The Greatest Oldies Music

Country

Joey + Rory – That’s Important To Me

About the Song

Joey+Rory were known for their genuine, heartfelt approach to country music, and one of their standout tracks, “That’s Important to Me,” perfectly exemplifies their ability to blend personal stories with universal themes. Released as part of their 2012 album His and Hers, this song encapsulates the simplicity and beauty of their relationship, both as musical partners and as a married couple. Written and performed with warmth and sincerity, “That’s Important to Me” speaks to the importance of finding joy in the simple things in life—those moments and values that truly matter, and that shape who we are.

In this song, Joey Feek’s sweet and pure vocals, complemented by Rory’s distinctive voice, create a sense of intimacy that draws listeners in. The lyrics are tender yet profound, reflecting the couple’s deep appreciation for life, love, and faith. The song’s central theme revolves around the idea that material wealth and worldly success are secondary to the meaningful experiences and relationships that define our lives. Whether it’s the quiet moments spent with family, the love shared between a couple, or the faith that anchors them through life’s challenges, these are the things that truly matter.

What makes “That’s Important to Me” so special is the honesty and authenticity with which Joey and Rory deliver their message. The song is not just about their personal values but resonates with anyone who holds dear the simple, meaningful aspects of life. The gentle country instrumentation, with its acoustic guitar and soft rhythm, adds to the song’s comforting and intimate feel, creating an atmosphere that is both soothing and uplifting.

For Joey and Rory, the song also served as a reminder of what was most important to them during a period of personal struggle, as Joey was battling terminal cancer at the time of the album’s release. Their unwavering faith and love for each other shone through in the song, making it even more poignant and meaningful for their fans.

“That’s Important to Me” is not just a song—it’s a heartfelt reflection on what truly matters in life, a message that continues to resonate with audiences long after Joey’s passing. It reminds us all to focus on the things that bring us true happiness, the relationships and moments that make life worth living. Joey+Rory’s legacy lives on through songs like this, filled with love, faith, and the kind of wisdom that only comes from living a life that truly matters.

Video 

Lyrics: That’s Important To Me

Not planning our day around a TV set
Paying our bills and staying out of debt
That’s important to me
That’s important to meOpening the windows and letting in air
Holding hands when we’re saying a prayer
That’s important to me
Yeah, that’s important to meHaving somebody to share my life
Loving my husband and being a wife
And the very best mother I can be
That’s important to meTelling the truth and being real
Feeding my family a home cooked meal
That’s important to me
That’s important to mePlanting a garden and watching it grow
Keeping it country on the radio
That’s important to me
Yeah, that’s important to me

Always having you to hold
Being beside you when we grow old
And they plant us ‘neath that big old tree
That’s important to me

Always having you to hold
Being beside you when we grow old
And they plant us ‘neath that big old tree

Believing our dreams will take us somewhere
Still being ourselves if we ever get there
That’s important to me
That’s important to me

Yeah, that’s important to me
That’s important to me

That’s important to me

 

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Patsy stood in a dress she felt was a costume, fighting the producer’s demand to sing a song she genuinely disliked. The studio lights at Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts burned hot that January night in 1957. Patsy stood backstage with a heart set on performing a different ballad, holding a vision of her own career that didn’t include the uptempo swing of a song she found tedious. She wanted the emotional weight of a country tear-jerker; the producer wanted a hit. The pressure in that dressing room was palpable, a quiet collision between an artist’s stubborn intuition and the cold machinery of television producers who cared more about broadcast tempo than personal conviction. She walked out there wearing a cocktail dress instead of her usual cowgirl gear, an image she felt didn’t belong to her. As the cameras rolled, she surrendered to the arrangement. She sang those lyrics she didn’t care for, her voice cutting through the air with a clean, haunting authority that demanded the nation’s attention. By the time the final note hung in the rafters, she hadn’t just won a competition; she had fundamentally altered the trajectory of her life. The audience erupted, and Arthur Godfrey broke protocol to tell her she had secured the victory before the commercial break even arrived. Success is often a fickle companion that arrives wearing the face of a stranger. That song, the one she fought against until the very last second, cemented her name on the charts and defined the sound of her breakthrough. She stood under those bright lights, the applause washing over a woman who had finally and accidentally found the exact sound the world was waiting for.

