Article and header by Ellie Taylor.
Sometimes the world has a way of sending you songs that are new to you, yet they sound just like old friends. It’s as if somebody, somewhere, knew just what you needed to hear and sent you the sentiment wrapped in a bow, tailor made for your ears and your heart. These new-old-friends tend to hide in the nooks and crannies of your life, but it’s often when you’re looking for a sign – something just short of sacred to urge you onward – that they start to shimmer. The magpie in your mind is drawn to them, the restless child in your soul is soothed, and as you spin the songs around the loom of your life again and again, they become so intertwined with you that you’re uncertain where the lyrics end and your life begins. Such is the case with a certain Roger Miller tune that was new to me just days ago, but has swiftly become one of these dear old friends: the tune of which I owe newfound happiness, the lyrics in which I’ve found a renewed sense of strength.
In the few short days since “I Believe in the Sunshine” came crashing into my life – by way of what I can only assume was divine intervention in my Spotify daylist – it’s achieved the same shimmering status among songs that have been my favorites for years. Perhaps that sentimentality can be attributed to the nostalgia I have tied to its composer and performer: the utterly ridiculous King of the Road himself, Roger Miller. Personally, I was raised on “dang me, dang me, they oughta take a rope and hang me and do-wacka-do-wacka-do,”and didn’t I turn out just fine!Though I’d never heard “I Believe in the Sunshine,” these new words felt like they were coming from an old friend, and that’s undeniably something that makes the tune so special. When someone who’s sung in the background of many-a card game at my grandparents’ house urges me to look for the glimmer in a gloomy day, I just can’t help but listen. After all, his advice has never steered me wrong before. Thanks to Roger Miller, I’ve never once attempted to rollerskate in a buffalo herd, or drive around with a tiger in my car, and now he’s given me just a little more of a reason to believe in the sunshine, even when it rains.
Lookie, lookie, it begins, Roger’s smile practically audible as he sings over a heartbeat of bass and piano. Each bouncy brush of the guitars and drums sounds like taking a step forward, and the lyrics encourage just the same feeling. There’s a clear direction in melody, each new line just a bit higher than the last as it climbs towards the light. As new instruments chime in, the song becomes fuller, stronger. Horns swell, strings shimmer, and backing vocalists harmonize to “I believe in the sunshine, even when it rains,”as if to tell you, you aren’t alone. From its near gospel-esque chorus, to its momentous instrumental, the song never stops its journey to the sunlight. Even more instruments and countermelodies are woven in as it continues to stride down the path with its head held high. The brass and strings cheer it on and the bass keeps it steady, until the very end.
Even the ending of the song is special, as it doesn’t entirely come to a defined close; the happiness and encouragement it brings just isn’t a feeling you want to let go of anytime soon. This easily could have warranted a fade out, which was fashionable for the song’s time period. However, instead of fading into nothing, “I Believe in the Sunshine” ends on a bold, suspended chord that feels like pausing to catch your breath before leaping over a ravine or opening a door to a new opportunity. It’s as if to say “this good feeling is only just beginning, don’t turn back now.”Aside from instilling this hopefulness, it also serves as a wonderful transition into the beginning of the song for those who, like me, feel so inclined to replay it over and over again.
There’s a particular line that stuck out to me at the end of the first verse: “I’m glad the sunshine found me,I know I’ve been hard to find.”It’s profoundly personal, especially coming from an album titled “Dear Folks, Sorry I Haven’t Written Lately.” It seems as though the most special songs–the ones that we turn to when we need a friend–tend to have some element of vulnerability in them. It can even be just a smidgen, an acknowledgment that you’ve been out in the rain for a little too long.
“I Believe in the Sunshine” found me on a gloomy morning, both of sky and of spirit. The air was rainy and cold, and I’d been feeling more than a bit under the weather myself. Hearing this song for the first time made it feel like the sun was coming out, more so each time I replayed it. As the day went on, I listened over and over again to “I believe in the sunshine even when it rains,” to the point where I couldn’t help but smile and sing it any chance I got. By the middle of the day, the clouds had parted. I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, and in my heart; the sunshine Roger was singing about was back in my life. It made me consider what may be one of the most effective songwriting tools out there: serendipity. There’s something magical about finding a song–or a song finding you–in a moment when you need it the most. Someday, I’m going to write something this special: something that finds someone on a rainy day and becomes the sunshine they feel so inclined to believe in. With Roger Miller as my witness, I declare it, I will.
