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Humidity Built The Snowman – Toby Keith

Toby Keith Tribute Leaves Fans 'Bawling' at 2024 CMT Music Awards - Parade

About the Song

Toby is quarantined down in Mexico and forgot his guitar in the 405, so he stopped by a furniture store and found a rickety, old guitar with strings too high off the neck – but it would have to do! Here’s his rendition of the great John Prine’s “Humidity Built The Snowman”.

John Prine, a master of storytelling through song, often explored themes of life, love, and the human condition with a unique blend of humor and poignancy. His song “Humidity Built the Snowman” is a prime example of his ability to craft a seemingly simple tale that carries profound philosophical implications.

The song’s central metaphor, a snowman built of humidity, is a striking image that instantly captures the attention. A snowman, traditionally made of snow, is a symbol of winter and ephemeral beauty. However, Prine’s twist – a snowman constructed from humidity – transforms this familiar image into a commentary on the transitory nature of life. Humidity, a force invisible yet powerful, can create and destroy with equal ease.

The song’s lyrics, filled with Prine’s trademark wit and wisdom, explore the idea that even the most seemingly solid and enduring things can be undone by unseen forces. The snowman, a symbol of childhood innocence and joy, is ultimately melted away by the sun, a force that is both life-giving and destructive. This image can be interpreted as a metaphor for the fragility of human life and the inevitability of loss.

Beyond its metaphorical significance, “Humidity Built the Snowman” is also a beautiful and evocative piece of music. Prine’s distinctive voice, with its warm and gravelly tone, perfectly conveys the song’s melancholic yet hopeful atmosphere. The simple, yet effective melody complements the lyrics, creating a timeless and unforgettable piece of art.

In conclusion, “Humidity Built the Snowman” is a poignant and thought-provoking song that invites listeners to contemplate the impermanence of life and the importance of cherishing the moments we have. Prine’s masterful storytelling and evocative imagery make this song a true classic that continues to resonate with audiences of all ages.Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame 2021: Toby Keith, Amy Grant to Join

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Lyrics: Humidity Built The Snowman

Does he still think about her
Why there was never really any doubt
Every time he lights a candle
Or blows a candle out
The scientific nature of the ordinary man
Is to go on out and do the best you canI don’t think that you know
That I think you don’t know
That old barometer goes crazy baby
Every time it starts to snow
You won’t find me walking
Round your part of town
Humidity built the snowman
Sunshine brought him downThis world is full of people
They never seem to fall
Somebody said they seen you
You hadn’t changed at all
The fundamental story
Of the contemporary man
Is to walk away and someday understandI don’t think that you know
That I think you don’t know
That old barometer goes crazy baby
Every time it starts to snow
You won’t find me walking
Round your part of town
Humidity built the snowman
Sunshine brought him down

The scientific nature of the ordinary man
Is to go on out and do the best you can

I don’t think that you know
That I think you don’t know
That old barometer goes crazy baby
Every time it starts to snow
You won’t find me walking
Round your part of town
Humidity built the snowman
Sunshine brought him down

Humidity built the snowman
Sunshine brought him down
Brought him down

 

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A cot waited in a rehearsal hall at RCA Victor’s New York studio while Jimmie Rodgers made his final recordings. Between songs, he lay down to recover enough strength for another take. It was May 1933. Rodgers was 35 and had battled tuberculosis since 1924. As his health deteriorated, his earnings had dwindled. Victor was paying $250 per recorded side, and he wanted to provide for his wife, Carrie, and their daughter, Anita. The sessions started on May 17. Within days, standing to sing became impossible. He worked from an easy chair, supported by pillows that brought him close enough to the microphone, then returned to the cot. On May 24, two musicians accompanied him through three songs. After they left, Rodgers recorded one more with only his guitar: “Years Ago.” He had completed twelve songs in eight days. The following night at the Taft Hotel, severe coughing gave way to hemorrhaging in his lungs. The hotel doctor could not be located. Rodgers fell into a coma and died on May 26, roughly 36 hours after his last recording. Before music made him famous, he had worked as a railroad brakeman. A Southern Railway train carried his body home to Meridian, Mississippi, in a baggage car. According to accounts of the journey, the engineer kept sounding the whistle along the way.

Randy Owen sometimes stopped his tour bus at truck stops to call radio DJs from pay phones. Alabama had already made him a country star. These calls were about persuading stations to help children at St. Jude. He knew what it meant to grow up with little. On his family’s sharecropper farm near Fort Payne, Alabama, he picked cotton and corn to help put food on the table. At school, other children mocked his scarred hands and the cotton dust on his clothes. Years later, after millions of record sales, Owen met St. Jude founder Danny Thomas in Atlanta. Thomas asked him to bring the country music community into the hospital’s fundraising work. When illness prevented Thomas from speaking at Nashville’s Country Radio Seminar, Owen took his place and proposed a nationwide radio effort. Winning support required persistence. He later described himself as “begging, pleading” with DJs. Some stations remained unconvinced. The first Country Cares radiothon aired on November 19, 1989: twelve hours, 45 artists and more than 800 stations. It raised approximately $1 million. By its 35th year in 2024, the initiative had brought in more than $1 billion. Owen has said helping St. Jude may be his most important work beyond being a husband and father. That enormous total began with individual requests, including calls made beside the highway between shows. Owen kept asking stations to participate. Across the country, their listeners kept answering.

