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Greatest Hits Oldies But Goodies Ever

When Faith Hill stepped onto the Spontaneous Combustion Tour in the spring of 1996, she was wearing another man’s engagement ring and opening for Tim McGraw. At the time, Hill was engaged to Scott Hendricks, the Nashville producer behind her early records, while McGraw had recently ended a relationship of his own. Night after night on the road, McGraw stood at the side of the stage watching her set, and the distance between two tourmates quickly disappeared. Walking away from that engagement in the middle of a rising career came with a real cost. Nashville gossip was unforgiving toward a woman who left a respected producer, yet Hill chose to return the ring rather than step into a marriage when her heart already belonged somewhere else. On a rainy June 26, 1996, inside a dressing trailer at Country Jam in Grand Junction, Colorado, McGraw took her hands and asked her to marry him right before his show. He had to walk onstage before she gave him a serious answer. When he returned to the trailer, he found lipstick kisses and a note across his foldout dressing mirror, promising she would be his wife. That October 6, they invited family and friends to his aunt’s yard in Rayville, Louisiana, for what everyone thought was a charity softball game. Instead, expecting their first daughter, Gracie, Hill stepped off the bus in a simple white dress with pearls and stood barefoot in the grass to marry him under a tree. Thirty years and three daughters later, McGraw and Hill still keep that dressing room mirror from Colorado, a quiet piece of the summer she traded certainty for a life that lasted.

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When Tim McGraw and Faith Hill walked onto a makeshift baseball field in Rayville, Louisiana, on October 6, 1996, their own family members still thought they were there for a Sunday softball game and a concert.

Earlier that year, the idea of a quiet wedding under an oak tree at the home of McGraw’s aunt, Martha, would have seemed unlikely to almost everyone in Nashville. When rehearsals began in February 1996 for the Spontaneous Combustion Tour, the two twenty-eight-year-old singers were simply a headliner and an opening act with complicated personal lives.

They had met briefly in 1994 at a Nashville radio seminar, the Country Radio Seminar’s New Faces Show, barely exchanging a few words backstage. By the time McGraw’s management suggested Hill as his main tour opener two years later, both were already attached. Hill was engaged to Scott Hendricks, the veteran producer who had guided her first two albums, Take Me as I Am and It Matters to Me, to multi-platinum success. McGraw had just come out of his own broken engagement to Kristine Donahue.

Once the buses pulled out that March, the professional arrangement shifted quickly. McGraw stood in the wings night after night watching her set, while the two shared late meals and long conversations between cities. Leaving Hendricks meant walking away from both a fiancé and the studio partner behind her early career, and the music row rumor mill was hard on Hill when she called off the wedding that spring.

She made the break anyway. Before the tour even reached the middle of summer, the couple learned Hill was pregnant with their first child, turning a backstage romance into a permanent family decision.

On a rainy June 26, 1996, at the Country Jam festival in Grand Junction, Colorado, they stood inside McGraw’s small dressing house trailer — a portable unit with a foldout mirror and an silver storage trunk. Right before he was called to the stage, McGraw took her by the hands and asked her to marry him.

Hill laughed at first, telling him they had already talked about marriage before reminding him that an outdoor crowd was waiting for his set. McGraw went out and sang in the rain without an answer. When he walked back into the trailer afterward, a sharpie and red lipstick had been used to write her acceptance across the mirror glass: Yes! I’m gonna be your wife.

They kept the wedding plans hidden from the press by inviting guests to McGraw’s hometown area in Richland Parish for a day of softball and music. After the game, guests were asked to gather beneath a tree in his aunt’s yard. McGraw came out in a tuxedo, and Hill, three months pregnant, stepped off the bus in a simple white gown with pearls, kicking off her shoes to stand barefoot in the grass as they exchanged vows.

