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Oldies Musics

The Beach Boys – “I Get Around”

About the Song

“I Get Around” is a song by the American rock and roll band The Beach Boys, released in 1961 as the lead single from their seventh studio album, Surfin’ Safari. The song was written by band members Brian Wilson and Mike Love, and it quickly became one of their biggest hits, reaching number one on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.

I Get Around is a quintessential Beach Boys song, capturing the sound and spirit of California beach culture in the early 1960s. The song is characterized by its catchy melody, driving beat, and harmonies. The lyrics are about a young man who brags about his many girlfriends. While the lyrics may seem superficial, they are actually quite clever and witty, and they are delivered with a sense of fun and humor.

I Get Around was a major influence on the development of rock and roll music, and it has been covered by many artists over the years. The song has also been featured in numerous films and television shows. It is a true classic of American popular music.

Here are some of the key elements that make I Get Around such a great song:

  • Catchy melody: The melody of I Get Around is simple but unforgettable. It is the kind of song that gets stuck in your head and won’t leave.
  • Driving beat: The song’s beat is infectious and it is hard not to tap your foot or bob your head along to it.
  • Harmonies: The Beach Boys are known for their beautiful harmonies, and I Get Around is no exception. The harmonies on this song are lush and full, and they add a great deal of depth and texture to the music.
  • Clever lyrics: The lyrics to I Get Around are clever and witty, and they are delivered with a sense of fun and humor.
  • California sound: The song captures the sound and spirit of California beach culture in the early 1960s.

I Get Around is a timeless classic that has stood the test of time. It is a fun, catchy, and well-written song that is sure to put a smile on your face. If you’ve never heard it before, I highly recommend checking it out.

Video 

Lyrics: I Get Around

’round, ’round, get around
I get around, yeah
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
I get around
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
From town to town
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
I’m a real cool head
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
I’m making real good bread
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get aroundI’m getting bugged driving up and down this same old strip
I gotta find a new place where the kids are hip
My buddies and me are getting real well-known
Yeah, the bad guys know us and they leave us alone

I get around
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
From town to town
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
I’m a real cool head
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
I’m making real good bread
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
I get around, ’round
Get around, ’round, ’round, ooh
Wah wa ooh
Wah wa ooh
Wah wa ooh

We always take my car ’cause it’s never been beat
And we’ve never missed yet with the girls we meet
None of the guys go steady ’cause it wouldn’t be right
To leave their best girl home on a Saturday night

I get around
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
From town to town
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
I’m a real cool head
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
I’m making real good bread
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
I get around, ’round
Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ah

’round, ’round, get around
I get around, yeah
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
Wah wa ooh
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
Ooh
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
Ooh
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
I get around
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
From town to town
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
Ooh
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around
Ooh
Get around, ’round, ’round, I get around

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HIS FATHER TOLD HIM TO PUT DOWN THE GUITAR. NASHVILLE FORGOT HIM. TWICE. HE CAME BACK IN A WHEELCHAIR AND STILL WOULDN’T SHUT UP. Vern Gosdin grew up hauling rocks and chopping cotton in Woodland, Alabama. His father tried music once, failed, and forbade his son from ever touching a guitar. Vern left home and never looked back — never saw his father again. He moved to California. Then Chicago. Then Nashville. Two record labels went bankrupt under him. Nobody called. Nobody came looking. So he quit, moved to Georgia, and sold glass for a living. But he kept a guitar in his truck. In the late ’70s, he crawled back to Nashville — older, broker, and angrier than every pretty boy on country radio. He didn’t sound trendy. He sounded like a man who’d been through hell and could prove it. Then he wrote “Chiseled in Stone” and beat every superstar in town for CMA Song of the Year. Tammy Wynette called him “the only singer who can hold a candle to George Jones.” In 1998, a stroke stole his voice. He kept writing from a wheelchair. 101 songs. Still fighting. They called him “The Voice.” Nashville called him too late. Does knowing how many times Vern Gosdin had to start over make “Chiseled in Stone” hit even harder now?

SHE WAS A BRIDE AT FIFTEEN, A MOTHER AT SIXTEEN, AND THE FIRST WOMAN NASHVILLE EVER HAD TO CALL “ENTERTAINER OF THE YEAR” — THEN SHE NAMED HER BABY AFTER THE BEST FRIEND SHE’D JUST BURIED, AND THAT BABY SPENT A LIFETIME MAKING SURE NEITHER VOICE WAS FORGOTTEN. Loretta Lynn came out of Butcher Hollow, Kentucky, with nothing but a coal miner’s last name and a voice that could pin a grown man to his chair. Married before she could drive. Four children by twenty-two. Then she wrote songs that scared Nashville half to death — about cheating husbands, birth control pills, and women who’d had enough. Sixteen number-ones. Presidential Medal of Freedom. The whole world calling her the Coal Miner’s Daughter. In 1963, her best friend Patsy Cline died in a plane crash. The next year, Loretta gave birth to twins. She named one of them Patsy. That little girl grew up backstage, between tour buses and honky-tonks. She formed The Lynns with her twin sister Peggy. Earned CMA nominations. Then she did something quieter and heavier — she stepped behind the glass and co-produced her mother’s final albums alongside Johnny Cash’s son. Loretta died October 4, 2022. That first birthday without her, Patsy woke up reaching for a phone call that wasn’t coming — her mama singing “Happy Birthday,” the way she always had. Does knowing Loretta named her daughter after a ghost she never stopped grieving make “I Fall to Pieces” feel like it belongs to both of them now?

