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Introduction

When Vince Gill, a country music stalwart, released “What the Cowgirls Do” in 1994, it resonated deeply within the heartbeats of Nashville and beyond. Picture a sunny afternoon, the stir of a bustling crowd at a country fair, the twang of guitars filling the air—a perfect backdrop for a song that would soon become a staple on every country playlist.

About The Composition

  • Title: What the Cowgirls Do
  • Composer: Vince Gill and Reed Nielsen
  • Premiere Date: 1994
  • Album/Opus/Collection: When Love Finds You
  • Genre: Country

Background

Vince Gill’s “What the Cowgirls Do” offers a lively glimpse into the carefree and spirited lifestyle of cowgirls. Co-written with Reed Nielsen, the track became a highlight of Gill’s album When Love Finds You, which significantly bolstered his already illustrious career. Initially received with enthusiasm, the song typifies Gill’s smooth vocal style meshed with catchy, upbeat rhythms, securing its place as a crowd favorite. Its release contributed to an era when country music was increasingly blending traditional sounds with contemporary appeal.

Musical Style

“What the Cowgirls Do” showcases a blend of classic country elements with a rock-infused edge. Its distinctive guitar riffs and rhythmic dynamism are hallmark features, creating an engaging and danceable track. Gill’s adept guitar playing punctuates the song with an exuberant energy that’s hard to ignore, demonstrating his musical versatility and command over different styles within the country genre.

Lyrics

The lyrics of “What the Cowgirls Do” paint a vivid picture of the joyous and unrestrained lifestyle of cowgirls. Through lines like “They got a Friday night, get-right honky-tonk attitude,” Gill captures the essence of a spirited, fun-loving community. The song’s lyrical journey complements the music, highlighting a world where the revelry never ends, and the spirit of freedom reigns supreme.

Performance History

Since its release, “What the Cowgirls Do” has been a popular number in Vince Gill’s performances, often featured in concerts and music festivals. Its upbeat nature makes it a perfect live song, drawing enthusiastic responses from audiences who revel in its lively melody and infectious chorus.

Cultural Impact

The song not only entertained but also painted a romanticized picture of the Western lifestyle, influencing perceptions of cowgirls in popular culture. Its inclusion in various country compilations and frequent radio play contributed to a broader appreciation of country music’s diverse themes and narratives.

Legacy

Over the years, “What the Cowgirls Do” has remained a beloved track in the realm of country music. Its enduring popularity is a testament to Vince Gill’s talent and his ability to craft songs that resonate with listeners across generations. It continues to be celebrated as a vibrant expression of country music’s charm and vitality.

Conclusion

Reflecting on “What the Cowgirls Do,” it’s clear that Vince Gill managed to encapsulate a vibrant part of American cultural imagery, making it a timeless piece in the country music landscape. For anyone looking to experience the essence of carefree, joyous country music, this song is a must-listen. Its legacy continues to inspire and entertain, ensuring that the spirit of what the cowgirls do lives on in every strum and every line

Video

Lyrics

Have you ever been down to Texas
And down around San Antone?
They love to go all night and treat you right
And party ’til the cows come home
I love it when they let their hair down
And dance real close to you
You know I’m a sucker, babe, for what the cowgirls do
(What the cowgirls do)
What the cowgirls do (what the cowgirls do)
They ain’t no different up in Oklahoma
They ain’t afraid to stay up ’til dawn
They love to cut and run and chug a lug
Longnecks until their money’s all gone
I love it when they let their hair down
And dance real close to you
You know I’m a sucker, babe, for what the cowgirls do
(What the cowgirls do)
What the cowgirls do (what the cowgirls do)
Shoot that thing
Well, there’s cowgirls all across the country
From Baton Rouge to Bangor Maine
It ain’t hard to see they’ll be the death of me
They’re gonna drive my little heart insane
I love it when they let their hair down
And dance real close to you
You know I’m a sucker, babe, for what the cowgirls do
(What the cowgirls do)
Well, I love it when they let their hair down
And dance real close to you
You know I’m a sucker, babe, for what the cowgirls do
(What the cowgirls do)
What the cowgirls do (what the cowgirls do)
What the cowgirls do (what the cowgirls do)
What the cowgirls do (what the cowgirls do)
What those cowgirls do (what the cowgirls do)
What the cowgirls do
(What the cowgirls do)
What the cowgirls do
(What the cowgirls do)
(What the cowgirls do)
(What the cowgirls do)
(What the cowgirls do)
(What the cowgirls do)
(What the cowgirls do)

