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Donna Fargo – Funny Face

Funny Face - song and lyrics by Donna Fargo | Spotify

About the Song

Donna Fargo‘s song “Funny Face” is a timeless classic that blends the charm of country music with the warmth of love and admiration. Released in the early 1970s, this song quickly became one of her signature hits, solidifying her place in the hearts of country music fans worldwide.

The song’s lyrics are a celebration of the unique and endearing qualities of a loved one. Donna Fargo sings about the playful, quirky nature of her significant other’s personality, calling them her “funny face.” There’s an undeniable affection in the way Fargo expresses her love, and it’s that genuine emotion that resonates deeply with listeners. It’s not just a love song; it’s an ode to those little imperfections and charming traits that make someone truly special. Her voice, both warm and inviting, is perfect for conveying this message of love and acceptance.

“Funny Face” stands out in its simplicity. The melody is catchy yet not overbearing, creating a pleasant backdrop for the heartfelt lyrics. The song features an upbeat rhythm that keeps it light and fun, making it perfect for a wide range of listeners. It’s a song that can lift spirits, reminding us that love doesn’t need to be perfect to be beautiful. Fargo’s delivery is so sincere that it feels like she’s speaking directly to the listener, inviting them into her world of affection and admiration.

For fans of country music and those who appreciate genuine storytelling, Donna Fargo’s “Funny Face” remains a beloved piece of musical history. It’s a song that captures the essence of what it means to love someone wholeheartedly and without reservation. Whether you’ve heard it a thousand times or are discovering it for the first time, the song’s timeless charm continues to shine through, making it as relevant today as it was when it was first released.DONNA FARGO SIGNED PROMO PHOTO COUNTRY SINGER LIVE INK ORIGINAL AUTOGRAPH 8x10" | eBay

Video 

Lyrics: Funny Face 

Funny face, I love you
Funny face, I need you
My whole worlds wrapped up in you

When the road I walk seems all up hill
And the colors in my rainbow turn blue
You kiss the tears away
You smile at me and say
Funny face, funny face I love you

Funny face, I love you
Funny face, I need you
These are the sweetest words I’ve ever heard
Funny face, don’t leave me
Funny face, believe me
My whole worlds wrapped up in you

And when I hurt your feelings as I sometimes do
And I say those mean things that we know are not true
You forgive my childish ways
You hold me close and say
Funny face, funny face I love you

Funny face, I love you
Funny face, I need you
These are the sweetest words I’ve ever heard
Funny face, don’t leave me
Funny face, believe me
My whole worlds wrapped up in you

Funny face, I love you
Funny face, I need you
These are the sweetest words I’ve ever heard
Funny face, don’t leave me
Funny face, believe me
My whole worlds wrapped up in you

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FIRST RECORD GEORGE JONES EVER CUT DIDN’T SOUND LIKE A LEGEND BEING BORN — IT SOUNDED LIKE A NERVOUS 22-YEAR-OLD IN A SMALL TEXAS HOUSE, TRYING TO SING OVER THE NOISE OF PASSING TRUCKS. The song was one he had written himself, and the title was almost too perfect: “No Money in This Deal.” It was not Nashville. It was not a polished studio. It was Jack Starnes’ home studio — small, rough, and so poorly soundproofed that trucks passing on the highway could ruin a take. George Jones later remembered egg crates nailed to the walls, and sometimes they had to stop recording because the outside noise came through. He was twenty-two years old, fresh out of the Marines, still trying to sound like Lefty Frizzell, Hank Williams, and every hero he had studied. At the time, it sounded like a young man’s joke. But looking back, the title feels almost prophetic. There really was no money in that room. No fame. No guarantee. No crowd waiting outside. Just a nervous young singer, a cheap recording setup, and a voice that had not yet learned it was going to break millions of hearts. And years later, George Jones would admit the strangest part about that first record: the voice that became one of country music’s greatest was still trying to sound like somebody else. But what George Jones later confessed about that first recording makes the whole story even more haunting — because before the world heard “the Possum,” George Jones was still hiding behind the voices of other men.

