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The Everly Brothers – “This Little Girl Of Mine”

5 Everly Brothers Covers That Show the Duo's Eerie, Enduring Influence | Pitchfork

About the Song

The Everly Brothers were one of the most influential and popular rock and roll duos of all time. Their close harmonies and infectious energy helped to define the sound of early rock and roll, and their songs have been covered by countless artists.

“This Little Girl of Mine” is one of The Everly Brothers’ most beloved songs. It was written by Ray Charles and released in 1958. The song is a sweet and tender ballad about a young man’s love for his girlfriend. The Everly Brothers’ harmonies are simply beautiful, and their vocals are full of emotion.

The song was a commercial success, reaching number one on the Billboard Hot 100 chart. It has also been covered by many other artists, including Roy Orbison, The Beatles, and The Beach Boys.

“This Little Girl of Mine” is a classic example of the Everly Brothers’ sound. It is a beautiful and timeless song that will continue to be enjoyed by music lovers for generations to come.

Here are some interesting facts about the song:

  • The song was originally written by Ray Charles for his daughter, Ray Charles Jr.
  • The Everly Brothers’ version of the song was produced by Archie Bleyer.
  • The song was featured in the 1964 film “The Beatles Come to America”.
  • The song was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 2004.

The Everly Brothers: Rolling Stone Interview

Video 

Lyrics: This Little Girl Of Mine

This little girl of mine,
I want you people to know
This little girl of mine,
I take her everywhere I goOne day I looked at my suit, my suit was new
I looked at my shoes and they were too
And that’s why, why, why, why I oh yeah,
Love that little girl of mineThis little girl of mine,
Makes me happy when I’m sad
This little girl of mine,
Love’s me even when I’m badShe knows how to love me right down to her teeth
If she does any wrong, you know she keeps it from me
And that’s why, why, why, why I, oh yeah,
Love that little girl of mineAnd that’s why, why, why, why I, oh yeah,
Love that little girl of mine

This little girl of mine,
Called me last night about eight
This little girl of mine,
Told me that we had a date

She said that she’d meet me at a-quarter to nine,
Believe or not but she was right on time
And that’s why, why, why, why I, oh yeah,
Love that little girl of mine

This little girl of mine,
Knows how to dress so neat
This little girl of mine,
Stops the traffic on the street

And when a fella starts a-whistlin’, I don’t mind
I can’t blame him, ’cause she is fine
And that’s why, why, why, why I, oh yeah,
Love that little girl of mine

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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.

In the winter of 1956, Elvis Presley did not quietly arrive on the American scene; he tore through it like a shockwave. Breaking sharply away from the safe, coat-and-tie crooners who dominated black-and-white television screens, he introduced a raw, electric friction—dressed in bold, unconventional styles and moving with a physical freedom that sent tremors through polite society and left the older generation deeply unsettled. Network cameras scrambled, nervously cutting away or framing him strictly from the chest up to conceal the provocative rhythm of his performance, while mainstream critics dismissed the frenzy as a fleeting, vulgar fad. Yet every attempt to muzzle or contain him only added fuel to the fire. The harder the guardians of culture tried to push him back, the louder young America demanded to let him in.

Eighteen years ago, on an October morning in 2008, Lisa Marie Presley welcomed her twin daughters, Harper and Finley Lockwood, into a world already heavy with the echoes of a legendary grandfather. But beneath the flashing headlines and the inevitable weight of the Graceland lineage, they were simply her little girls—two bright, anchoring lights she fought fiercely to protect, nurture, and raise with a quiet normalcy the rest of the world could never quite understand. Today, those little girls have stepped across the threshold of adulthood, reaching a milestone that feels profoundly poignant. Lisa Marie is no longer here to watch them blow out the candles, but the fierce, protective love she poured into them remains woven into who they are—leaving behind two young women their mother would look upon today with a breathtaking, unbreakable pride.

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Oldies Musics

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.