Conway Twitty – Almost Persuaded

Introduction

In the realm of country music, there are songs that touch the heart, songs that make you want to dance, and then there are songs that do both, and more. “Almost Persuaded” by Conway Twitty is one such song. Released in 1966, this country classic has stood the test of time, becoming a beloved favorite among generations of listeners.

Twitty, with his rich, resonant voice, delivers a performance that is both heartfelt and powerful. He captures the raw emotions of a man torn between his love for two women, his voice conveying both the longing for one and the regret of letting her go. The lyrics, penned by Billy Sherrill and Glenn Sutton, are simple yet profound, painting a vivid picture of the singer’s inner turmoil.

“Almost Persuaded” is a masterclass in storytelling, taking the listener on a journey through the singer’s heart. The verses set the scene, introducing the two women and the singer’s predicament. The chorus, with its soaring melody and repeated phrase “almost persuaded,” is the emotional climax of the song, capturing the singer’s moment of near infidelity. The bridge provides a brief respite, offering a glimmer of hope for reconciliation, before the final chorus drives home the weight of the singer’s decision.

The song’s enduring popularity is a testament to its power to connect with listeners on a deeply personal level. “Almost Persuaded” speaks to the universal human experience of love, loss, and temptation. It is a song that resonates with anyone who has ever faced a difficult choice, reminding us that even in our darkest moments, there is always hope for redemption.

“Almost Persuaded” is more than just a country song; it is a work of art that has touched the lives of millions. Conway Twitty’s masterful performance and the song’s timeless lyrics have ensured its place in the pantheon of country music history. It is a song that will continue to be cherished for generations to come.

Video

Lyric

Last night all alone in a barroom
Met a girl with a drink in her hand.
She had ruby red lips, coal black hair
And eyes that would tempt any man.
Then she came and sat down at my table,
And as she placed her soft hands in mine,
I found myself wanting to kiss her
For temptation was flowing like wine.
And I was almost persuaded to strip myself of my pride.
Almost persuaded to push my conscience aside.
Then we danced and she whispered, “I need you!”
“Take me away from here and be my man.”
Then I looked into her eyes and I saw it:
The reflection of my wedding band.
And I was almost persuaded to let strange lips lead me on.
Almost persuaded but your sweet love made me stop and go home.
Last night all alone in a barroom
Met a guy with a drink in his hand.
He had bay blue eyes, coal black hair
And a smile that a girl understands.
Then he came and sat down at my table,
And as he placed his hands over mine,
I found my self wanting to kiss him
For temptation was flowing like wine.
And I was almost persuaded to strip myself of my pride.
Almost persuaded to push my conscience aside.
Then we danced and he whispered, “I need you!”
“Let me take you away and be your man.”
Then I looked into his eyes and I saw it:
The reflection of my wedding band.
And I was almost persuaded to let strange lips lead me on.
Almost persuaded but your sweet love made me stop and go home.

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LORETTA LYNN HAD FOUR CHILDREN BEFORE SHE TURNED TWENTY. NASHVILLE HAD NOT HEARD HER NAME, BUT THE SONGS WERE ALREADY STARTING IN THE KITCHEN. Loretta Webb was fifteen when she married Oliver “Doolittle” Lynn. He was a war veteran from Kentucky. She was a coal miner’s daughter from Butcher Hollow who had barely been away from the hills where she grew up. Not long after the wedding, they left for Custer, Washington — a logging town far from Appalachia, far from Nashville, and far from any place that looked like a music career. Loretta was pregnant with her first child when they arrived. By the time she was twenty, she had four children. There were diapers, laundry, meals, bills, and a small house crowded with the ordinary work of keeping a young family alive. Doolittle worked. Loretta worked at home. Nobody was waiting in Nashville for a woman with four little children and no record deal. Then Doolittle bought her a guitar. It was a seventeen-dollar Sears guitar. Loretta did not know many chords. She learned them one at a time. She played around the house, then at local clubs, then wherever somebody would let her stand near a microphone long enough to prove she could sing. The songs came from the life she already had. They came from women who worked all day and still had to deal with a husband coming home drunk. Women who had babies too young. Women who knew what it felt like to be left behind, talked down to, cheated on, or expected to smile anyway. Loretta did not need Nashville to invent those women for her. She had grown up around them. In 1960, she recorded “I’m a Honky Tonk Girl.” Doolittle helped press the records, mail them, and drive from station to station trying to get disc jockeys to listen. The song became a hit. Then came Nashville. Then “Success.” “You Ain’t Woman Enough.” “Don’t Come Home a-Drinkin’.” “Coal Miner’s Daughter.” But the real beginning was earlier. It was a young mother in Washington State, with four children in the house and a cheap guitar close enough to reach after the work was done.

10 STUDIO ALBUMS. 13 COMPILATIONS. MILLIONS OF RECORDS SOLD. BUT BEHIND COUNTRY MUSIC’S GREATEST DUET HID A BOND THAT EVEN DEATH COULD NOT SILENCE. For decades, Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn ruled the Nashville charts. When they stepped up to the microphone to sing “Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man,” the chemistry was so electric that fans swore they were witnessing a real-life romance. They were the undisputed king and queen of the country duet, delivering fiery hits with a gaze that could melt an arena. But the truth offstage was far more profound. They weren’t hiding a scandalous love affair; they were building an unbreakable, platonic devotion. Through the chaotic machinery of the music industry, they became each other’s safest harbor. It wasn’t just about perfectly timed harmonies; it was about late-night conversations, shared laughter in dressing rooms, and a trust that never wavered. When Conway passed away suddenly, that harmony was broken. Loretta didn’t just lose a singing partner; she lost the brother she never had. For years, she had to stand on those stages alone, singing their songs while the silence of his absence echoed in the room. Today, as fans remember Conway’s heavenly birthday, the sorrow of his departure is replaced by the warmth of what they left behind. Conway and Loretta are both gone now, reunited somewhere beyond the stage lights. But drop a needle on one of those old records, and they are instantly alive again. Every duet needs its echo. And as long as country music exists, theirs will never fade.