The Greatest Oldies Music

Oldies Musics

‘Tears of a Clown’ by Smokey Robinson & The Miracles

Smokey Robinson & the Miracles | iHeart

About the Song

Smokey Robinson & The Miracles’ “Tears of a Clown” is a timeless soul classic that showcases the group’s impeccable harmonies and Robinson’s emotive vocals. Released in 1970, the song quickly became a hit, reaching number one on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.

The song’s title is evocative, suggesting a deep sense of sorrow and despair. Robinson sings about a man who is heartbroken and alone, unable to shake off the sadness that has consumed him. The lyrics are filled with poignant imagery and heartfelt expressions of grief.

Robinson’s vocals are a highlight of the song, conveying the pain and anguish of the protagonist. The harmonies between Robinson and the other members of The Miracles are impeccable, adding depth and richness to the song. The instrumentation is understated, allowing the vocals and lyrics to take center stage.

“Tears of a Clown” is a powerful and moving song that has stood the test of time. Its message of heartbreak and loneliness is as relevant today as it was when the song was first released. The song’s timeless melody and soulful vocals have made it a classic of soul music.

Here are some additional points that you could include in your introduction:

  • The song’s historical context: “Tears of a Clown” was released in 1970, during the peak of the Motown era. It was one of the group’s biggest hits.
  • The song’s themes: The song explores themes of heartbreak, loneliness, and despair. It also touches on themes of love, loss, and regret.
  • The song’s musical style: “Tears of a Clown” is a soul song with a catchy melody and a soulful beat. The arrangement is simple yet effective, and the production is high-quality.
  • The song’s cultural impact: “Tears of a Clown” was a groundbreaking song that helped to define the sound of soul music. It also had a significant impact on popular culture, influencing other artists and inspiring countless fans.
  • The song’s legacy: “Tears of a Clown” remains a popular song today. It is often covered by other artists, and it is still played on radio stations around the world.

SMOKEY ROBINSON & THE MIRACLES: GOING TO A GO-GO - Classic Motown

Video

Lyrics: Tears of a Clown

Oh yeah, yeah, yeah

Now if there’s a smile on my face
It’s only there trying to fool the public
But when it comes down to fooling you
Now honey, that’s quite a different subject

But don’t let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression
Really, I’m sad
Oh, I’m sadder than sad
You’re gone and I’m hurtin’ so bad
Like a clown I pretend to be glad

Now there’s some sad things known to man
But ain’t too much sadder than
The tears of a clown
When there’s no one around

Oh yeah, baby

Now if I appear to be carefree
It’s only to camouflage my sadness
In order to shield my pride I’ve tried
To cover this hurt with a show of gladness

But don’t let my show convince you
That I’ve been happy since you
Decided to go
Oh, I need you so
I’m hurt and I want you to know
But for others I put on a show

Oh, there’s some sad things known to man
But there ain’t too much sadder than
The tears of a clown
When there’s no one around, oh yeah

Just like Pagliacci did
I try to keep my sadness hid
Smiling in the public eye
But in my lonely room I cry
The tears of a clown
When there’s no one around

Oh yeah, baby

Now if there’s a smile on my face
Don’t let my glad expression
Give you the wrong impression
Don’t let this smile I wear
Make you think that I don’t care
Really, I’m sad
Hurtin’ so bad

Related Post

STONEWALL JACKSON ASKED TOM T. HALL TO WRITE A PRISON SONG, BUT HALL COULD NOT DO IT BECAUSE HE HAD NEVER ACTUALLY BEEN TO PRISON. Tom T. Hall spent his early career turning out the kind of polished, commercial hits that Nashville publishers lived for. He could write what people expected, but he always felt like a fraud. When Stonewall Jackson approached him requesting a prison song—hoping to capture that rugged, authentic aura Johnny Cash was building—Hall hit a wall. He stared at his notepad, realized he had no genuine experience with a cell, and flatly refused to fake it. He was a songwriter, not an actor, and his pride kept him from writing about a world he didn’t know. His wife, Dixie, cut through the tension with a simple reminder: he had indeed spent a week in a county jail in Kentucky after a traffic violation. That memory was not cinematic or heroic. It was just mundane, quiet, and uncomfortable. It involved bad food, the sound of iron bars, and the slow, agonizing crawl of days where the jailer’s wife suddenly started looking like the most beautiful woman on earth. He stopped writing songs that invented generic situations and started reporting the people and places he actually encountered. The result was his first number one hit, written like a man telling a story across a kitchen table. Stonewall Jackson never got his song, but Hall finally found his own voice in the silence of that jail cell.

Elvis Presley did not go to Hollywood simply because he wanted to be a movie star. He wanted to act. He admired performers such as James Dean and Marlon Brando and hoped that, given the right material, audiences might eventually see him as more than the singer whose voice and movements had turned popular culture upside down.

Long before the private planes, expensive cars and Graceland, Elvis Presley knew what it meant to live with very little. His childhood in Tupelo stayed with him even after fame transformed his life. Money changed what Elvis could afford, but it never completely erased the memory of struggling.

