B. J. Thomas – Hooked on a Feeling

Hooked on a Feeling - song and lyrics by B.J. Thomas | Spotify

About the Song

Before Blue Swede’s iconic cover took the world by storm in 1973, “Hooked on a Feeling” belonged to B.J. Thomas. Released in 1968 on his album “On My Way,” Thomas’s original version laid the groundwork for this enduring pop anthem.

The song’s charm lies in its infectious melody and relatable lyrics. Written by Mark James, the song captures the youthful innocence of infatuation. Thomas’s smooth vocals deliver lines like “I’m hooked on a feeling, I’m high on believing” with a touch of boyish wonder. The lyrics paint a picture of a young man completely consumed by his feelings for someone special.

What truly elevates the song is the unique instrumentation. Featuring the distinctive sound of the electric sitar, played by guitarist Reggie Young, “Hooked on a Feeling” injects a touch of psychedelic flair into its pop core. The result is a sound that’s both familiar and fresh, perfectly capturing the carefree spirit of the late 1960s.

B.J. Thomas’s “Hooked on a Feeling” may be overshadowed by its more famous cover, but it holds its own as a significant contribution to pop music history. The song’s infectious energy, relatable lyrics, and unique instrumentation continue to resonate with listeners today. It’s a reminder of the power of a catchy melody and the universal experience of young love.

B.J. Thomas, 'Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head' Singer, Dead at 78 – Rolling Stone

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Lyrics: Hooked on a Feeling

I can’t stop this feelin’
Deep inside of me
Girl, you just don’t realize
What you do to meWhen you hold me in your arms so tight
You let me know everything’s alrightI
I’m hooked on a feelin’
High on believin’
That you’re in love with meLips are sweet as candy
The taste stays on my mind
Girl, you keep me thirsty
For another cup of wineI got it bad for you, girl
But I don’t need a cure
I’ll just stay addicted
And hope I can endureAll the good love when we’re all alone
Keep it up girl, yeah you turn me onI
I’m hooked on a feelin’
High on believin’
That you’re in love with me

All the good love when we’re all alone
Keep it up girl, yeah you turn me on

I
I’m hooked on a feelin’
I’m high on believin’
That you’re in love with me

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.

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.

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.

Tucked away in a private drawer, far from the polished sets of her television show, lay a bundle of 341 letters. These were not press clippings or scripts; they were brittle, handwritten testimonies from servicemen stationed in remote barracks, deep in war-torn tunnels, and across desolate battlefields. During the long years of the Second World War, as Hollywood presented a glossy, curated image of American life, Donna Reed spent her nights reading these letters and, more remarkably, personally answering them. This was the quiet, invisible work that defined her, long before the public labeled her the quintessential television mother. Behind the camera during her production years, Reed was a different person entirely. She was rarely seen holding a script for a scene; she was more likely to be found hunched over lighting diagrams or studying the intricacies of cinematography. She possessed an uncredited producer’s mind, constantly analyzing how the frame could better reflect the reality of the family she was trying to depict. The studio environment was frequently cold and high-pressured, but she moved through it with a meticulous attention to detail that frustrated those who wanted to treat her as merely another pretty face in the cast. These tactile remnants—the stacks of ink-stained paper and the forgotten notes on camera angles—tell the story of a woman who never truly fit the box Hollywood built for her. While the world remembers the steady, comforting image of a television home, she lived a life carved out of hard labor and deep empathy. She carried the weight of those soldiers’ stories and the technical burdens of the studio floor until her final days, forever balancing the fragility of her public image against the demanding, gritty reality of her actual life.