Introduction

“Shout,” the electrifying anthem by The Isley Brothers, is a timeless masterpiece that continues to ignite dance floors worldwide. Originally released in 1959, this dynamic song encapsulates the essence of rock and roll with its infectious rhythms and soulful vocals. Join us as we delve into the captivating story behind The Isley Brothers’ iconic hit and its lasting impact on music history.

Did You Know?

Fascinating Insights into “Shout” and The Isley Brothers

  • Origins of the Song: “Shout” was initially recorded by The Isley Brothers in 1959 as a gospel-inspired track before they reimagined it into the energetic rock and roll anthem it is known as today.
  • Chart-Topping Success: Upon its release, “Shout” soared to the top of the charts, solidifying The Isley Brothers’ status as pioneers of the rock and roll genre.
  • Cultural Influence: With its infectious energy and call-and-response format, “Shout” became an instant party favorite, inspiring generations of music lovers to dance and sing along.
  • Legacy of The Isley Brothers: Renowned for their innovative sound and electrifying performances, The Isley Brothers have left an indelible mark on music history, with “Shout” standing as a testament to their enduring talent.

Video

Lyrics: Shout 

Well
You know you make me wanna (Shout)
Kick my heels up and (Shout)
Throw my hands up and (Shout)
Throw my head back and (Shout)
Come on now (Shout)

Don’t forget to say you will
Don’t forget to say yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
(Say you will)
Say it right now, baby
(Say you will)
Come on, come on
(Say you will)
Say that you
(Say you will)
Come on now

(Say) Say that you love me
(Say) Say that you need me
(Say) Say that you want me
(Say) You wanna please me
(Say) Come on now
(Say) Come on now
(Say) Come on now

(Say) I still remember
(Shooby-doo-wop-do-wop-wop-wop-wop)
When you used to be 9 years old
(Shooby-doo-wop-do-wop-wop-wop-wop)
Yeah, yeah
I was a fool for you, from the bottom of my soul, yeah
(Shooby-doo-wop-do-wop-wop-wop-wop)

Now that you’ve grown up
(Shooby-doo-wop-do-wop-wop-wop-wop)
Grown enough to know, yeah, yeah
(Shooby-doo-wop-do-wop-wop-wop-wop)
You wanna leave me, you wanna let me go
(Shooby-doo-wop-do-wop)

I want you to know
I said, I want you to know right now, yeah
You been good to me baby
Better than I been to myself, hey, hey
And if you ever leave me
I don’t want nobody else, hey, hey
I said I want you to know, hey
I said I want you to know right now, hey, hey

You know you make me wanna
(Shout, whoo) Hey, yeah
(Shout, whoo) Yeah, yeah, yeah
(Shout, whoo) All right
(Shout, whoo) All right
(Shout, whoo) Come on now
(Shout) Come on now
(Shout) Yeah, yeah, yeah
(Shout) Yeah, yeah, yeah (Good sound)
(Shout) Yeah, yeah, yeah (Good sound)
(Shout) Yeah, yeah, yeah (Good sound)
(Shout) All right (Good sound)
(Shout) All right (Good sound)
(Shout) All right (Good sound)
(Shout) All right

Now wait a minute
I feel all right (Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
(Ooh)
Now that I got my woman
I feel all right (Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah)
Every time I think about you
You been so good to me
You know you make me wanna
(Shout, whoo) Lift my heels up and
(Shout, whoo) Throw my head back and
(Shout, whoo) Kick my heels up and
(Shout, whoo) Come on now
(Shout, whoo) Take it easy
(Shout, whoo) Take it easy
(Shout, whoo) Take it easy (Higher)

(Shout) A little bit softer now (Whoo)
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now
(Shout) A little bit softer now

(Shout) A little bit louder now
(Shout) A little bit louder now
(Shout) A little bit louder now (Ooh)
(Shout) A little bit louder now
(Shout) A little bit louder now
(Shout) A little bit louder now
(Shout) A little bit louder now (Whoo)
(Shout) A little bit louder now (Whoo)
(Shout) A little bit louder now (Whoo)
(Shout) A little bit louder now (Whoo)
(Shout) A little bit louder now (Whoo)
(Shout) A little bit louder now
(Shout)

Hey, hey, hey, hey
(Hey, hey, hey, hey)
Hey, hey, hey, hey
(Hey, hey, hey, hey)
Hey, hey, hey, hey
(Hey, hey, hey, hey)
Hey, hey, hey, hey
(Hey, hey, hey, hey)

Jump now
Jump up and shout now (Whoo)
Jump up and shout now (Whoo)
Jump up and shout now (Whoo)
Jump up and shout now (Whoo)
Jump up and shout now (Whoo)
Everybody shout now
Everybody shout now
Everybody, shout, shout
Shout, shout, shout
Shout, shout, shout
Shout, shout, shout
Shout, shout, shout, shout (Oh, whoa, yeah)
Shout, shout, shout, shout (Oh, yeah)
Shout, shout, shout, shout
Everybody shout now (Ooh)
Jump up and shout now
Shout, shout, shout, shout
Shout, shout, shout, shout
Shout, shout, shout, shout
Shout, shout, shout, shout
Shout, shout, shout, shout
Shout, shout, shout, shout
(Shout)

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.