Who Is Still Alive From the Osmonds?

About the Song

You’re asking for a deep dive into The Osmonds’ “The Last Days,” a track that marks a significant departure from their bubblegum pop beginnings. This isn’t your typical Osmonds fare; it’s a much more complex and introspective piece, showcasing a different side of their musicality. Released in 1973 as part of their concept album The Plan, “The Last Days” delves into themes of spirituality, mortality, and the search for meaning, reflecting the band’s personal beliefs and their evolving artistic direction.

For those who primarily associate The Osmonds with hits like “One Bad Apple” or “Puppy Love,” “The Last Days” might come as a surprise. It’s a far cry from the upbeat, lighthearted pop that initially propelled them to fame. This song is a serious exploration of weighty topics, delivered with a sincerity and musical depth that might be unexpected to casual listeners. It’s a testament to their growth as musicians and their willingness to take risks and explore new sonic territories.

The context of the album The Plan is crucial to understanding “The Last Days.” The entire album is a concept piece, exploring themes of faith, family, and the purpose of life. “The Last Days” fits squarely within this framework, acting as a poignant reflection on the end of times and the importance of living a meaningful life. The lyrics, penned by Alan, Merrill, and Wayne Osmond, are rich with imagery and symbolism, inviting listeners to contemplate their own mortality and their place in the world.

Musically, “The Last Days” is a departure from their earlier work as well. While their signature harmonies are still present, the instrumentation is more complex and layered, incorporating elements of progressive rock and even a touch of psychedelia. The song builds gradually, starting with a gentle, almost melancholic melody and then escalating into a powerful and dramatic crescendo. This dynamic arrangement effectively conveys the emotional weight of the lyrics, creating a truly immersive listening experience.

It’s important to remember the era in which “The Last Days” was released. The early 1970s were a time of great social and political upheaval, and these anxieties were reflected in the music of the time. Many artists were exploring darker themes and pushing the boundaries of traditional pop music. The Osmonds, with “The Last Days” and The Plan, were participating in this broader cultural conversation, albeit from their own unique perspective.

This song isn’t just a collection of notes and words; it’s a statement. It’s The Osmonds saying that they are more than just teen idols; they are artists with something meaningful to say. It’s a challenge to those who might have dismissed them as simply a manufactured pop group. “The Last Days” demonstrates their musical talent, their songwriting ability, and their willingness to tackle complex and challenging themes.

In conclusion, “The Last Days” is a fascinating and often overlooked piece in The Osmonds’ discography. It’s a song that deserves to be rediscovered and appreciated for its musical depth, its lyrical complexity, and its historical context. It’s a reminder that even the most commercially successful artists can have hidden depths and that true artistry often lies in taking risks and pushing boundaries. It truly showcases a different side of The Osmonds and their musical capabilities.A brief musical history of the Osmonds in 13 songs - The Washington Post

Video 

Lyrics: The Last Days

Nations take up there battle stations
Patrons of zodiac revelations
Lustations breaking family relations
Litigation allowing shoot up sensations
That’s what they said, someday it would be
Now just look around if that’s what you see
It’s gotta be the last days
Gotta be the last daysPeople living lives of confusion
Billions caught up in revolution
Cities lost in their own pollution
Question, what is the ConstitutionThat’s what they said, someday it would be
Now just look around if that’s what we see
It’s gotta be the last days
Gotta be the last daysThat’s what they said, someday it would be
Now just look around if that’s what we see
It’s gotta be the last days
Last days, it’s gotta be the last days
It’s gotta be the last days
It’s gotta be the last days
It’s gotta be the last days
It’s gotta be the last days
It’s gotta be the last days
It’s gotta be the last days

You Missed

The ink was barely dry on Whitey Shafer’s latest divorce papers when he sat down to map out the fictional geography of his own heartbreak. Sanger D. Whitey Shafer sat in a Nashville room contemplating his mounting legal bills and a life of complicated romantic exits. He found a bitter sort of comedy in the mess, mapping out a fictional geographic gauntlet across Texas where every town held a woman he owed something to. He did not write this map alone; he penned the lyrics alongside his wife at the time, Lyndia. It was a domestic collaboration built on the foundation of their own fraying reality, documenting a man terrified to cross the state line because of the ghosts waiting in Houston, Lubbock, and Texarkana. When George Strait took the song into the studio, he did not lean into the desperation. He treated the lyrics with a cool, detached resignation that turned a personal wreck into a standard. The fiddle kicked in, clean and bright, masking the reality that the man writing the words was essentially charting his own ruin. There was a profound, quiet irony in how perfectly the arrangement clicked into place while Shafer’s own life was busy unraveling in the background. Years later, the song remains a fixture in every bar from Abilene to Amarillo, a perfect piece of Western swing engineering. History eventually caught up to the lyrics, as Lyndia herself became just another name on the long list of Shafer’s former wives. The upbeat tempo masks the alimony, and the steel guitar rings out over the wreckage of a life turned into a chorus.

