The Greatest Oldies Music

Oldies Musics

The Contours – Do You Love Me (1962)

The Contours - Classic Motown

About the Song

“Do You Love Me” is a classic soul song written by Berry Gordy Jr. and recorded by The Contours in 1962. It became a number-one hit on the Billboard Hot 100 chart and has been covered by many famous artists.

The song is a heartfelt plea from a man to the woman he loves. The lyrics are simple but profound, expressing the desire to be loved and the fear of rejection.

“Do You Love Me” has some notable features:

  • Upbeat tempo: The fast and strong tempo with driving beat creates excitement and engagement in the song.
  • Vocals: Billy Gordon’s powerful and soulful vocals successfully conveyed the message of the song.
  • Chorus: The simple yet catchy chorus “Do you love me? Do you love me? Tell me now” has become a classic line in music.

“Do You Love Me” is a song that has had a major impact on American music. It is considered one of the greatest soul songs of all time and has been used in many movies and TV shows.

Here is some additional information about the song:

  • Year of release: 1962
  • Genre: Soul
  • Composer: Berry Gordy Jr.
  • Recorded by: The Contours
  • Charting: #1 Billboard Hot 100
  • Album: Do You Love Me (1962)

“Do You Love Me” is a timeless song that has stood the test of time. It brings the listener excitement, elation, and sincere emotions about love.

In addition, the song also has some famous cover versions performed by artists such as:

  • The Beatles
  • The Rolling Stones
  • Otis Redding
  • Stevie Wonder

Each version brings its own unique touch to the song, but all of them capture the vibrant energy and lasting influence of “Do You Love Me”.MOTOWN MONDAYS! SPOTLIGHTS ON THE CONTOURS – Motor City Radio Flashbacks

Video

Lyrics: Do You Love Me

You broke my heart
‘Cause I couldn’t dance
You didn’t even want me around
And now I’m back to let you know
I can really shake ’em down

Do you love me? (I can really move)
Do you love me? (I’m in the groove)
Now do you love me (do you love me?)
Now that I can dance? (dance)

Watch me now (work, work)
Oh, work it out, baby (work, work)
Well, you’re drivin’ me crazy (work, work)
With a little bit of soul now (work)

I can mash potato (I can mash potato)
And do the twist (I can do the twist)
Now tell me, baby (tell me, baby)
Do you like it like this? (do you like it like this?)
Tell me (tell me)
Tell me

Do you love me? (do you love me?)
Now do you love me? (do you love me?)
Now do you love me (do you love me?)
Now that I can dance? (dance)
Dance

Watch me now (work, work)
Oh, shake it up, shake it (work, work)
Oh, shake ’em, shake ’em down (work, work)
Oh, little bit of soul now (work)

(Work, work)
Oh, shake it, shake it, baby (work, work)
Oh, you’re driving me crazy (work, work)
Oh, don’t get lazy (work)

I can mash potato (I can mash potato)
Do the twist (I can do the twist)
Well, now tell me, baby (tell me, baby)
Do you like it like this? (do you like it like this?)
Tell me (tell me)
Tell me

Oh, do you love me? (do you love me?)
Now do you love me? (do you love me?)
Now do you love me? (do you love me?)
(Now, now, now)

(Hey! work, work)
Oh, work it out, baby (work, work)
Well, you’re driving me crazy (work, work)
Oh, don’t you get lazy (work)

(Work, work)
Oh, hey, baby (work, work)
Well, you’re driving me crazy (work, work)

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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.