The Greatest Oldies Music

Oldies Musics

I Heard It Through The Grapevine – Marvin Gaye

About the SongMarvin Gaye – I Heard It Through the Grapevine Lyrics | Genius Lyrics

Few songs have stood the test of time like “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” by the legendary Marvin Gaye. Released in 1968, this soulful masterpiece became not only a cornerstone of Motown’s golden era but also a defining moment in Gaye’s illustrious career. With its haunting melody, raw emotion, and powerful vocals, the track continues to captivate listeners, transcending generations and musical boundaries.

Marvin Gaye, often hailed as the “Prince of Motown,” was known for his ability to channel deep emotions into his music, and this song is no exception. From the very first notes, a sense of foreboding creeps in, driven by the iconic bassline and mournful strings. By the time Gaye’s velvety voice enters, the listener is already hooked, drawn into a tale of heartbreak and betrayal. The lyrics tell the story of a man who learns about his lover’s infidelity through the grapevine—a network of whispers and rumors. This theme of distrust and sorrow is universal, which is perhaps why the song resonates as strongly today as it did over five decades ago.

Originally recorded by Gladys Knight & the Pips in 1967, the song had already achieved success before Gaye’s rendition was released. However, Gaye’s version brought a darker, more introspective energy that elevated the track to new heights. His performance struck a delicate balance between vulnerability and strength, conveying both the pain of betrayal and the simmering anger beneath the surface.

At its core, “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” is a testament to Marvin Gaye’s artistry. The song showcases not only his vocal prowess but also his ability to connect deeply with listeners. It became his first No. 1 hit on the Billboard Hot 100 and remains one of the best-selling Motown singles of all time. For anyone exploring the depths of soul music, this track is an essential listen—a timeless reminder of the power of music to articulate our most profound emotions.Picture background

Video

Lyrics: “I Heard It Through The Grapevine”

 

I bet you’re wonderin’ how I knew
‘Bout your plans to make me blue
With some other guy you knew before
Between the two of us guys
You know I loved you more
It took me by surprise I must say
When I found out yesterday
Don’t you know that I heard it through the grapevine
Not much longer would you be mine
Oh I heard it through the grapevine
Oh I’m just about to lose my mindHoney, honey yeah.
I heard it through the grapevine
Not much longer would you be mine babyI know a man ain’t supposed to cry
But these tears I can’t hold inside
Losin’ you would end my life you see
‘Cause you mean that much to me
You could have told me yourself
That you loved someone else
Instead I heard it through the grapevine
Not much longer would you be mine
Oh, I heard it through the grapevine
And I’m just about to lose my mindHoney, honey yeah
I heard it through the grapevine
Not much longer would you be mine, baby

People say believe half of what you see
Some and none of what you hear
But I can’t help but be confused
If it’s true please tell me dear
Do you plan to let me go
For the other guy you loved before?

Don’t you know I heard it through the grapevine
Not much longer would you be mine, baby yeah
I heard it through the grapevine
I’m just about to lose my mind
Honey, honey, yeah
I heard it through the grapevine,
Not much longer would you be mine, baby yeah

Honey, honey, yeah
I heard it through the grapevine,
Not much longer would you be mine, baby yeah yeah
I heard it through the grapevine,
Not much longer would you be mine, baby yeah yeah

 

Related Post

Elvis Presley did not always need a microphone to command attention. People who encountered him often described something harder to explain than his voice or appearance: the atmosphere seemed to change when he entered a room. Fame certainly played a part, but photographs cannot explain why so many people remembered his presence years after meeting him.

In the final days of July 1956, Elvis Presley was photographed asleep inside Memphis’s Peabody Hotel. He was only 21, yet his life had already become almost unrecognizable. Records were exploding, crowds were growing, reporters followed his every move, and another performance was always waiting. But in this photograph, none of that exists. Elvis is simply sleeping.

Some photographs of Elvis Presley are difficult to forget, and not because of his famous smile or extraordinary looks. It is his eyes. In certain pictures, the confidence disappears and something quieter takes its place. There is warmth there, but also a distance that makes you wonder what the man behind the photograph was carrying.

