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Am I That Easy To Forget – Marty Robbins

About the Song

Released in 1968, “Am I That Easy To Forget” is a poignant and heartfelt ballad by the legendary country music singer, Marty Robbins. This song, like many of Robbins’ works, delves deep into the complexities of love, loss, and longing. It’s a testament to the enduring power of his music that this song continues to resonate with listeners decades after its release.

The song paints a vivid picture of a heartbroken individual grappling with the aftermath of a failed relationship. The lyrics, filled with raw emotion and vulnerability, explore themes of unrequited love, betrayal, and the lingering hope for reconciliation. Robbins’ soulful vocals and the song’s melancholic melody combine to create a truly immersive listening experience.

“Am I That Easy To Forget” is more than just a love song; it’s a reflection on the human condition. The idea of being forgotten by someone you love deeply is a universal fear, and Robbins captures this sentiment with such authenticity that it’s easy to connect with his pain. The song’s title itself is a question that lingers in the listener’s mind, inviting contemplation on the nature of memory and the permanence of love.

One of the most striking aspects of this song is its simplicity. There are no complex arrangements or over-the-top production techniques to distract from the raw emotion of the lyrics. Instead, Robbins relies on his powerful voice and the song’s straightforward melody to convey his message. This stripped-down approach allows the listener to focus on the heart of the song and connect with its deeper meaning.

Marty Robbins was a master of storytelling, and “Am I That Easy To Forget” is a prime example of his storytelling abilities. Through his music, he was able to connect with audiences on a deep emotional level, and his songs have become timeless classics. This particular song is a must-listen for anyone who appreciates heartfelt country music and the power of a well-written ballad.

Video 

Lyrics: Am I That Easy To Forget

They say you’ve found somebody new
But that won’t stop my lovin’ you
I just can’t let you walk away
Forget the love I had for youGuess I could find somebody, too
But I don’t want no one but you
How could you leave without regret
Am I that easy to forgetBefore you leave be sure you find
You want his love much more than mine
‘Cause I’ll just say we’ve never met
If I’m that easy to forgetBefore you leave be sure you find
You want his love much more than mine
‘Cause I’ll just say we’ve never met
If I’m that easy to forgetIf I’m that easy to forget

 

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HIS FATHER TOLD HIM TO PUT DOWN THE GUITAR. NASHVILLE FORGOT HIM. TWICE. HE CAME BACK IN A WHEELCHAIR AND STILL WOULDN’T SHUT UP. Vern Gosdin grew up hauling rocks and chopping cotton in Woodland, Alabama. His father tried music once, failed, and forbade his son from ever touching a guitar. Vern left home and never looked back — never saw his father again. He moved to California. Then Chicago. Then Nashville. Two record labels went bankrupt under him. Nobody called. Nobody came looking. So he quit, moved to Georgia, and sold glass for a living. But he kept a guitar in his truck. In the late ’70s, he crawled back to Nashville — older, broker, and angrier than every pretty boy on country radio. He didn’t sound trendy. He sounded like a man who’d been through hell and could prove it. Then he wrote “Chiseled in Stone” and beat every superstar in town for CMA Song of the Year. Tammy Wynette called him “the only singer who can hold a candle to George Jones.” In 1998, a stroke stole his voice. He kept writing from a wheelchair. 101 songs. Still fighting. They called him “The Voice.” Nashville called him too late. Does knowing how many times Vern Gosdin had to start over make “Chiseled in Stone” hit even harder now?

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HIS FATHER TOLD HIM TO PUT DOWN THE GUITAR. NASHVILLE FORGOT HIM. TWICE. HE CAME BACK IN A WHEELCHAIR AND STILL WOULDN’T SHUT UP. Vern Gosdin grew up hauling rocks and chopping cotton in Woodland, Alabama. His father tried music once, failed, and forbade his son from ever touching a guitar. Vern left home and never looked back — never saw his father again. He moved to California. Then Chicago. Then Nashville. Two record labels went bankrupt under him. Nobody called. Nobody came looking. So he quit, moved to Georgia, and sold glass for a living. But he kept a guitar in his truck. In the late ’70s, he crawled back to Nashville — older, broker, and angrier than every pretty boy on country radio. He didn’t sound trendy. He sounded like a man who’d been through hell and could prove it. Then he wrote “Chiseled in Stone” and beat every superstar in town for CMA Song of the Year. Tammy Wynette called him “the only singer who can hold a candle to George Jones.” In 1998, a stroke stole his voice. He kept writing from a wheelchair. 101 songs. Still fighting. They called him “The Voice.” Nashville called him too late. Does knowing how many times Vern Gosdin had to start over make “Chiseled in Stone” hit even harder now?

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THEY LOOKED LIKE FOUR OUTLAWS WHO COULD OUTRUN TIME ITSELF. BUT WHEN YOU WATCH THE HIGHWAYMEN SING “BIG RIVER” TODAY, THE EMPTY MICROPHONES BREAK YOUR HEART. Onstage, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, and Willie Nelson looked untouchable. Four weathered men, four different wounds, four voices that made country music sound dangerous, honest, and free. When they traded verses on Cash’s “Big River,” it wasn’t just another performance. It was four old brothers chasing the same song down the same river, each one carrying a piece of the road in his voice. Cash brought the thunder. Waylon brought the grit. Kris brought the broken-poet soul. Willie floated above it all with that calm, aching grace only he could carry. Back then, the stage lights made it easy to believe they would always be there. That was the beautiful lie of watching legends stand side by side. But time does what no outlaw ever could: it catches everyone. Today, Cash is gone. Waylon is gone. Kris has crossed the river too. Willie is the only one left, still playing, still standing, still carrying a brotherhood that can never fully gather again. That is why “Big River” feels different now. It is no longer just a song about chasing something you cannot hold. It feels like time itself moving past four men we were not ready to lose. The song remains. But three microphones are empty. Does “Big River” feel heavier now that Willie is the only one left to sing it?

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