SHE SANG WHAT WOMEN WHISPERED — AND THE WHOLE WORLD WENT QUIET. They didn’t call her a singer. They called her a problem. Loretta Lynn walked into Nashville with coal dust still on her boots and songs that made record labels nervous. Not because she couldn’t sing. Because she could — and she was saying things women had been swallowing for years. Cheating husbands. Tired wives. The kind of truths that don’t belong in polite conversation. She put them in a microphone anyway. Women in the audience didn’t just clap. They exhaled. Like someone had finally said it out loud — the thing they’d been carrying alone in the kitchen, in the silence after the door slammed, in the years they smiled when they didn’t mean it. Loretta never wrote for radio. She wrote for the woman in the back row who thought nobody understood. She was wrong — somebody did. Do you remember the song that made you feel less alone — or did Loretta already know which one it was?

IN 1951, A 4-FOOT-10 GRAND OLE OPRY STAR WALKED ONTO A LOCAL PHOENIX TV SHOW, HEARD AN UNKNOWN ARIZONA SINGER, AND OPENED THE DOOR NASHVILLE HAD NOT YET SEEN. His name was Little Jimmy Dickens. He was 30, already an Opry favorite, riding the road as one of country music’s most recognizable little giants. The young man hosting the local show was Martin David Robinson — the Arizona singer who would soon be known to the world as Marty Robbins. He was 25, still far from Nashville, still trying to turn a desert-town dream into a life. Marty Robbins had built his world in Glendale, Arizona. A Navy veteran. A husband to Marizona. A morning radio voice. A man who had once sung in Phoenix clubs under another name so his mother would not know. Then came a 15-minute TV slot on KPHO-TV called Western Caravan. Marty Robbins sang. Marty Robbins wrote songs. Marty Robbins waited for a town that had never heard his name. Little Jimmy Dickens was passing through Phoenix when he appeared as a guest on Marty Robbins’ program. He sat down. He listened. And something in that voice stopped him. Little Jimmy Dickens did not hear a local singer trying to fill airtime. Little Jimmy Dickens heard a voice Nashville needed before Nashville knew it. Soon after, Little Jimmy Dickens helped Marty Robbins reach Columbia Records. That was the moment the door began to open. What did Little Jimmy Dickens hear in that unknown Arizona singer’s voice — before Columbia Records, before the Opry, before “El Paso,” and before the whole world finally heard it too?

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SHE SANG WHAT WOMEN WHISPERED — AND THE WHOLE WORLD WENT QUIET. They didn’t call her a singer. They called her a problem. Loretta Lynn walked into Nashville with coal dust still on her boots and songs that made record labels nervous. Not because she couldn’t sing. Because she could — and she was saying things women had been swallowing for years. Cheating husbands. Tired wives. The kind of truths that don’t belong in polite conversation. She put them in a microphone anyway. Women in the audience didn’t just clap. They exhaled. Like someone had finally said it out loud — the thing they’d been carrying alone in the kitchen, in the silence after the door slammed, in the years they smiled when they didn’t mean it. Loretta never wrote for radio. She wrote for the woman in the back row who thought nobody understood. She was wrong — somebody did. Do you remember the song that made you feel less alone — or did Loretta already know which one it was?

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IN 1951, A 4-FOOT-10 GRAND OLE OPRY STAR WALKED ONTO A LOCAL PHOENIX TV SHOW, HEARD AN UNKNOWN ARIZONA SINGER, AND OPENED THE DOOR NASHVILLE HAD NOT YET SEEN. His name was Little Jimmy Dickens. He was 30, already an Opry favorite, riding the road as one of country music’s most recognizable little giants. The young man hosting the local show was Martin David Robinson — the Arizona singer who would soon be known to the world as Marty Robbins. He was 25, still far from Nashville, still trying to turn a desert-town dream into a life. Marty Robbins had built his world in Glendale, Arizona. A Navy veteran. A husband to Marizona. A morning radio voice. A man who had once sung in Phoenix clubs under another name so his mother would not know. Then came a 15-minute TV slot on KPHO-TV called Western Caravan. Marty Robbins sang. Marty Robbins wrote songs. Marty Robbins waited for a town that had never heard his name. Little Jimmy Dickens was passing through Phoenix when he appeared as a guest on Marty Robbins’ program. He sat down. He listened. And something in that voice stopped him. Little Jimmy Dickens did not hear a local singer trying to fill airtime. Little Jimmy Dickens heard a voice Nashville needed before Nashville knew it. Soon after, Little Jimmy Dickens helped Marty Robbins reach Columbia Records. That was the moment the door began to open. What did Little Jimmy Dickens hear in that unknown Arizona singer’s voice — before Columbia Records, before the Opry, before “El Paso,” and before the whole world finally heard it too?