You Missed

Country

Patsy stood in a dress she felt was a costume, fighting the producer’s demand to sing a song she genuinely disliked. The studio lights at Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts burned hot that January night in 1957. Patsy stood backstage with a heart set on performing a different ballad, holding a vision of her own career that didn’t include the uptempo swing of a song she found tedious. She wanted the emotional weight of a country tear-jerker; the producer wanted a hit. The pressure in that dressing room was palpable, a quiet collision between an artist’s stubborn intuition and the cold machinery of television producers who cared more about broadcast tempo than personal conviction. She walked out there wearing a cocktail dress instead of her usual cowgirl gear, an image she felt didn’t belong to her. As the cameras rolled, she surrendered to the arrangement. She sang those lyrics she didn’t care for, her voice cutting through the air with a clean, haunting authority that demanded the nation’s attention. By the time the final note hung in the rafters, she hadn’t just won a competition; she had fundamentally altered the trajectory of her life. The audience erupted, and Arthur Godfrey broke protocol to tell her she had secured the victory before the commercial break even arrived. Success is often a fickle companion that arrives wearing the face of a stranger. That song, the one she fought against until the very last second, cemented her name on the charts and defined the sound of her breakthrough. She stood under those bright lights, the applause washing over a woman who had finally and accidentally found the exact sound the world was waiting for.

Country

HANK WILLIAMS DIED A BROKEN MAN AT TWENTY-NINE, BUT NOT BEFORE HE RECORDED THE DEFINING SOUND OF EVERY OTHER BROKEN HEART THAT WOULD FOLLOW. The drive from Nashville to Shreveport was long, heavy with the humid scent of a failing life. Beside him in the front seat, Billie Jean Jones listened as the man who could voice the world’s grief began reciting lines that felt less like songwriting and more like a sentence being passed. He did not ask for a pen. He did not seek a melody. He simply spoke, his voice dry and weary, articulating a bitterness he had lived far too well. She’s got a cheatin’ heart, he said, and she’ll have to pay. He was describing the only thing he really knew how to hold onto: the feeling of being discarded. Weeks later, inside the stark, claustrophobic confines of Castle Studio, the atmosphere was thick with the weight of a dying genius. Don Helms lifted his steel guitar, coaxing a sound that did not just play, but wept. It was a mournful, sliding cry that seemed to hold all the loneliness of the Tennessee hills. Hank stood before the microphone, frail and hollow, pushing his voice to hit the edges of a truth he had already surrendered to. He sang with a terrifying clarity, unaware that these tapes would soon become the only ghost he left behind in the dark, quiet space of a post-New Year’s room.

Country

ANNE MURRAY WAS TOLD FOR YEARS THAT A GIRL FROM NOVA SCOTIA HAD NO BUSINESS HOLDING THE KEYS TO THE NASHVILLE KINGDOM. The industry gatekeepers didn’t just question her accent; they questioned her right to even occupy the same zip code as the Grand Ole Opry. She stood there, a quiet, stubborn presence navigating a genre that viewed her success as an experimental intrusion rather than a legitimate contribution. For a long time, the radio programmers and the old guard of Music Row treated her chart-topping crossover hits like unwanted weeds in their well-manicured garden of traditionalism. Then came that cold night in 1989 at the CMA Awards. Standing under the blinding stage lights, she didn’t just deliver a rehearsed speech or offer a polite thank you to the establishment. She spoke a plain, hard truth that rippled through the room like a cold front: you do not need a Tennessee birth certificate to sing the truth of a broken heart or a long road home. With Rodney Crowell and the restless spirits of Nashville’s evolving guard listening in, she dismantled the unspoken border wall that had defined the city for generations. The irony wasn’t lost on the room. The woman they treated as an outsider had effectively mapped out the blueprint for the global, modern country sound that would dominate the decade to come. She stepped off that stage leaving a silence behind, the heavy, uncomfortable quiet of a frontier finally forced open by a voice from the north.

Country

To save his career, a Tennessee farm boy had to learn how to walk, sing, and breathe inside the glass walls of an urban professional studio. By the late 1950s, the steel guitars and cowboy boots that propelled Eddy Arnold to the top of the charts were gathering dust. The radio airwaves had shifted beneath his feet, and the hits that once felt effortless were drying up entirely. Arnold stood at a crossroads, staring down the very real possibility of packing his bags and leaving the music business for good. He was a man out of time, clinging to an image that the new American consumer no longer wanted to buy. Instead of bowing out, he began a slow, deliberate demolition of the persona that had made him a star. The rustic, down-home threads were traded for the sharp, muted formality of a tuxedo. The steel guitars were replaced by sweeping orchestral arrangements and velvet-smooth vocal deliveries designed for supper clubs rather than honky-tonks. He was not just updating his sound; he was performing an act of total reinvention, moving from the farmhouse to the high-rise with startling, cold calculation. When he recorded Make the World Go Away in 1965, the gamble achieved something profound. The song bypassed the traditional country boundaries, finding a home on the pop charts and turning his perceived failure into a second, far more lucrative life. He never went back to the plow. He sat under the studio lights, a man who had successfully traded his heritage for a tuxedo and a permanent place in the modern spotlight.