Their first daughter, Gracie, arrived in May 1997, the same spring their first duet, “It’s Your Love,” spent six weeks at No. 1 on the Billboard country chart and won top honors from the Country Music Association. A second daughter, Maggie, followed in August 1998, and their youngest, Audrey, was born prematurely in December 2001.

To keep their girls in one place during the school year, Hill stepped back from heavy solo touring for stretches of the 2000s, and the couple eventually created a family rule never to spend more than three days apart. When they did return to the road in 2000, 2006, and 2017 for their Soul2Soul tours, they brought the children along and traveled on the same bus.

In 2008, McGraw made another quiet shift for his family, giving up alcohol completely after Hill told him plainly that he had to choose between his hard-living habits on the road and the life they had built at home.

Nine years later, in 2017, they released their first full collaborative album, The Rest of Our Life, and in 2021 they acted side by side as Margaret and James Dutton in the television prequel 1883, playing a married pioneer couple crossing the plains.

Now, with all three daughters grown and pursuing lives of their own, McGraw and Hill still keep that old road case and foldout mirror from Grand Junction, the lipstick and ink still preserved from the rainy Colorado afternoon before he walked onstage.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=awzNHuGqoMc

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Harold Reid spent over 200 days a year making audiences laugh as the bass singer of The Statler Brothers, while his wife Brenda stayed back in Staunton, Virginia, raising their five children on her own. Long before the quartet toured with Johnny Cash or won Grammy and CMA awards, Harold married his high school sweetheart, Brenda Ann Fitzgerald, in 1959 when both were in their twenties. Even as the group’s fame grew from the 1970s through the 1990s, the couple refused to relocate to Nashville. They stayed in the Shenandoah Valley so their four daughters and one son, Kim, Karmen, Kodi, Kasey, and Wil, could attend local public schools and grow up in their hometown church. Whenever the tour bus pulled out of Staunton, Brenda managed the house and farm alone. She sat up through fevers, fixed broken household items, and drove the kids to school meetings or the emergency room without complaining over the phone so Harold could focus on the stage. At the large wooden dinner table, she included Harold in the nightly prayer, told the children which state their father was singing in that evening, and had them make small handmade gifts for his return. After cleaning the kitchen for six and putting the youngest to bed on winter nights, she often sat alone in the living room by the landline phone, waiting for his midnight call from a distant hotel or truck stop. Standing nearly six-foot-five and known as the group’s comedian, Harold shed his stage persona the moment he stepped off the bus to the smell of Brenda’s baking. He often told friends that his greatest pride was never a music trophy, but the wife who kept their home light burning for over sixty years. After Harold retired in 2002 and later battled kidney failure, Brenda and all five children, along with a family that grew to include thirteen grandchildren, stayed by his side until he passed away at age 80 on April 24, 2020.

In 1956, teenage brothers Don and Harold Reid saved their spare change in Staunton, Virginia, to buy Elvis Presley records, never imagining he would one day walk into a Hollywood studio to sing a song Don wrote at home. By November 1974, The Statler Brothers — Don Reid, Harold Reid, Phil Balsley, and Lew DeWitt — released “Susan When She Tried” on their album Sons of the Motherland. Written solely by Don Reid, the song stepped away from the standard heartbreak ballads of 1970s country radio. Instead of dwelling on misery, it honored a woman who quietly wiped her tears, fixed her makeup, and held her head high after a painful breakup. The single climbed to No. 15 on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart in early 1975. That message of quiet recovery soon reached Elvis Presley, who had long admired the quartet’s four-part gospel harmonies and was carrying his own private loneliness following his divorce from Priscilla Presley. On March 10 and 11, 1975, Presley stepped into RCA Studio C in Hollywood to record his own upbeat country-rock version of Don Reid’s song. Those March sessions proved to be the final professional recording studio dates of Presley’s life before he recorded exclusively at Graceland. Presley’s rendition appeared in April 1975 as the B-side to his single “T-R-O-U-B-L-E” and was featured on his album Today that May. When the advance record arrived in Virginia, the four bandmates gathered like kids to listen, falling silent the moment Presley’s voice filled the room with the melody Don had written at a wooden table back home. Even after winning Grammy and CMA awards, the Reid brothers kept a copy of Presley’s Today album in the place of honor in their Staunton memorabilia room.