“YOU MAKE THE COFFEE, I’LL MAKE THE BED.” — GLEN CAMPBELL DIDN’T NEED A LOVE POEM. HE JUST NEEDED AN OKLAHOMA MORNING. In December 1971, Glen Campbell released “Oklahoma Sunday Morning.” It peaked at #15 on the country charts—not his biggest hit by a long shot. But something about this track stuck. It wasn’t about fame or tragedy; it was about coffee, making the bed, and packing a lunch. It was the kind of love that doesn’t make headlines. But the way Glen sang it, you realized he wasn’t just describing a routine. He was singing about the only place that truly felt like home. A kid from a sharecropper’s family of twelve in Delight, Arkansas—who went on to sell 45 million records—poured something deeply personal into this quiet track. Fifty years later, folks across Oklahoma still know every word. Some songs don’t need to reach #1. They just need to be true.

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THEY LOOKED LIKE FOUR OUTLAWS WHO COULD OUTRUN TIME ITSELF. BUT WHEN YOU WATCH THE HIGHWAYMEN SING “BIG RIVER” TODAY, THE EMPTY MICROPHONES BREAK YOUR HEART. Onstage, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, and Willie Nelson looked untouchable. Four weathered men, four different wounds, four voices that made country music sound dangerous, honest, and free. When they traded verses on Cash’s “Big River,” it wasn’t just another performance. It was four old brothers chasing the same song down the same river, each one carrying a piece of the road in his voice. Cash brought the thunder. Waylon brought the grit. Kris brought the broken-poet soul. Willie floated above it all with that calm, aching grace only he could carry. Back then, the stage lights made it easy to believe they would always be there. That was the beautiful lie of watching legends stand side by side. But time does what no outlaw ever could: it catches everyone. Today, Cash is gone. Waylon is gone. Kris has crossed the river too. Willie is the only one left, still playing, still standing, still carrying a brotherhood that can never fully gather again. That is why “Big River” feels different now. It is no longer just a song about chasing something you cannot hold. It feels like time itself moving past four men we were not ready to lose. The song remains. But three microphones are empty. Does “Big River” feel heavier now that Willie is the only one left to sing it?

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SHE WAS A BRIDE AT FIFTEEN, A MOTHER AT SIXTEEN, AND THE FIRST WOMAN NASHVILLE EVER HAD TO CALL “ENTERTAINER OF THE YEAR” — THEN SHE NAMED HER BABY AFTER THE BEST FRIEND SHE’D JUST BURIED, AND THAT BABY SPENT A LIFETIME MAKING SURE NEITHER VOICE WAS FORGOTTEN. Loretta Lynn came out of Butcher Hollow, Kentucky, with nothing but a coal miner’s last name and a voice that could pin a grown man to his chair. Married before she could drive. Four children by twenty-two. Then she wrote songs that scared Nashville half to death — about cheating husbands, birth control pills, and women who’d had enough. Sixteen number-ones. Presidential Medal of Freedom. The whole world calling her the Coal Miner’s Daughter. In 1963, her best friend Patsy Cline died in a plane crash. The next year, Loretta gave birth to twins. She named one of them Patsy. That little girl grew up backstage, between tour buses and honky-tonks. She formed The Lynns with her twin sister Peggy. Earned CMA nominations. Then she did something quieter and heavier — she stepped behind the glass and co-produced her mother’s final albums alongside Johnny Cash’s son. Loretta died October 4, 2022. That first birthday without her, Patsy woke up reaching for a phone call that wasn’t coming — her mama singing “Happy Birthday,” the way she always had. Does knowing Loretta named her daughter after a ghost she never stopped grieving make “I Fall to Pieces” feel like it belongs to both of them now?

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“YOU MAKE THE COFFEE, I’LL MAKE THE BED.” — GLEN CAMPBELL DIDN’T NEED A LOVE POEM. HE JUST NEEDED AN OKLAHOMA MORNING. In December 1971, Glen Campbell released “Oklahoma Sunday Morning.” It peaked at #15 on the country charts—not his biggest hit by a long shot. But something about this track stuck. It wasn’t about fame or tragedy; it was about coffee, making the bed, and packing a lunch. It was the kind of love that doesn’t make headlines. But the way Glen sang it, you realized he wasn’t just describing a routine. He was singing about the only place that truly felt like home. A kid from a sharecropper’s family of twelve in Delight, Arkansas—who went on to sell 45 million records—poured something deeply personal into this quiet track. Fifty years later, folks across Oklahoma still know every word. Some songs don’t need to reach #1. They just need to be true.