Hear a Lost Live Version of Merle Haggard's 'I Take a Lot of Pride'

About the Song

Merle Haggard, a legend in the annals of country music, wasn’t known for shying away from the struggles of everyday life. In his 1969 hit, “Workin’ Man Blues,” he delivers a powerful anthem that resonates deeply with anyone who’s ever punched a clock or swung a hammer.

The song paints a vivid picture of the blue-collar experience. Haggard, with his gruff yet relatable voice, sings of a man burdened by the weight of responsibility – a wife, a gaggle of kids, bills piling up. He chronicles the daily grind, the relentless nature of work that defines his life: “Been a workin’ man dang near all my life / I’ll be workin’ long as my two hands are fit to use.”

But “Workin’ Man Blues” isn’t all hardship and drudgery. There’s a quiet pride woven into the lyrics. Haggard’s protagonist may be weary, but he’s also fiercely independent. He finds solace in his work ethic, the satisfaction of a job well done. The line, “Hey hey, the working man, the working man like me / I ain’t never been on welfare, that’s one place I won’t be,” is a declaration of self-reliance, a celebration of the dignity that comes from honest labor.

The song’s simplicity is part of its brilliance. Haggard’s signature Bakersfield sound, with its twangy guitars and driving rhythm section, perfectly complements the lyrics. But the heart of the song lies in its raw honesty. It captures the universal yearning for a little escape after a long week – the shared ritual of unwinding with a beer and singing the blues, even if those blues are born from hard work.

“Workin’ Man Blues” isn’t just a country song; it’s a timeless ode to the working class. It’s a song for the farmer calloused from years in the fields, the factory worker covered in grease, the construction hand with aching muscles. It’s a song that acknowledges the challenges of a working life but also celebrates the quiet dignity and resilience of those who keep the wheels turning.An Appreciation: Merle Haggard, a voice of the people - Los Angeles Times

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Lyrics: Workin’ Man Blues

It’s a big job just gettin’ by with nine kids and a wife
I been a workin’ man dang near all my life
I’ll be working long as my two hands are fit to use
I’ll drink my beer in a tavern,
Sing a little bit of these working man bluesI keep my nose on the grindstone, I work hard every day
Might get a little tired on the weekend, after I draw my pay
But I’ll go back workin, come Monday morning I’m right back with the crew
I’ll drink a little beer that evening,
Sing a little bit of these working man bluesHey hey, the working man, the working man like me
I ain’t never been on welfare, that’s one place I won’t be
Cause I’ll be working long as my two hands are fit to use
I drink a little beer in a tavern
Sing a little bit of these working man blues

Sometimes I think about leaving, do a little bummin around
I wanna throw my bills out the window catch a train to another town
But I go back working I gotta buy my kids a brand new pair of shoes
Yeah drink a little beer in a tavern,
Cry a little bit of these working man blues

Hey hey, the working man, the working man like me
I ain’t never been on welfare, that’s one place I won’t be
Cause I’ll be working long as my two hands are fit to use
I drink a little beer in a tavern
Sing a little bit of these working man blues
Yeah drink a little beer in a tavern,
Cry a little bit of these working man blues

 

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HE WAS 70, STRUGGLING TO STAND, AND THE INDUSTRY HAD ALREADY WRITTEN HIM OFF — UNTIL HE COVERED A TRACK BY A ROCK STAR HALF HIS AGE AND BROKE THE WORLD’S HEART. By 2002, Johnny Cash was a man surviving on memories. He had outlived most of his peers. His record label of nearly three decades had abandoned him. His health was a wreckage of diabetes, pneumonia, and failing nerves. There were moments in the recording booth when his producer, Rick Rubin, could hear the literal sound of a voice breaking. Then Rubin presented him with a raw, industrial rock song about the depths of depression and self-harm. Cash made one simple change — replacing a profane lyric with “crown of thorns” — and transformed a young man’s angst into his own final testament. The music video was shot inside his shuttered museum in Nashville, a place crumbling under the weight of dust and silence. June Carter was there, looking at him with an expression of profound, tragic realization. She would be gone in three months. He would follow her just four months later. When the original songwriter finally saw the footage alone one morning, he broke down. He later admitted that the song no longer belonged to him. The video went on to win a Grammy and was hailed by critics as the greatest music video ever filmed. It has been streamed hundreds of millions of times since. But its true power isn’t in the numbers or the awards. It continues to haunt us two decades later because it is the sound of a man who has stopped running from the end — a man who sat down in the fading light and finally told the absolute truth.

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