The Greatest Oldies Music

Oldies Musics

The Carpenters – Rainy Days and Mondays

The Carpenters Set Release Date for 'Christmas Once More' Collection

About the Song

The Carpenters’ harmonious vocals and heartfelt lyrics have made them a beloved duo in the world of pop music. Their 1971 hit song, “Rainy Days and Mondays,” showcases their ability to create a sense of intimacy and connection through their music.

The song tells the story of a person who is feeling down and lonely. The singer expresses their longing for companionship and comfort during difficult times. The Carpenters’ voices blend seamlessly, creating a sense of warmth and empathy.

The song’s simple yet poignant lyrics and catchy melody have made it a timeless classic. The song’s message of hope and resilience has resonated with audiences for generations.

“Rainy Days and Mondays” is a testament to the Carpenters’ talent as singers and songwriters. Their ability to create a sense of intimacy and connection through their music is evident in every note. The song’s enduring popularity is a testament to its timeless appeal.

The Carpenters’ “Rainy Days and Mondays” is a classic pop ballad that continues to inspire and entertain listeners today. Its heartfelt lyrics, beautiful harmonies, and timeless message have made it a beloved song for generations. Whether you are a fan of the Carpenters’ music or simply appreciate great songwriting, “Rainy Days and Mondays” is a track that is sure to leave a lasting impression.

Only Yesterday: The Carpenters' Story (2007)

Video

Lyrics: Rainy Days and Mondays 

Talkin’ to myself and feelin’ old
Sometimes I’d like to quit
Nothing ever seems to fit
Hangin’ around
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down

What I’ve got they used to call the blues
Nothin’ is really wrong
Feelin’ like I don’t belong
Walkin’ around
Some kind of lonely clown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down

Funny but it seems I always wind up here
with you
Nice to know somebody loves me

Funny but it seems that it’s the only thing to do
Run and find the one who loves me

What I feel has come and gone before
No need to talk it out
We know what it’s all about
Hangin’ around
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down

Funny but it seems that it’s the only thing to do
Run and find the one who loves me

What I feel has come and gone before
No need to talk it out
We know what it’s all about
Hangin’ around
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down

Hangin’ around
Nothing to do but frown
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down

Related Post

When people look back on Elvis Presley’s final years, they sometimes reduce his story to a single question about medication. But the truth is far more complex and far more human. Behind the headlines was a man living with significant health problems, chronic pain, exhaustion, and the relentless demands of a life that rarely allowed him to rest. Every night, millions expected Elvis Presley. Very few wondered how much it cost the man behind the name.

There are moments in life that no amount of success can protect us from, and for Elvis Presley, one of those moments came in October 1973. It was the day Lisa Marie left Graceland to begin living with her mother after Elvis and Priscilla’s marriage had come to an end. The world saw the headlines of a famous divorce. Elvis felt something far more personal. He was watching the little girl who had become the center of his world walk away from the home they had shared.

The first time Mac Davis saw Elvis Presley, he never forgot the feeling. Years later, the memory remained as vivid as if it had happened the day before. “He was the most beautiful man you ever saw,” Mac once said, but he was talking about far more than appearance. There was something impossible to explain about Elvis. When he entered a room, conversations faded, heads turned without thinking, and for a brief moment it seemed as though the entire world had quietly stopped to watch him breathe.

You Missed

Country

THE SONGS AREN’T HIS ANYMORE—THEY BELONG TO THE 60,000 PEOPLE WHO REFUSE TO LET THE MUSIC STOP. There is a powerful, heavy silence that sits at the center of every Randy Travis concert, but it is never empty. Since the 2013 stroke that claimed his ability to sing and nearly took his life, the performance has evolved into something far more intimate than a standard tour. It has become a conversation between a legend who can no longer speak his truths and a world that refuses to forget them. For two years and 54 cities, Randy Travis has walked onto stages not to perform, but to be witnessed. With his wife, Mary, beside him and his original band anchoring the sound, the shows feature James Dupré taking on the vocal heavy lifting—but the real singer in the room is the crowd. Every night, thousands of voices bridge the gap left by aphasia. They handle the verses of “Three Wooden Crosses” and “On the Other Hand,” turning arenas into something resembling a massive, tear-filled revival. When Randy mouths the lyrics alongside them, he isn’t just watching a show—he is reclaiming his own catalog through the lungs of the people who grew up listening to it. The climax of the night is always the same: the final song. As the music fades and the band holds steady, Randy Travis takes the microphone. The man who was silenced by a stroke delivers the only word he needs to bridge the distance between his past and his present. He says, “Amen.” People often wonder why he continues to tour, why he chooses the grueling pace of the road when he could rest in the quiet of his home. But when you see the room “come apart” in that final moment, the answer is clear: this isn’t a farewell tour. It’s a reciprocal healing. The fans show up to give him back the songs he gave them, and he shows up to remind them—and himself—that while the voice may have changed, the spirit remains exactly where it always was. He is calling the tour More Life, and he has earned every syllable of that title. He is living proof that a legacy isn’t built on the perfection of a vocal performance, but on the connection that survives long after the ability to sing has faded.