At twenty-two, Eilleen Twain put her recording dreams on hold to raise her three younger siblings after a highway crash in northern Ontario took both of their parents. On November 1, 1987, her mother Sharon and stepfather Jerry died in a collision with a logging truck. Instead of pursuing music in Toronto, Eilleen became the legal guardian to nineteen-year-old Mark, eighteen-year-old Carrie-Ann, and fourteen-year-old Darryl. In 1988, manager Mary Bailey helped her land a steady singing job at Deerhurst Resort in Huntsville, Ontario. Eilleen moved the teenagers into a small nearby house, paid off their parents’ debts, and kept the family from being separated. Up to that point, she had sung country and rock in smoky bars wearing jeans, boots, and flannel shirts, or worked planting trees in the northern woods near Timmins. At Deerhurst, she had to headline Vegas-style revues like Viva Vegas and For the Love of Broadway, singing George Gershwin and Andrew Lloyd Webber twice a night, six days a week. Unused to high heels and choreography, she often stayed behind in the empty rehearsal room after the trained dancers went home, practicing steps in front of the mirror until she stopped stumbling. Because custom gowns were too expensive, she bought cheap fabric and bags of sequins, sitting at the kitchen table past midnight with needle-pricked fingers to sew her own stage dresses while her siblings slept. Once the curtain fell in front of the resort’s wealthy guests, she wiped off her makeup, put on a worn coat, and went home to pay winter heating bills, check homework, and make breakfast. In the summer of 1990, her youngest brother Darryl graduated from high school, and her siblings were old enough to stand on their own. Using the last of her Deerhurst savings, she recorded a country demo tape that soon reached producers in Nashville, where she took the name Shania Twain and carried every skill from that resort stage into her diamond-selling career.

Shania Twain waited fifteen years between albums, and when she finally returned at age 52, she did it with a changed voice and no creative safety net. On September 29, 2017, Mercury Nashville released Now, her first studio album since Up! in November 2002. By October, it had debuted at No. 1 on both the Billboard 200 and the Top Country Albums chart, moving 137,000 units, including 134,000 pure album sales. At fourteen years and ten months, it gave Twain the longest gap between No. 1 Billboard 200 albums for a female country artist. The silence behind those fifteen years had been brutal. A 2003 tick bite left her with Lyme disease and dysphonia, damaging the nerves in her vocal cords until she could no longer sing. Then in 2008, her fourteen-year marriage to producer Robert John “Mutt” Lange ended after his affair with her close friend and assistant, Marie-Anne Thiébaud. Twain found steady ground again in 2011 when she married Frédéric Thiébaud, the former husband of the friend who had betrayed her. Still, making music required starting over alone. Every song from her 1990s diamond era had been written and produced with Lange. For Now, Twain sat alone with an acoustic guitar in the Bahamas and Switzerland, writing all sixteen tracks on the deluxe edition by herself. Despite having sold over 100 million records, she was nervous to send rough vocal demos to new producers Matthew Koma, Ron Aniello, Jake Gosling, and Jacquire King. To rebuild her voice, she underwent open-throat thyroplasty surgery, remaining awake on the operating table to sing while doctors adjusted Gore-Tex implants against her vocal cords. Her voice returned lower and huskier than the clear tone of Come On Over. When the call came in October 2017 that Now was No. 1 in America, Twain broke down in tears, knowing she had written and sung her way back on her own.

