The Greatest Oldies Music

Country

“Check Yes or No” – George Strait

About the Song

1. Origin:

“Check Yes or No” was written by Dana Hunt Black and Danny Wells, and recorded by George Strait for his album “Strait Out of the Box.” Inspired by the simplicity and purity of childhood romance, the song tells the story of a young boy passing a note to his crush, asking her to check “yes” or “no” if she likes him back.

2. Chart Success:

Upon its release, “Check Yes or No” soared to the top of the country charts, becoming one of George Strait’s most successful singles. Its heartwarming lyrics and infectious melody resonated with audiences, earning widespread acclaim and solidifying George Strait’s status as a country music icon.

3. George Strait:

George Strait, known as the “King of Country,” is celebrated for his smooth vocals and timeless style. With a career spanning decades, Strait has become one of the most beloved and respected figures in country music, earning numerous awards and accolades for his contributions to the genre.

4. Legacy:

“Check Yes or No” remains a staple in George Strait’s catalog, beloved by fans of all ages for its timeless message of love and innocence. Its sweet melody and heartfelt lyrics continue to resonate with listeners, ensuring its place as a cherished classic in the world of country music.

5. Cultural Impact:

Beyond its chart success, “Check Yes or No” has become a cultural touchstone, inspiring countless covers and interpretations by artists across genres. Its universal theme of young love and innocence has made it a favorite for weddings, proms, and romantic occasions, solidifying its status as a timeless anthem of love.Taylor Tuesday - Taylor Artist George Strait - Heartbreaker Guitars

Video

Lyrics: Check Yes or No

It started way back in third grade
I used to sit beside Emmylou Hayes
A pink dress, a matching bow and her pony tail
She kissed me on the school bus, but told me not to tellNext day I chased her ’round the playground
Across the monkey bars, to the merry-go-round
And Emmylou got caught passing me a note
Before the teacher took it, I read what she wrote

“Do you love me, do you wanna be my friend?
And if you do
Well then don’t be afraid to take me by the hand
If you want to
I think this is how love goes, check yes or no”

Now we’re grown up and she’s my wife
Still like two kids with stars in our eyes
Ain’t much changed, I still chase Emmylou
Up and down the hall, around the bed in our room

Last night I took her out in a white limousine
Twenty years together, she still gets to me
Can’t believe it’s been that long ago
When we got started with just a little note

“Do you love me, do you wanna be my friend?
And if you do
Well then don’t be afraid to take me by the hand
If you want to
I think this is how love goes, check yes or no”

“Do you love me, do you wanna be my friend?
And if you do
Well then don’t be afraid to take me by the hand
If you want to
I think this is how love goes, check yes or no”

Check yes or no
Check yes or no
Check yes or no
Check yes or no

 

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Waylon Jennings spent his life filling concert halls and radio airwaves, but his final days were quiet, spent in the seclusion of his Arizona home. The contrast was painful: a man known by so many could still find himself far removed from the crowds. When he died on February 13, 2002, the world lost an icon. His family faced a silence no hit record could fill. He had asked for a quiet burial, taking back some of the privacy he had shared with the public since the sixties. Five weeks later, friends and family gathered at the Ryman Auditorium, where his absence became painfully clear. The memorial brought them together, though nothing could bring back the man they remembered. Travis Tritt, Shooter, and others put their grief into the music, playing the instruments that had once accompanied him. There was something haunting about hearing his songs in a room full of people celebrating him, knowing he was no longer there to listen. Near the end of the service, a recording of Waylon’s voice filled the auditorium. He sounded so clear and present that, for a moment, it was hard to believe he was gone. The audience roared back, caught between the pleasure of hearing him again and the pain of knowing they never would in person. Their response carried both recognition and grief. For those few moments, the voice everyone knew met the loss his family lived with, and the people at the Ryman were left to reckon with the quiet, personal cost of his extraordinary life.

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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.

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Waylon Jennings spent his life filling concert halls and radio airwaves, but his final days were quiet, spent in the seclusion of his Arizona home. The contrast was painful: a man known by so many could still find himself far removed from the crowds. When he died on February 13, 2002, the world lost an icon. His family faced a silence no hit record could fill. He had asked for a quiet burial, taking back some of the privacy he had shared with the public since the sixties. Five weeks later, friends and family gathered at the Ryman Auditorium, where his absence became painfully clear. The memorial brought them together, though nothing could bring back the man they remembered. Travis Tritt, Shooter, and others put their grief into the music, playing the instruments that had once accompanied him. There was something haunting about hearing his songs in a room full of people celebrating him, knowing he was no longer there to listen. Near the end of the service, a recording of Waylon’s voice filled the auditorium. He sounded so clear and present that, for a moment, it was hard to believe he was gone. The audience roared back, caught between the pleasure of hearing him again and the pain of knowing they never would in person. Their response carried both recognition and grief. For those few moments, the voice everyone knew met the loss his family lived with, and the people at the Ryman were left to reckon with the quiet, personal cost of his extraordinary life.

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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.

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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.

Oldies Musics

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