The Greatest Oldies Music

Oldies Musics

It’s A Heartache – Bonnie Tyler

Introducing

Are you ready to dive into the world of timeless music? Join us as we explore the captivating melody and soulful voice behind the iconic song, “It’s A Heartache” performed by the one and only Bonnie Tyler. This classic track has left an indelible mark on the music industry and the hearts of millions worldwide. But before we delve deeper into the song, let’s unveil some fascinating insights in our ‘Did You Know?’ section about the song and the talented artist herself.BONNIE TYLER / The Best Of Bonnie Tyler – TICRO MARKET

Did You Know?

A Breakthrough Hit

“It’s A Heartache” was released in 1977 and marked a pivotal moment in Bonnie Tyler’s career. This song catapulted her to international stardom, and it remains one of her signature tracks to this day.

A Multilingual Sensation

Did you know that “It’s A Heartache” has been covered in multiple languages? Its universal theme of heartbreak and resilience has resonated with listeners worldwide, leading to versions in languages as diverse as French, Spanish, and German.

Bonnie Tyler’s Unique Voice

Bonnie Tyler’s raspy, powerful voice is truly one of a kind. Her distinctive vocal style has made her a standout figure in the music industry, and “It’s A Heartache” showcases her exceptional talent.

Collaborations and Achievements

Throughout her illustrious career, Bonnie Tyler has collaborated with numerous renowned artists and earned accolades, including Grammy nominations. Her contribution to the music industry is truly remarkable.Bonnie Tyler

Now that we’ve uncovered some intriguing facts about the song and Bonnie Tyler, let’s turn up the nostalgia and enjoy the music.

Video

Lyrics: It’s A Heartache

It’s a heartache
Nothing but a heartache
Hits you when it’s too late
Hits you when you’re down

It’s a fool’s game
Nothing but a fools game
Standing in the cold rain
Feeling like a clown

It’s a heartache
Nothing but a heartache
Love him till your arms break
Then he lets you down

It ain’t right with love to share
When you find he doesn’t care for you
It ain’t wise to need someone
As much as I depended on you

It’s a heartache
Nothing but a heartache
Hits you when it’s too late
Hits you when you’re down

It’s a fool’s game
Nothing but a fools game
Standing in the cold rain
Feeling like a clown

[Instrumental Interlude]

It ain’t right with love to share
When you find he doesn’t care for you
It ain’t wise to need someone
As much as I depended on you

Oh, it’s a heartache
Nothing but a heartache
Love him till your arms break
Then he lets you down

It’s a fools game
Standing in the cold rain
Feeling like a clown
It’s a heartache
Love him till your arms break
Then he lets you down
It’s a fools game
Standing in the cold rain…

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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.

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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.