In early 1974, the Bee Gees were singing over the clatter of knives and forks at the Batley Variety Club in northern England when a suggestion from Eric Clapton pointed them toward Miami. After their album “Mr. Natural” stalled, radio stations had largely moved on from Barry, Robin, and Maurice Gibb, leaving the twenty-seven-year-old Barry wondering if their run was finished. Back in London, Clapton, who shared manager Robert Stigwood with the brothers, had just overcome heroin addiction and recorded his comeback album at 461 Ocean Boulevard in Florida. He told Barry the trio needed to leave England, rent that same oceanfront house in Golden Beach, and work at Miami’s Criteria Studios. With RSO Records treating the next project as a last chance, Stigwood paired them with Atlantic Records producer Arif Mardin, known for his records with Aretha Franklin and Dusty Springfield. In the living room at 461 Ocean Boulevard, the brothers sat together with acoustic guitars again, while Mardin patiently steered them away from slow British ballads toward driven American R&B. Each day, driving across Biscayne Bay on the Julia Tuttle Causeway to reach Criteria Studios, Barry listened to the car tires thumping rhythmically over the bridge’s concrete expansion joints. That daily sound became the chugging pulse of “Jive Talkin’,” giving the group their first American number-one single in four years. During sessions for “Nights on Broadway,” Mardin asked if anyone could sing a high, forceful ad-lib over the fade-out. Barry stepped to the microphone and pushed his voice into a piercing falsetto none of them knew he had, leaving Mardin, Robin, and Maurice stunned in the control room. That new sound carried their 1975 album “Main Course” to platinum status and set up the worldwide run of “Saturday Night Fever” two years later, all starting from a rented house in Miami and the rhythm of tires on a Florida bridge.

In 1974, when the Bee Gees were playing small clubs across northern England and Maurice Gibb was drinking heavily after a high-profile divorce, he met a woman outside the music business who stayed with him for the next twenty-eight years. A year earlier, his four-year marriage to Scottish pop star Lulu had ended under the weight of packed schedules and his worsening alcoholism. At the same time, the Bee Gees’ records were stalling on the charts. At twenty-five, Maurice met Yvonne Spenceley, a quiet woman who wanted nothing from the spotlight. They married on October 17, 1975, just as Maurice and his brothers Barry and Robin moved to Miami to record “Main Course” and launch the R&B and disco run around “Saturday Night Fever.” Away from the cameras, Yvonne built a steady home for him and their two children, Adam, born in 1976, and Samantha, born in 1980. Behind the harmony and bass lines that held his strong-willed brothers together, Maurice fought severe alcoholism from the late 1970s into the early 1990s. At his lowest point, paranoia led him to carry a handgun around the house, forcing Yvonne to temporarily take the children away for their safety, though she never filed for divorce. In the early 1990s, her firm boundary pushed him to enter Alcoholics Anonymous, knowing she and the children would be waiting at home if he got well. After getting sober by 1992, Maurice stayed clean for the last decade of his life and returned to his role as the peacemaker between Barry and Robin. Until his death in Miami on January 12, 2003, at age fifty-three, he told interviewers that Yvonne’s patience since 1974 had kept him from dying young like his brother Andy and allowed him to watch his children grow up.

On September 30, 1987, some of the biggest names in music walked onto a Los Angeles stage and spent the night working as Roy Orbison’s backing band. For much of the 1970s, American radio had largely moved past the man behind those towering early-1960s ballads. After losing his wife Claudette in a 1966 motorcycle crash and his two oldest sons in a 1968 house fire, Orbison spent years playing small clubs in Britain and Europe while disco and hard rock dominated back home. The tide turned on January 21, 1987, at New York’s Waldorf-Astoria, when Bruce Springsteen inducted him into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Springsteen recalled lying in a New Jersey bedroom at twenty listening to Orbison’s records and told the room he had aimed for that voice when making his 1975 album “Born to Run.” Eight months later, producer T Bone Burnett gathered a lineup at the Ambassador Hotel’s Coconut Grove to film “Roy Orbison and Friends: A Black and White Night” on 35mm black-and-white film. Springsteen, Elvis Costello, Tom Waits, Bonnie Raitt, Jackson Browne, k.d. lang, and J.D. Souther asked for no solo turns. For an hour across seventeen songs, they played rhythm and sang harmony behind the fifty-one-year-old singer in his dark glasses. Standing at Orbison’s right hand, fresh off his massive “Born in the U.S.A.” run, Springsteen grinned toward his hero, traded guitar lines at the edge of the stage, and held his volume back whenever they shared a microphone so Orbison’s three-octave voice could lead. In an audience of about five hundred guests, Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Kris Kristofferson, Billy Idol, and Patrick Swayze rose to applaud after song after song. After the special aired on HBO in early 1988, Orbison joined the Traveling Wilburys and recorded “Mystery Girl.” When he died of a heart attack on December 6, 1988, at age fifty-two, just fourteen months after that Coconut Grove taping, he had already heard a generation of masters tell him to his face that his voice had never been forgotten.