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GARY STEWART’S ONLY NO. 1 HIT WAS ABOUT A MAN DRINKING THROUGH A COLLAPSING RELATIONSHIP. YEARS LATER, THE DARKNESS IN HIS RECORDS WOULD BEGIN TO LOOK FAR TOO MUCH LIKE HIS OWN LIFE. Gary Stewart did not sound like the smooth Nashville country dominating much of the 1970s. Born in Kentucky and raised in Florida, he developed a high, quivering voice that seemed permanently on the edge of breaking. Before his own breakthrough, Stewart and songwriting partner Bill Eldridge placed songs with artists including Stonewall Jackson and Cal Smith. RCA signed him as an artist in the early 1970s. The label initially struggled to find a clear direction, but Stewart’s fortunes changed when producer Roy Dea leaned into the harder honky-tonk sound that suited him best. In 1974, “Drinkin’ Thing” reached the Top 10. Then came “She’s Actin’ Single (I’m Drinkin’ Doubles).” Written by Wayne Carson, the song placed Stewart inside a failing relationship where the woman was behaving as though she were unattached and the man responded by drinking twice as hard. Stewart’s strained delivery made the lyric sound less like clever wordplay than a nervous breakdown happening in real time. In 1975, it went to No. 1. The album *Out of Hand* produced three major hits and later came to be regarded as one of the strongest hard-country albums of the decade. For a moment, Stewart had carved out a space between traditional honky-tonk and the emerging outlaw audience. But the instability in his records was not purely theatrical. As the decade progressed, Stewart struggled increasingly with alcohol and drugs. Personal losses compounded the problem, and by the 1980s his recording career had slowed sharply. He eventually returned to performing and recording, retaining a devoted audience that had never forgotten the rawness of those RCA records. Then, in December 2003, Stewart’s wife of more than four decades, Mary Lou, died of pneumonia. Less than a month later, Gary Stewart died by suicide at his Florida home. His reputation had never depended on polish. What listeners remembered was the feeling that every syllable might come apart before the band reached the next measure—and that, somehow, Stewart always held it together just long enough to finish the song.

IRA LOUVIN SANG SOME OF COUNTRY MUSIC’S MOST BEAUTIFUL HARMONIES ABOUT SIN AND SALVATION. OFFSTAGE, HIS OWN LIFE WAS COLLAPSING UNDER ALCOHOL, RAGE—AND A SHOOTING THAT NEARLY KILLED HIM. The Louvin Brothers sounded almost impossibly pure together. Ira Louvin sang lead and played mandolin; Charlie supplied the harmony and guitar. By the mid-1950s, songs such as “When I Stop Dreaming,” “I Don’t Believe You’ve Met My Baby,” and “Cash on the Barrel Head” had made them one of country music’s most important brother duos. But the man singing those high, tightly controlled parts was becoming much harder to control away from the microphone. Ira struggled heavily with alcohol and a violent temper. As the drinking worsened, so did the tension between the brothers. Charlie later described a partnership in which the harmony could still lock perfectly onstage even when the two men were barely getting along off it. The contrast became brutal after the duo broke up in 1963. Not long afterward, during an alcohol-fueled fight with his third wife, Faye, Ira was shot and nearly killed. He survived and returned to performing, later singing with his fourth wife, Anne Young. The comeback did not last long. In June 1965, Ira and Anne were traveling after a week of performances in Kansas City when their car collided head-on with another vehicle near Williamsburg, Missouri. Both were killed. Ira was forty-one. Charlie continued alone, but the Louvin Brothers were finished for good. Their records survived because the voices made pain sound ordered, almost sacred. Ira’s private life had been anything but. That may be why the old performances still feel so unsettling: the man warning about sin and destruction was not singing from a safe distance from either one.

