Introduction:

Still They Call Me Love, a captivating country song, was released in 19.09 by the legendary American country music singer Gene Watson. Watson, known for his rich baritone voice and his poignant storytelling lyrics, delivered a powerful performance on this track that resonated with fans and critics alike.

Still They Call Me Love wasn’t written by Watson himself, but by another country music icon, Johnny Russell. Russell, who penned numerous hits throughout his career, crafted a song that perfectly fit Watson’s signature style. The pairing of Watson’s distinctive vocals with Russell’s evocative lyrics proved to be a successful formula.

Taking the reins of production for Still They Call Me Love was the prominent record producer Billy Sherrill. Sherrill, who had a reputation for shaping the “countrypolitan” sound in the 1960s and 1970s, brought his wealth of experience to the table. His work on Still They Call Me Love helped the song achieve a polished and sophisticated feel, while still retaining its core country essence.

Still They Call Me Love proved to be a significant success for Gene Watson. The song became a major hit on the country music charts, climbing to the coveted number two spot on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart in 19.88. The song’s popularity wasn’t limited to the country charts, it also managed to reach number 68 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart, showcasing its crossover appeal.

The impact of Still They Call Me Love extended beyond the charts. The song garnered critical acclaim and earned Gene Watson a nomination for a prestigious Grammy Award in 19.88. The Grammy nomination in the category of Best Male Country Vocal Performance was a testament to Watson’s exceptional performance and the song’s overall quality.

Still They Call Me Love continues to be a beloved classic in Gene Watson’s extensive discography. The song stands as a prime example of his captivating vocals and his ability to deliver relatable stories through his music. More importantly, the song’s enduring legacy is a reflection of the collaborative effort between Watson, songwriter Johnny Russell, and producer Billy Sherrill.

Video:

Lyrics:

I make people crazy
Make their hearts beat wild
Cry like little babies
I just watch and smile

I make ’em all unhappy
Still they can’t get enough
You’d think that they would hate me
But still they call me love

I invented heartbreak
I came up with pain
How much can these fools take
Are they all insane?

I’m as bad as whiskey
Strong as any drug
Poison when you kiss me
But still they call me love

I can take a strong man
And bring him to his knees
Make him risk his whole life
For any girl I please

I’ve brought down kingdoms
Turned heroes into dust
You’d think that they would hate me
But still they call me love

I invented heartbreak
I came up with pain
How much can these fools take
Are they all insane?

I’m as bad as whiskey
Strong as any drug
Poison when you kiss me
But still they call me love

I’m poison when you kiss me
But still they call me love

You Missed

“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.