“I AM NOT ASKING FOR A HERO, JUST SOMEONE TO REMAIN UNTIL THE LIGHTS GO DOWN,” KENNY ROGERS MUTTERED TO THE ENGINEER BEFORE LAYING DOWN THE VOCAL TRACK. He had sung thousands of lines about high-stakes risks and lonesome train rides, but this specific take demanded a vulnerability that made the studio air feel thin. It was the sound of a man who had sold his soul to the industry finally stopping to ask the room if anyone could hear him. Kenny Rogers spent forty years as a professional fixture, a man who projected the image of the invincible gambler and the steady hand in a chaotic world. His voice was a reliable comfort to millions, a deep, warm anchor for listeners who viewed him as someone who always possessed the right answer or the perfect piece of stoic advice. But when the house lights dimmed and the applause faded, that projection often left a heavy, suffocating silence in the dressing room that no amount of platinum records could fill. In 1997, while recording for the album Across My Heart, Rogers stepped away from the usual bravado and the polished, radio-ready persona that defined his later years. He entered the booth to record “See Me Through,” a track that bypassed the typical commercial polish to reveal a man tired of being the permanent pillar of strength. It was not a desperate reach for sympathy, but a quiet, honest confession that the person everyone relies upon is often the one struggling the most to find a reason to remain standing. The song remains a masterclass in professional restraint. There is no soaring crescendo, only the weary, grounded weight of a man asking for someone to simply sit with him through the static. He stopped trying to be the hero for three minutes and instead acknowledged the fragile reality that persists after the spotlight finally goes cold.

“JUST LET ME HAVE THE LAST WORD ON THIS ONE, KENNY,” DOLLY WHISPERED WHILE ADJUSTING HER HEADPHONES. He laughed, that deep rumble hitting the monitors, and let her steer the final chorus into a place neither had planned. The resulting take turned a tired pop standard into an intimate negotiation between two heavyweights who knew exactly how much space to leave for each other. There was an uncanny ease in the way Kenny and Dolly occupied a microphone together, a kind of shorthand that only comes from decades of shared road grease and lonely hotel rooms. When they decided to track that old rhythm and blues staple, Love Is Strange, they weren’t looking for a radio hit. They were looking for the space between the notes, that quiet, dusty air where two lifelong friends could just talk. Kenny brought the heavy, grounded weight of a man who had seen too much, while Dolly possessed that sharp, silver-tongued wit that could cut through any pretense in the room. They didn’t just harmonize; they engaged in a playful, dangerous dance of familiarity. Most duets are forced marriages of convenience, calculated in executive boardrooms to shift units. This was something else entirely. It sounded like an unscripted conversation, a series of knowing glances caught on tape where the melody mattered less than the subtext. You can hear them smiling through the vocal booths, leaning into each other with the kind of comfort that only exists when you stop trying to impress the world and start paying attention to the person standing right next to you. In the final mix, the gloss of the production fades into the background, leaving only the sound of two distinct lives briefly overlapping. It serves as a reminder that the most authentic music often happens when the cameras stop rolling and the tape is left running, capturing the simple, fragile beauty of a human connection that requires no explanation at all.

DOLLY PARTON LIVED HER ENTIRE LIFE IN THE PUBLIC EYE, YET IT TOOK HER FINAL EXIT FOR THE WORLD TO FINALLY SEE THE WOMAN BEHIND THE RHINESTONES. Sally Field stepped onto the stage at the 78th Emmy Awards, not as a Hollywood peer, but as a grieving friend who had known the person that the stage lights usually obscured. Her voice cracked, not with the practiced polish of a televised tribute, but with the raw weight of a woman who remembered the quiet, humbler days on the set of Steel Magnolias. She spoke of the humanity that lived underneath the wigs and the industry machinery, grounding the glittery spectacle in a very human sorrow that transcended the screen. Reba McEntire followed, wearing Dolly’s own butterfly ring—a tactile, heavy piece of history that seemed to vibrate with the ghost of its original owner. As she began “Appalachian Memories,” a grainy clip of Dolly introduced the song, creating a ghostly duet across decades. It was a stark, jarring reminder that while the voice in the recording was immortal, the breathing, weeping woman who once walked the Smoky Mountain ridges was gone. The room went quiet as Reba navigated the song’s mountain roots. There were no cameras for the moments that mattered most to Dolly, only the cold, bright light of the stage and the weight of a jewelry piece that felt far heavier than gold. When the music stopped, the silence that hung in the theater felt less like a ceremony and more like the heavy, still air of a mountain hollow at dusk.