, be happy
‘Cause when you worry your face will frown
And that will bring everybody down
So don’t worry, be happy
Don’t worry, be happy now

Ooh, ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry)
Ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Be happy)
Ooh oo-ooh oo-ooh
Don’t worry, be happy
Ooh, ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry)
Ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Be happy)
Ooh oo-ooh oo-ooh
Don’t worry, be happy

Now there, is this song I wrote
I hope you learned it note for note
Like good little children
Don’t worry, be happy
Listen to what I say
In your life expect some trouble
When you worry you make it double
Don’t worry, be happy, be happy now

Ooh, ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry)
Ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Be happy)
Ooh oo-ooh oo-ooh
Don’t worry, be happy
Ooh, ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry)
Ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Be happy)
Ooh oo-ooh oo-ooh
Don’t worry, be happy

Ooh, ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry)
Ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t do it, be happy)
Ooh oo-ooh oo-ooh
(Put a smile on your face, don’t bring everybody down like this)
Ooh, ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(Don’t worry)
Ooh oo-ooh ooh ooh oo-ooh
(It will soon pass, whatever it is)
Ooh oo-ooh oo-ooh
Don’t worry, be happy
Ooh oo-ooh oo-ooh
I’m not worried, I’m happy

You Missed

Thousands of fans filled the Nashville arena, restless after waiting two years to see Loretta Lynn again. She sat in the shadows beside the stage, weakened by the stroke that had taken her mobility in 2017 and the broken hip she suffered the following year. When the house band started the familiar rhythm of ‘Coal Miner’s Daughter,’ the room seemed to hold its breath. Her sister, Crystal Gayle, leaned over and encouraged her to sing. Loretta waved her off at first, looking down, apparently content to stay quietly in the wings. Then something changed. As the crowd pressed forward, humming the song that told her own story, their response seemed to reach her through the exhaustion. She reached out suddenly and firmly, closing her hand around the microphone’s cool metal. ‘Let me have that damn mic,’ she muttered. Her voice carried through the sound system with unmistakable authority. She was taking back the place she had held for more than fifty years, brushing aside every doctor and therapist who had told her to slow down. The crowd’s roar hit the stage and seemed to shake the rafters. For a moment, the frailty of the past two years faded from view. The audience saw the Kentucky girl who had lived through hardship and made music out of it. Loretta leaned into the song, her voice cracking a little but still carrying the grit that had defined her career. As the last note lingered, everyone in the room understood: she was giving them more than a performance. She was reminding them who was still in charge.

RCA’s doors stayed closed to Dottie West, enough to shake any performer’s confidence in Nashville. Her stints with Starday and Atlantic had left her with little beyond empty pockets and unpaid bills. By 1961, she and her husband, steel guitarist Bill West, were living in a small house in West Nashville. It felt less like a home than a place to make one last, desperate attempt. For years, they had driven back and forth from Cleveland, spending time and money on trips that brought them no closer to getting through the industry’s doors. At that house, Dottie began taking a different approach. Instead of chasing executives, she fed hungry songwriters. Willie Nelson, Roger Miller, and Red Lane started coming over, finding something at her kitchen table that the labels hadn’t offered: someone willing to listen. Auditions gave way to suppers, with Dottie hearing unfinished verses as her guests unpacked their battered guitar cases. If she couldn’t get into the business, she would bring it into her home. Each meal was a deliberate investment in the songwriting Nashville claimed to value but had yet to recognize in her. Things changed the night Jim Reeves heard her song, ‘Is This Me?’ and took it to Chet Atkins. One straightforward exchange over a melody opened a path that had been blocked for years. It wasn’t simply a lucky break. It grew out of her decision to stop asking for a place and create one herself. When she became the first woman to win a country Grammy, the award meant more than recognition. It confirmed that those lean years in the West Nashville house had produced some of the most important work of her life.

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.