MEL STREET SPENT THE 1970S SINGING ABOUT CHEATING, LONELINESS, AND MEN WHO COULDN’T HOLD THEIR LIVES TOGETHER. THEN, JUST AS MERCURY GAVE HIM HIS BIGGEST LABEL OPPORTUNITY, HE DIED ON HIS BIRTHDAY. Mel Street had taken a long route to Nashville. Raised in southwestern Virginia, he worked as a radio-tower electrician, sang in clubs around Niagara Falls, then returned to West Virginia and opened an auto-body shop. From 1968 to 1972, he also hosted a local television show in Bluefield. His breakthrough came from a song he had written himself. “Borrowed Angel” was first recorded for a small regional label and later picked up for wider release. In 1972, it reached the country Top 10, giving Street his first national hit. “Lovin’ on Back Streets” followed and became his biggest chart record, reaching No. 5. The songs established his territory. Street specialized in men already standing on the wrong side of a decision: affairs, guilt, secret meetings, marriages breaking down, and the loneliness left afterward. “I Met a Friend of Yours Today,” “Forbidden Angel,” and “If I Had a Cheating Heart” kept that voice on country radio through the middle of the decade. But touring and family pressure were taking a toll. Accounts of Street’s final years describe serious depression and alcohol problems even as his career continued moving forward. In 1978, he signed a new contract with Mercury Records, a major opportunity that suggested another step up was still possible. On October 21, 1978—his birthday—Mel Street died by suicide at his home in Tennessee. Contemporary and later sources disagree over his exact birth year, but not the date: he died on the same calendar day on which he had been born. His career did not stop immediately on the charts. “Just Hangin’ On” and other recordings appeared posthumously, while “Borrowed Angel” continued growing into a honky-tonk standard. Street never reached the level of fame that George Jones, Merle Haggard, or Conway Twitty did. But his best records shared something with theirs: they did not ask whether the man in the song deserved sympathy. They simply put him in the room, closed the door, and let the consequences stay with him.

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IRA LOUVIN SANG SOME OF COUNTRY MUSIC’S MOST BEAUTIFUL HARMONIES ABOUT SIN AND SALVATION. OFFSTAGE, HIS OWN LIFE WAS COLLAPSING UNDER ALCOHOL, RAGE—AND A SHOOTING THAT NEARLY KILLED HIM. The Louvin Brothers sounded almost impossibly pure together. Ira Louvin sang lead and played mandolin; Charlie supplied the harmony and guitar. By the mid-1950s, songs such as “When I Stop Dreaming,” “I Don’t Believe You’ve Met My Baby,” and “Cash on the Barrel Head” had made them one of country music’s most important brother duos. But the man singing those high, tightly controlled parts was becoming much harder to control away from the microphone. Ira struggled heavily with alcohol and a violent temper. As the drinking worsened, so did the tension between the brothers. Charlie later described a partnership in which the harmony could still lock perfectly onstage even when the two men were barely getting along off it. The contrast became brutal after the duo broke up in 1963. Not long afterward, during an alcohol-fueled fight with his third wife, Faye, Ira was shot and nearly killed. He survived and returned to performing, later singing with his fourth wife, Anne Young. The comeback did not last long. In June 1965, Ira and Anne were traveling after a week of performances in Kansas City when their car collided head-on with another vehicle near Williamsburg, Missouri. Both were killed. Ira was forty-one. Charlie continued alone, but the Louvin Brothers were finished for good. Their records survived because the voices made pain sound ordered, almost sacred. Ira’s private life had been anything but. That may be why the old performances still feel so unsettling: the man warning about sin and destruction was not singing from a safe distance from either one.

