Please Don’t Tell Me How the Story Ends – Kris Kristofferson & Rita Coolidge

Kris Kristofferson & Rita Coolidge - Please don't tell me how the story ends (1978) - YouTube

About the Song

Kris Kristofferson and Rita Coolidge were one of the most iconic country music couples of the 1970s. They were both successful solo artists, but their duets were some of their most popular songs. “Please Don’t Tell Me How the Story Ends” is one of their most beautiful and haunting duets.

The song was written by Kristofferson and is a plea to let love unfold naturally, without knowing the ending. The song’s lyrics are simple but powerful, and Kristofferson and Coolidge’s vocals are perfectly intertwined. The song builds to a beautiful crescendo, with Kristofferson’s guitar solo providing a perfect emotional backdrop.

“Please Don’t Tell Me How the Story Ends” is a song about the power of love and the importance of living in the moment. It is a reminder that we should not take our relationships for granted and that we should cherish every moment we have together. The song is a classic example of Kristofferson’s songwriting talent and Coolidge’s vocal prowess. It is a timeless song that will continue to resonate with listeners for generations to come.

Some interesting facts about the song:

The song was originally released on Kristofferson’s 1971 album “The Silver Tongued Devil and I”.
Coolidge recorded the song for her 1977 album “Anytime…Anywhere”.
The song was released as a duet single in 1978 and reached number 11 on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart.
The song has been covered by many other artists, including Don McLean, Olivia Newton-John, and Willie Nelson.

Kris Kristofferson & Rita Coolidge Discography | Discogs

Video

Lyrics: Please Don’t Tell Me How the Story Ends

This could be our last good night together
We may never pass this way again.
Just let me enjoy it ’til it’s over, or forever
Please don’t tell me how the story ends.See the way our shadows come together
Softer than your fingers on my skin
Someday these may be all we remember of each other
Please don’t tell me how the story ends.Never’s just the echo of forever
Lonesome as a love that might have been.
Let me go on lovin’ and believin’ ’til it’s over
Please don’t tell me how the story ends.

TOBY KEITH SAT THROUGH HIS ENTIRE FINAL LAS VEGAS PERFORMANCE — UNTIL THE OPENING NOTES OF THE SONG THAT STARTED IT ALL FORCED HIM BACK ONTO HIS FEET. On December 14, 2023, during his final three-night run at Park MGM, cancer had left Toby too weak to stand for the majority of the concert. He delivered the set seated, his voice carrying the weight of a legendary career and an unyielding spirit. Then came the closing moments of the night, and the familiar chords of his debut single struck up. Released thirty-one years earlier in 1993, it was the track that first shot him to the top of the Billboard charts and launched a country music empire. That song was “Should’ve Been a Cowboy.” Refusing to let his body dictate the final chapter without a fight, Toby pulled himself up. Slowly and deliberately, he stood tall and sang his very first hit on his feet one last time. Less than six weeks later, he passed away at sixty-two—leaving behind a final, defiant image of a man who would stand for his music to the very end.

A DEADLY ATLANTIC STORM PUSHED SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLD HANK SNOW TO THE EDGE OF THE GRAVEYARD OF THE ATLANTIC — AND FORCED HIM OFF THE WATER AND STRAIGHT TO HIS GUITAR.Back in August 1930, a teenage Hank was working the brutal fishing schooners off Nova Scotia, having fled a harsh, impoverished home at just twelve years old. Then a vicious gale gripped their vessel, dragging them straight toward Sable Island—the notorious “Graveyard of the Atlantic” where hundreds of iron hulls and wooden ribs lie buried beneath the sand.When the wind miraculously shifted just fourteen miles from disaster, Hank scrambled back to land at Canso, learning that six other vessels and 132 men hadn’t been so lucky. He made a vow on the spot: no more fishing trips.Back on dry land, he ground it out through back-breaking labor—selling fish, unloading cargo ships, and cutting timber. But the cheap guitar he had bought with his sea-wages stayed right by his side. The ocean nearly swallowed Hank Snow whole. Instead, it closed off every other road and left him with no choice left to make except the music.

BLIND FROM CHILDHOOD, DOC WATSON REWROTE WHAT A GUITAR COULD DO. BUT HIS MOST ENDURING LEGACY CAME FROM THE GRIEF OF LOSING THE SON WHO PLAYED BESIDE HIM. Arthel “Doc” Watson grew up in the mountains of western North Carolina, soaking in the old ballads, church hymns, and mountain fiddle tunes echoing through Deep Gap. When he joined a local swing band in 1953 and needed to fill in for a missing fiddle, he started picking those lightning-fast melodies on his acoustic guitar—turning rhythm into an authoritative lead voice. The 1960s folk revival caught up to him, but his truest partnership was right beside him on stage. His son, Merle Watson, traveled and played with him for years, creating an effortless father-and-son sound built on family blood and mutual craft. Then 1985 brought an unendurable blow. Merle died in a farming accident, plunging Doc into a grief so deep he stepped away from performing entirely. Out of that mourning came MerleFest, launched in 1988 to honor his son, which blossomed into one of America’s greatest sanctuaries for roots, bluegrass, and acoustic music. Doc never chased Nashville fame. He couldn’t see the physical road, but he carved one out in pure sound—leaving behind a legacy that still echoes through every picker who makes a guitar speak like it was born in the hills.

JERRY JEFF WALKER SPENT A NIGHT IN A NEW ORLEANS JAIL CELL WITH A BROKEN DANCER — AND TURNED HIS UNKNOWN STORY INTO AN AMERICAN MASTERPIECE.Back in 1965, Jerry Jeff Walker was still a drifting troubadour—having skipped out on the National Guard, changed his name, and hitchhiked across the country with a guitar. Then a night out in New Orleans went sideways, landing him locked up for public intoxication in the First Precinct jail.Inside that tank was an older Black man with silver hair and worn-out shoes, swept up by police during a local sweep. When the cops demanded his name, he kept his mouth shut, saying only that folks called him “Bojangles.” As the hours dragged on, the men in the cell started swapping talk. The old man spun stories of minstrel shows, endless miles on the road, and a beloved dog that had long since passed.At one point, the jailer barked an order for him to dance. The old man stood up and cut a soft-shoe right there on the concrete floor, jumping high among a room full of drunks before sinking back down to quietly speak of his dog—the one memory that made the whole room go dead silent.Jerry Jeff never forgot it. A few years later, he bottled that single night into “Mr. Bojangles.” When the song dropped in 1968, it became a phenomenon. The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band rode it into the Top 10, while icons like Nina Simone, Sammy Davis Jr., and Bob Dylan made it their own.More than a hundred artists would eventually record it, carrying the ghost of a nameless old dancer out of a New Orleans lockup and straight into the history books.