I was sitting in a roadside diner—the kind with faded vinyl booths and a jukebox full of ghosts—when I truly understood “It’s Only Make Believe.” It was late, the coffee was burnt, and the needle dropped on the 1958 original. The air went still. This wasn’t the slick, mellow country superstar of the 70s; this was Harold Jenkins, rebranded as Conway Twitty, unleashing a primal, wounded howl that felt instantly dangerous. It was a raw, visceral sound that tore through the comfortable late-night silence, a stark confession delivered not from a Nashville stage but from a sweaty, forgotten rock and roll club.
The song was a lightning strike, a sudden, powerful eruption that defined the artist’s initial career arc. Released on MGM Records, this single (backed with “I’ll Try”) became Twitty’s first major hit, soaring to the top of the pop charts in the US and the UK. It was an anomaly in his early output, which leaned heavily on rockabilly, but its melodramatic intensity instantly set him apart. Co-written by Twitty and his drummer, Jack Nance, the song was initially overlooked, with the label pushing the A-side. It was the intuition of a DJ in Columbus, Ohio, playing the B-side, that launched this piece of music into orbit, making Twitty a sudden, international teen idol.
The Sound of Desperation: Voice and Vision
The sheer force of Twitty’s vocal performance is the engine of “It’s Only Make Believe.” He starts with a smooth, almost crooning delivery, setting the scene of a lover trapped in a public illusion: “People see us ev’rywhere, they think you really care.” This restraint, however, is a mere prelude to the central emotional shockwave.
The voice breaks. It shatters into that famous, guttural growl on the high notes. It’s a sound that is less technically perfect singing and more cathartic release—a desperate, strangled vibrato that conveys the agonizing chasm between outward appearance and inner torment. This vocal timbre was a deliberate choice, reportedly encouraged by producer Jim Vienneau during the May 1958 recording session in Nashville’s Bradley Studios. It’s the sound of a man who can no longer keep his heart locked behind his teeth.
Twitty’s vocal dynamics are the true spectacle. The contrast between the soft, resigned verse and the explosive, pleading chorus creates a sense of profound, theatrical heartbreak that few rock and roll artists achieved with such emotional transparency.
The Sparseness of a Broken Heart
Despite the raw power of the vocal, the instrumental arrangement is surprisingly spare and sophisticated for a 1958 rock and roll ballad, utilizing a compact core group of Nashville session players. The rhythm section—drums and double bass—provides a steady, almost plodding heartbeat, maintaining a sense of inevitable sadness beneath the surface drama.
Floyd Cramer’s piano is a key element, adding a delicate, classically-informed touch that elevates the material beyond simple rockabilly. His light, echoing fills sit high in the mix, contrasting beautifully with the low, grinding tension of the vocal. It is a masterful study in accompaniment, proving that sometimes, learning to not play is as important as piano lessons themselves.
The guitar work is equally restrained. There’s no flamboyant solo, but rather a simple, twangy texture from Grady Martin, often doubling or reinforcing the bass line. This arrangement choice allows the vast emotional space in the recording to be filled entirely by Twitty’s powerful, yearning voice and the rich, church-like backing vocals of The Jordanaires. Listening on studio headphones, one can appreciate how the reverb is used to create a haunting depth, wrapping the lead vocal in a melancholy halo. The instrumentation does not fight the narrative; it services the crushing weight of the illusion.
A Masterpiece of Melodrama
The cultural moment of 1958 was still adjusting to the sheer audacity of rock and roll. While Elvis Presley had normalized the synthesis of R&B and country, “It’s Only Make Believe” introduced a new strain of raw, wounded melodrama, almost foreshadowing the intense adult themes Twitty would champion in his eventual shift to country music. He took the rock and roll template and infused it with the deep, theatrical anguish of country tear-in-your-beer lament, proving that vulnerability could be as potent a force as rebellion.
The simplicity of the song structure—a short, direct blast of emotion—is what makes it so enduring. It doesn’t overstay its welcome, yet it feels like an epic journey through heartbreak. It is the definitive moment where Harold Jenkins disappeared, and the indelible, passionate mask of Conway Twitty was forged. He never replicated this specific kind of pop success, instead famously becoming one of country music’s most dominant artists with an unprecedented string of number one hits decades later.
“The power of Twitty’s ‘Make Believe’ is not in its volume, but in its absolute refusal to hide the agonizing truth behind a mask of cool.”
The album Conway Twitty Sings would follow, collecting this breakthrough hit, but this single is the moment of pure, untainted, heartbreaking drama. The power of this particular piece of music lies in its eternal relatability: the feeling of faking happiness, of performing a role for an audience of one’s own heart.
We all have moments like this—moments where we are performing stability for the world, secretly shattered inside. This song is the soundtrack to that quiet, internal desperation. It is a masterclass in controlled chaos, a two-minute portal into the soul of a man who knows his perfect dream is nothing more than a carefully constructed illusion.
Listening Recommendations: Songs of Vocal Anguish and Melodramatic Pop
- Roy Orbison – “Only the Lonely” (1960): Shares the same grand, operatic vocal delivery and theatrical sense of heartbroken vulnerability.
- Ricky Nelson – “Poor Little Fool” (1958): A contemporary rock and roll ballad that uses vocal sincerity over power to convey a sense of youthful romantic pain.
- Elvis Presley – “A Big Hunk o’ Love” (1959): Displays a similar, albeit more energetic, use of vocal power and intensity to convey urgent emotion.
- Gene Pitney – “Town Without Pity” (1961): Represents the shift toward sophisticated, dramatic arrangements for heartbreak songs in the early 60s pop landscape.
- Brenda Lee – “I’m Sorry” (1960): Features another Nashville-recorded ballad that pairs a vulnerable vocal with lush, string-backed pop instrumentation.
- Bobby Vinton – “Blue Velvet” (1963): Known for its intense, crooning melodrama and polished, yet emotionally raw, vocal style.