Alan Jackson, Brad Paisley, Steven Tyler Join CMA Holiday Special | The BIG 98 WSIX

About the Song

In the realm of country music, there are songs about heartbreak, loss, and the beauty of the rural landscape. And then there are songs like “It’s Five O’ Clock Somewhere” by Alan Jackson and Brad Paisley, a lighthearted anthem that celebrates the simple joys of unwinding after a long day of work.

Released in 2003, “It’s Five O’ Clock Somewhere” quickly became a country music staple, topping the Billboard Country Airplay chart and earning a Grammy Award for Best Country Performance by a Duo or Group with Vocal. The song’s enduring popularity lies in its relatable message and infectious melody, making it a go-to choice for country radio stations, barbecues, and tailgates.

The song’s premise is simple: no matter where you are in the world, there’s always a place where it’s 5 o’clock and time to start enjoying a cold drink. This sentiment is particularly appealing to those who have spent long hours at work or on the road, yearning for the moment they can finally relax and let loose.

Jackson and Paisley’s vocals perfectly complement each other, with Jackson’s smooth baritone providing a steady foundation for Paisley’s playful twang. The lyrics are full of clever wordplay and witty observations, painting a vivid picture of the characters’ shared desire to escape the daily grind and embrace the carefree spirit of happy hour.

“It’s Five O’ Clock Somewhere” is more than just a drinking song; it’s an ode to the universal human need for relaxation and camaraderie. It’s a reminder that even in the midst of life’s challenges, there’s always time to find moments of joy and connection with others.

Whether you’re a seasoned country music fan or a casual listener, “It’s Five O’ Clock Somewhere” is a song that’s sure to put a smile on your face and get your toes tapping. So the next time you find yourself feeling stressed or overwhelmed, just remember: it’s probably 5 o’clock somewhere. Grab a cold one, crank up the volume, and let the good times roll.Alan Jackson and Brad Paisley perform during the 51st annual CMA Awards at the Bridgestone Arena on November 8, 2017 in Nashville, Tennessee.

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Lyrics: It’s Five O’ Clock Somewhere

The sun is hot and that old clock is movin’ slow,
And so am I.
Work day passes like molasses in wintertime,
But it’s July.
I’m gettin’ paid by the hour, and older by the minute.
My boss just pushed me over the limit.
I’d like to call him somethin’,
I think I’ll just call it a day.Pour me somethin’ tall and strong,
Make it a “Hurricane” before I go insane.
It’s only half-past twelve but I don’t care.
It’s five o’clock somewhere.Oh, this lunch break is gonna take all afternoon,
And half the night.
Tomorrow mornin’, I know there’ll be hell to pay,
Hey, but that’s all right.
I ain’t had a day off now in over a year.
My Jamaican vacation’s gonna start right here.
If the phone’s for me,
You can tell ’em I just sailed away.And pour me somethin’ tall and strong,
Make it a “Hurricane” before I go insane.
It’s only half-past twelve but I don’t care.
It’s five o’clock somewhere.I could pay off my tab,
put myself in a cab,
And be back to work before two.
At a moment like this I can’t help but wonder,
What would Jimmy Buffett do?

Funny you should ask, Alan. I’d say,

Pour me somethin’ tall and strong,
Make it a “Hurricane” before I go insane.
It’s only half-past twelve but I don’t care.

Pour me somethin’ tall and strong,
Make it a “Hurricane” before I go insane.
It’s only half-past twelve but I don’t care.

He don’t care.
I don’t care.

It’s five o’clock somewhere.

What time zone am I on? What country am I in?
It doesn’t matter, it’s five o’clock somewhere.
It’s always on five in Margaritaville, come to think of it.
Yeah, I heard that.
You been there, haven’t you?
Yes sir.
I seen your boat there.
I’ve been to Margaritaville a few times.
All right, that’s good.
Stumbled all the way back.
OK. Just wanna make sure you can keep it between the navigational beacons.
Between the buoys, I got it.
All right. Well, it’s five o’clock. Let’s go somewhere.
I’m ready, crank it up.
Let’s get out of here.
I’m gone.

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.