In early 1958, Roy Orbison could not afford a proper gift for his young wife, so he put her name on a song that eventually bought him his musical freedom. Months after marrying sixteen-year-old Claudette Frady in November 1957, the twenty-one-year-old singer was broke in Memphis. His early hit “Ooby Dooby” had faded, and his subsequent Sun Records singles failed while producer Sam Phillips pushed him toward uptempo rockabilly instead of the ballads he wanted to sing. Unable to pay rent, Roy moved his bride into a small spare bedroom in his in-laws’ apartment. Some days they counted loose change from coat pockets just to buy bread and milk, and Roy nearly quit music for oil-field labor in West Texas. Watching Claudette endure the debt without complaint, he wrote an upbeat love song titled “Claudette” and played it for her on the edge of their bed. In March 1958, the couple drove to Terre Haute, Indiana, to see the Everly Brothers perform. Backstage in a cramped dressing room, learning Don and Phil Everly needed material for an upcoming Nashville session, Roy borrowed a guitar and sang the tribute he had written for his wife. The brothers asked to record it on the spot. Giving up the song meant letting go of his most personal piece of writing, yet Roy handed it over, knowing their rising fame could rescue his family. Publisher Wesley Rose placed “Claudette” on the B-side of “All I Have to Do Is Dream” in April 1958. As the single sold millions and hit number one, the B-side climbed into the Billboard Top 30 on its own. The royalty checks paid off the young couple’s debts, bought Roy out of his Sun Records contract, and led Wesley Rose to bring him to Monument Records, where ballads like “Only the Lonely” and “Crying” soon followed. When Claudette died in a motorcycle accident in June 1966 at age twenty-four, the three-minute gift from that borrowed Memphis bedroom remained the song that had started his true voice and carried her name for the rest of his life.

At the Grand Ole Opry’s 100th anniversary celebration, Vince Gill paused before singing “Go Rest High on That Mountain” to speak about his mother, who had also turned 100. For three decades, audiences have known the 1995 ballad as country music’s defining farewell hymn, performed at memorials for figures like George Jones and Charlie Daniels. Gill first began writing the piece after Keith Whitley died in 1989, only finishing the verses after his older brother, Bob Coen, died in 1993. Stepping onto the stage for the Opry’s centennial night, Gill stood in front of thousands of listeners gathered to honor a full century of country music and the hall’s departed members. Before starting the song, he connected the Opry’s milestone to his mother, Jerene Gill, whose own life spanned those same hundred years. His voice trembled in front of the quiet crowd as he spoke about how differently she hears the ballad. While the rest of the world listens to an anthem for fallen stars, he shared that for his mother, the song that night was simply about her son. That quiet dedication stripped away thirty years of awards and chart history in seconds. Even at a century old, Jerene still carried the weight of a mother who had buried her child, and Vince had carried the loss of his older brother right beside her. When the guitars finally came in under the stage lights, the grand centennial tribute gave way to something much closer to home. Gill was singing as a son sharing an old family ache with his mother, keeping Bob’s memory alive between them.