You Missed

Country

A BROKEN CONSOLE GAVE MARTY ROBBINS’ “DON’T WORRY” A SOUND NOBODY COULD RECREATE. SO AN ENGINEER BUILT A DEVICE TO COPY THE MISTAKE — AND FUZZ GUITAR WAS BORN. Grady Martin sat in a Nashville studio with a six-string Danelectro bass, expecting to lay down a standard session. Instead, a transformer inside the recording console gave up the ghost. It sputtered and spat, shredding the signal into a jagged, compressed roar that defied the clean, polished aesthetic of the era. Rather than pulling the plug, Robbins and engineer Glenn Snoddy kept the take. They knew the electricity felt raw, dangerous, and entirely alive. When the record hit the airwaves in 1961, musicians swarmed the booth asking how they had coaxed such a sound from the iron. The truth was far more mundane: it was a mechanical failure that vanished as soon as the broken desk was repaired. Snoddy spent months chasing that phantom resonance, tearing apart circuits and twisting wires in a desperate attempt to capture the lightning he had accidentally bottled during those few minutes of tracking. Eventually, he teamed with Revis Hobbs to manufacture the defect. They built a transistor circuit to replicate the clipping signal, birthing the Maestro FZ-1 Fuzz-Tone. What started as a piece of dying equipment in a country studio became the sonic signature of rock and roll. The distortion lived on, divorced from the original machine, lingering in the static of every feedback-heavy solo that followed long after the console was discarded.

Country

BUCK OWENS WAS SO TERRIFIED OF MANHATTAN THAT HE ALMOST TURNED DOWN THE CHANCE TO PLAY THE MOST FAMOUS STAGE IN THE WORLD. By the spring of 1966, Buck Owens was the undisputed king of the airwaves. His records didn’t just top the charts; they defined a new, muscular strain of country music born in the dance halls of Bakersfield. While Nashville was busy adding strings and polishing edges to court pop audiences, Buck stayed true to the biting twang of his Telecaster and the relentless drive of his band, the Buckaroos. He was a force of nature in California, but the thought of carrying that raw sound into the hallowed halls of New York City rattled him to his core. He actually instructed his manager to decline the invitation to Carnegie Hall. He didn’t believe the Manhattan crowd would understand the Bakersfield sound, fearing his music would die in that cavernous, high-brow room. When he finally walked onto that stage on March 25, he didn’t bring a watered-down version of his act. He brought Don Rich on fiddle, Tom Brumley on steel, and a rhythmic precision that had been tempered by thousands of hours of playing roadhouses. They tore through the set with a jagged, high-octane intensity that didn’t require a single edit for the live album. There was no pretense, no apology, and no Nashville smoothing. By the time they finished, the urban elite were left with nothing to do but listen to the honest, unvarnished truth of a working man’s music vibrating off the walls.

Oldies Musics

STONEWALL JACKSON ASKED TOM T. HALL TO WRITE A PRISON SONG, BUT HALL COULD NOT DO IT BECAUSE HE HAD NEVER ACTUALLY BEEN TO PRISON. Tom T. Hall spent his early career turning out the kind of polished, commercial hits that Nashville publishers lived for. He could write what people expected, but he always felt like a fraud. When Stonewall Jackson approached him requesting a prison song—hoping to capture that rugged, authentic aura Johnny Cash was building—Hall hit a wall. He stared at his notepad, realized he had no genuine experience with a cell, and flatly refused to fake it. He was a songwriter, not an actor, and his pride kept him from writing about a world he didn’t know. His wife, Dixie, cut through the tension with a simple reminder: he had indeed spent a week in a county jail in Kentucky after a traffic violation. That memory was not cinematic or heroic. It was just mundane, quiet, and uncomfortable. It involved bad food, the sound of iron bars, and the slow, agonizing crawl of days where the jailer’s wife suddenly started looking like the most beautiful woman on earth. He stopped writing songs that invented generic situations and started reporting the people and places he actually encountered. The result was his first number one hit, written like a man telling a story across a kitchen table. Stonewall Jackson never got his song, but Hall finally found his own voice in the silence of that jail cell.

Country

A KENTUCKY BASEMENT DEMO RECORDED ON A HANDHELD DEVICE BROKE NASHVILLE’S POLISHED MACHINE AND CHANGED COUNTRY RADIO FOREVER. In 1999, the Nashville establishment was drowning in pop-leaning, heavily produced crossover records that kept their distance from the rural grit of Kentucky. When label executives finally arrived at Troy Gentry’s mother’s house, they weren’t looking for a revolution; they were just checking the inventory. Sitting on folding chairs, they held a cheap handheld recorder, capturing the raw, bluegrass-leaning bones of “Hillbilly Shoes.” It was supposed to be a polite audition, but Eddie Montgomery and Troy Gentry were playing with an intensity that didn’t know how to keep quiet. They didn’t want the polish. They wanted the friction of George Jones rubbed against the serrated edge of Lynyrd Skynyrd. When they hit the studio, they injected electric teeth into those bluegrass skeletons, layering thick rock riffs and sawing fiddles over a rhythm section that hit like a physical force. The song hit Billboard charts two weeks before it was even scheduled for release, effectively forcing the label’s hand and moving the entire release date of their debut album forward. By the time the 2000 CMA Awards rolled around, the industry had no choice but to recognize the shift. The duo snatched the Vocal Duo of the Year title, ending an eight-year dynasty. That trophy was a heavy, cold reminder that authentic, boot-mudded country had finally reclaimed its rightful territory.