MEL STREET SPENT THE 1970S SINGING ABOUT CHEATING, LONELINESS, AND MEN WHO COULDN’T HOLD THEIR LIVES TOGETHER. THEN, JUST AS MERCURY GAVE HIM HIS BIGGEST LABEL OPPORTUNITY, HE DIED ON HIS BIRTHDAY. Mel Street had taken a long route to Nashville. Raised in southwestern Virginia, he worked as a radio-tower electrician, sang in clubs around Niagara Falls, then returned to West Virginia and opened an auto-body shop. From 1968 to 1972, he also hosted a local television show in Bluefield. His breakthrough came from a song he had written himself. “Borrowed Angel” was first recorded for a small regional label and later picked up for wider release. In 1972, it reached the country Top 10, giving Street his first national hit. “Lovin’ on Back Streets” followed and became his biggest chart record, reaching No. 5. The songs established his territory. Street specialized in men already standing on the wrong side of a decision: affairs, guilt, secret meetings, marriages breaking down, and the loneliness left afterward. “I Met a Friend of Yours Today,” “Forbidden Angel,” and “If I Had a Cheating Heart” kept that voice on country radio through the middle of the decade. But touring and family pressure were taking a toll. Accounts of Street’s final years describe serious depression and alcohol problems even as his career continued moving forward. In 1978, he signed a new contract with Mercury Records, a major opportunity that suggested another step up was still possible. On October 21, 1978—his birthday—Mel Street died by suicide at his home in Tennessee. Contemporary and later sources disagree over his exact birth year, but not the date: he died on the same calendar day on which he had been born. His career did not stop immediately on the charts. “Just Hangin’ On” and other recordings appeared posthumously, while “Borrowed Angel” continued growing into a honky-tonk standard. Street never reached the level of fame that George Jones, Merle Haggard, or Conway Twitty did. But his best records shared something with theirs: they did not ask whether the man in the song deserved sympathy. They simply put him in the room, closed the door, and let the consequences stay with him.

MARTY ROBBINS WAS RECORDING “DON’T WORRY” WHEN A CHANNEL IN THE NASHVILLE CONSOLE MALFUNCTIONED. GRADY MARTIN’S CLEAN SIX-STRING BASS CAME BACK AS A HARSH BUZZ—AND THEY KEPT IT. By 1960, Grady Martin was already one of Nashville’s most trusted session musicians. He had played the elegant Spanish-style guitar on Marty Robbins’s “El Paso,” worked with Johnny Horton, Patsy Cline, Conway Twitty and countless others, and belonged to the group of studio players later known as Nashville’s A-Team. Then one malfunction changed the sound of popular music. During a July 1960 session for Robbins’s “Don’t Worry” at the Quonset Hut, Martin plugged his Danelectro six-string bass directly into the recording console. One of the console’s transformers failed while he played, turning the normally clean instrument into a thick, distorted growl. When engineer Glenn Snoddy and producer Don Law heard the playback, they did not erase it. They kept the damaged sound in the record. Released in 1961, “Don’t Worry” went to No. 1 country and No. 3 pop. Suddenly musicians were asking Nashville studios how they could get that strange distortion for themselves. Martin went back through the same faulty circuit for instrumentals including “The Fuzz.” But eventually the broken channel died completely. Snoddy then set out to reproduce the accident deliberately. Working with engineer Revis Hobbs, he built a transistor circuit that imitated the distorted signal and sold the design to Gibson. In 1962, Gibson introduced it as the Maestro FZ-1 Fuzz-Tone. At first, the pedal barely sold. Three years later, Keith Richards used a Maestro Fuzz-Tone for the riff on the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.” Sales exploded, and fuzz became one of electric guitar’s defining effects. Grady Martin never needed the accident to establish his career; he was already one of Nashville’s elite musicians. But hidden inside a Marty Robbins country ballad was a sound that rock guitarists would spend the next several decades pushing louder, dirtier and further from the clean note Martin had originally intended to play.