Lorrie Morgan saved the card Keith Whitley gave her at the Nashville airport for her flight home. When she finally opened it, her husband was dead. It was early May 1989. Lorrie was heading to Alaska to promote her first RCA album, while Keith was enjoying the strongest run of his career. Just weeks earlier, “I’m No Stranger to the Rain” had become his third consecutive No. 1. At home, success had brought little reassurance. Keith had struggled with alcohol for years. A period of sobriety beginning in 1987 lasted about six months. Lorrie later described the fear surrounding his drinking as living with a ticking time bomb. In her 1997 memoir, she recalled tying her leg to his while they slept so she would know if he got up to drink. During her trip, he began drinking again that weekend. On Tuesday morning, May 9, his brother-in-law, Lane Palmer, visited the house in Goodlettsville. They drank coffee and discussed golf and lunch. Palmer left around 8:30 a.m. When he returned roughly an hour later, Keith was lying on the bed, fully dressed and unconscious. The medical examiner determined that he died from acute alcohol poisoning. Traveling back to Nashville, Lorrie read the card she had set aside. She later said its words left her feeling that Keith had been trying to tell her something—a feeling she was left to carry without the chance to ask him.

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A cot waited in a rehearsal hall at RCA Victor’s New York studio while Jimmie Rodgers made his final recordings. Between songs, he lay down to recover enough strength for another take. It was May 1933. Rodgers was 35 and had battled tuberculosis since 1924. As his health deteriorated, his earnings had dwindled. Victor was paying $250 per recorded side, and he wanted to provide for his wife, Carrie, and their daughter, Anita. The sessions started on May 17. Within days, standing to sing became impossible. He worked from an easy chair, supported by pillows that brought him close enough to the microphone, then returned to the cot. On May 24, two musicians accompanied him through three songs. After they left, Rodgers recorded one more with only his guitar: “Years Ago.” He had completed twelve songs in eight days. The following night at the Taft Hotel, severe coughing gave way to hemorrhaging in his lungs. The hotel doctor could not be located. Rodgers fell into a coma and died on May 26, roughly 36 hours after his last recording. Before music made him famous, he had worked as a railroad brakeman. A Southern Railway train carried his body home to Meridian, Mississippi, in a baggage car. According to accounts of the journey, the engineer kept sounding the whistle along the way.

Country

Randy Owen sometimes stopped his tour bus at truck stops to call radio DJs from pay phones. Alabama had already made him a country star. These calls were about persuading stations to help children at St. Jude. He knew what it meant to grow up with little. On his family’s sharecropper farm near Fort Payne, Alabama, he picked cotton and corn to help put food on the table. At school, other children mocked his scarred hands and the cotton dust on his clothes. Years later, after millions of record sales, Owen met St. Jude founder Danny Thomas in Atlanta. Thomas asked him to bring the country music community into the hospital’s fundraising work. When illness prevented Thomas from speaking at Nashville’s Country Radio Seminar, Owen took his place and proposed a nationwide radio effort. Winning support required persistence. He later described himself as “begging, pleading” with DJs. Some stations remained unconvinced. The first Country Cares radiothon aired on November 19, 1989: twelve hours, 45 artists and more than 800 stations. It raised approximately $1 million. By its 35th year in 2024, the initiative had brought in more than $1 billion. Owen has said helping St. Jude may be his most important work beyond being a husband and father. That enormous total began with individual requests, including calls made beside the highway between shows. Owen kept asking stations to participate. Across the country, their listeners kept answering.

Country

Lorrie Morgan saved the card Keith Whitley gave her at the Nashville airport for her flight home. When she finally opened it, her husband was dead. It was early May 1989. Lorrie was heading to Alaska to promote her first RCA album, while Keith was enjoying the strongest run of his career. Just weeks earlier, “I’m No Stranger to the Rain” had become his third consecutive No. 1. At home, success had brought little reassurance. Keith had struggled with alcohol for years. A period of sobriety beginning in 1987 lasted about six months. Lorrie later described the fear surrounding his drinking as living with a ticking time bomb. In her 1997 memoir, she recalled tying her leg to his while they slept so she would know if he got up to drink. During her trip, he began drinking again that weekend. On Tuesday morning, May 9, his brother-in-law, Lane Palmer, visited the house in Goodlettsville. They drank coffee and discussed golf and lunch. Palmer left around 8:30 a.m. When he returned roughly an hour later, Keith was lying on the bed, fully dressed and unconscious. The medical examiner determined that he died from acute alcohol poisoning. Traveling back to Nashville, Lorrie read the card she had set aside. She later said its words left her feeling that Keith had been trying to tell her something—a feeling she was left to carry without the chance to ask him.

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