HANK WILLIAMS DIED A BROKEN MAN AT TWENTY-NINE, BUT NOT BEFORE HE RECORDED THE DEFINING SOUND OF EVERY OTHER BROKEN HEART THAT WOULD FOLLOW. The drive from Nashville to Shreveport was long, heavy with the humid scent of a failing life. Beside him in the front seat, Billie Jean Jones listened as the man who could voice the world’s grief began reciting lines that felt less like songwriting and more like a sentence being passed. He did not ask for a pen. He did not seek a melody. He simply spoke, his voice dry and weary, articulating a bitterness he had lived far too well. She’s got a cheatin’ heart, he said, and she’ll have to pay. He was describing the only thing he really knew how to hold onto: the feeling of being discarded. Weeks later, inside the stark, claustrophobic confines of Castle Studio, the atmosphere was thick with the weight of a dying genius. Don Helms lifted his steel guitar, coaxing a sound that did not just play, but wept. It was a mournful, sliding cry that seemed to hold all the loneliness of the Tennessee hills. Hank stood before the microphone, frail and hollow, pushing his voice to hit the edges of a truth he had already surrendered to. He sang with a terrifying clarity, unaware that these tapes would soon become the only ghost he left behind in the dark, quiet space of a post-New Year’s room.

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Patsy stood in a dress she felt was a costume, fighting the producer’s demand to sing a song she genuinely disliked. The studio lights at Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts burned hot that January night in 1957. Patsy stood backstage with a heart set on performing a different ballad, holding a vision of her own career that didn’t include the uptempo swing of a song she found tedious. She wanted the emotional weight of a country tear-jerker; the producer wanted a hit. The pressure in that dressing room was palpable, a quiet collision between an artist’s stubborn intuition and the cold machinery of television producers who cared more about broadcast tempo than personal conviction. She walked out there wearing a cocktail dress instead of her usual cowgirl gear, an image she felt didn’t belong to her. As the cameras rolled, she surrendered to the arrangement. She sang those lyrics she didn’t care for, her voice cutting through the air with a clean, haunting authority that demanded the nation’s attention. By the time the final note hung in the rafters, she hadn’t just won a competition; she had fundamentally altered the trajectory of her life. The audience erupted, and Arthur Godfrey broke protocol to tell her she had secured the victory before the commercial break even arrived. Success is often a fickle companion that arrives wearing the face of a stranger. That song, the one she fought against until the very last second, cemented her name on the charts and defined the sound of her breakthrough. She stood under those bright lights, the applause washing over a woman who had finally and accidentally found the exact sound the world was waiting for.

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HANK WILLIAMS DIED A BROKEN MAN AT TWENTY-NINE, BUT NOT BEFORE HE RECORDED THE DEFINING SOUND OF EVERY OTHER BROKEN HEART THAT WOULD FOLLOW. The drive from Nashville to Shreveport was long, heavy with the humid scent of a failing life. Beside him in the front seat, Billie Jean Jones listened as the man who could voice the world’s grief began reciting lines that felt less like songwriting and more like a sentence being passed. He did not ask for a pen. He did not seek a melody. He simply spoke, his voice dry and weary, articulating a bitterness he had lived far too well. She’s got a cheatin’ heart, he said, and she’ll have to pay. He was describing the only thing he really knew how to hold onto: the feeling of being discarded. Weeks later, inside the stark, claustrophobic confines of Castle Studio, the atmosphere was thick with the weight of a dying genius. Don Helms lifted his steel guitar, coaxing a sound that did not just play, but wept. It was a mournful, sliding cry that seemed to hold all the loneliness of the Tennessee hills. Hank stood before the microphone, frail and hollow, pushing his voice to hit the edges of a truth he had already surrendered to. He sang with a terrifying clarity, unaware that these tapes would soon become the only ghost he left behind in the dark, quiet space of a post-New Year’s room.

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