Introduction:

“Baby, What You Want Me to Do” is a blues song written by Jimmy Reed, a renowned blues singer and harmonica player. It was first recorded by Reed in 1950 for the Vee-Jay label and released in 1951.

The song’s lyrics express the frustration and resignation of a man in a tumultuous relationship. The protagonist repeatedly asks his lover what she wants him to do, highlighting his confusion and willingness to please her, even if it means enduring an uncertain and potentially painful situation. The song’s repetitive structure and simple yet evocative lyrics have made it a popular choice for blues and rock and roll artists.

Over the years, “Baby, What You Want Me to Do” has been covered by numerous musicians, including Muddy Waters, The Rolling Stones, and Jimi Hendrix. It is considered a blues standard and has been inducted into the Blues Foundation Hall of Fame.

Elvis Presley’s version of the song, recorded for his 1968 NBC television special, “Elvis,” showcases his powerful vocals and stage presence. His rendition helped to introduce the song to a wider audience and solidified its place in popular music history.

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“THE KING AT 73 SAID NOTHING… AND WATCHED HIS OWN LEGACY SING HIM INTO IMMORTALITY.” This wasn’t a concert. It was a reckoning. Twenty thousand people. Dead silent. George Strait didn’t step up to the mic. He didn’t chase the spotlight. He sat still — 73 years carved into his face, decades of asphalt, arena lights, broken hearts, and sold-out stadiums behind him — and let the moment unfold without a single note from his own voice. First came Bubba Strait. Composed. Grounded. A son carrying stories heavier than any guitar case. Then little Harvey. Tiny boots. Trembling hands. A grandson stepping into a shadow that built country music’s modern throne. The first chords of “I Cross My Heart” floated into the arena like a memory refusing to fade. No pyrotechnics. No grand introduction. Just bloodline and ballad. And George listened. A man who once filled the silence with steel guitar and Texas thunder now surrendered the stage to the echo of his own lineage. His life — highways, rodeos, heartbreaks, honky-tonk nights — handed back to him verse by verse by the people who carry his name. Near the end, there was a pause. He looked down. One small smile. Not the superstar grin. Not the curtain-call wave. The quiet smile of a man realizing he’s no longer just an artist — he’s an inheritance. Some songs win awards. Some songs top charts. But a rare few become family scripture. For a few suspended minutes, country music stopped being an industry. It wasn’t numbers. It wasn’t legacy debates. It wasn’t nostalgia tours. It was a grandfather hearing his life sung back to him — softer, younger, eternal. And the King didn’t need to sing a word.