Country

THREE DECADES. THREE ICONS. ONE RECORD THAT FINALLY MOVED. For thirty-five years, the number “six” stood as the absolute ceiling for a single night at the ACM Awards. It was a benchmark set by Garth Brooks in 1991, an untouchable milestone that felt like it belonged in a different era of the industry. Over the years, country music saw legends like Faith Hill and Chris Stapleton reach that same height, but for over a generation, no one could push past it. Until May 17, 2026. Ella Langley didn’t just break the record; she rewrote the scale. Walking away with seven awards—a clean sweep of every category she was nominated in—the 27-year-old from Hope Hull, Alabama, proved that the next chapter of country music isn’t just arriving; it has already taken the stage. Her wins were across the board: Female Artist of the Year, Artist-Songwriter of the Year, and critical sweeps for “Choosin’ Texas,” including Song and Single of the Year, plus a Music Event win with Riley Green. But the most striking image of the night wasn’t the trophy count. It was Langley standing beside Miranda Lambert—the woman who co-wrote and co-produced the anthem that fueled her historic night. In a business that loves to talk about “the good old days” and the untouchable nature of its legends, seeing a new artist stand on the shoulders of the giants who came before her to reach a new height was a powerful shift. Garth, Faith, and Chris Stapleton defined what was possible for thirty-five years. Ella Langley simply showed us that the ceiling wasn’t a permanent fixture—it was just waiting for the right song to push it higher. History in country music doesn’t end when a record is broken; it just gains a new perspective. The “six” record was a mountain that seemed impossible to summit, but now it’s just the base camp for whatever comes next.

Country

SHE DIDN’T WAIT FOR THE GRIEF TO FADE. SHE WALKED ONTO THE STAGE WITH IT. Lorrie Morgan has spent a lifetime learning a lesson that most people spend a lifetime trying to avoid: how to sing while your heart is breaking. In 1989, the world watched her lose Keith Whitley, and in the decades since, she has walked that same harrowing path again. When Randy White—the man she leaned on as her rock and her champion—passed away after his own battle with cancer, the silence in her home must have been deafening. But just six days later, Lorrie was in Prestonsburg, Kentucky. She didn’t go there to perform a polished, emotionless set. She went there to exist in the only place she has ever really known: behind a microphone. The most poignant part of that evening wasn’t the headliner, but the person who opened for her: her son, Jesse Keith Whitley. To see the man who lost his father decades ago now standing as a grown man, holding the space for his mother as she navigated the loss of Randy, was a silent, powerful testament to the only kind of legacy that matters. Randy had loved Jesse as his own, and in that moment, the love they had shared didn’t feel absent—it felt present in the way a son stood by his mother’s side. Lorrie didn’t return to the stage because she had “moved on.” There is no moving on from that kind of loss. She returned because she understands that strength isn’t the absence of sorrow; it’s the ability to keep moving even when sorrow is the loudest thing in the room. When she stepped into that spotlight, she was performing an act of defiance. She was proving that while life may leave you with empty chairs and broken pieces, the music—and the family you build—is the only thing that allows you to survive the night.

Country

HE NEVER WORE THE UNIFORM, BUT HE CARRIED HIS FATHER’S FLAG FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE. Toby Keith’s most iconic anthem, “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue,” was never intended to be a commercial product. It wasn’t born in a high-end Nashville writing room or designed to top the country charts. It was written in 20 minutes on a piece of scrap paper by a son grieving a father who had been taken in a sudden, senseless accident just months before the world changed on September 11, 2001. Hubert Keith Covel was not a celebrity. He was a veteran of the Korean War, a man who had given an eye to his country and spent every single day of his life making sure a flag flew from his porch. When he died in a collision on I-35, he left behind a vacuum that Toby didn’t know how to fill. When the towers fell, Toby didn’t look to the charts for inspiration—he looked to the lessons his father had hammered into him for years. His father had spent a lifetime urging Toby to support the people who do the heavy lifting—the soldiers. Toby listened. He spent the next several decades in places most artists avoid: carrier decks in the middle of the ocean, the dust of Kandahar, and the forgotten corners of Bagram. Over 18 USO tours and 250,000 service members, he became a fixture in the lives of those serving overseas, showing up not as a star, but as a representative of the man who raised him. He didn’t have to wear the uniform to understand the weight of it. By carrying his father’s flag into the most dangerous places on earth, Toby Keith turned a personal loss into a national service. Long after the stadium lights go dark and the records stop spinning, that flag in Oklahoma continues to wave. For the soldiers he sang to in the dirt and the families he supported, his music became more than entertainment—it became a promise kept to a one-eyed veteran who taught his son that being an American wasn’t just a label, but a lifelong commitment.