The air in the listening room tonight is thick with a particular kind of regret—the comfortable, self-aware kind. The kind you can hold at arm’s length while the needle drops on a familiar groove. It is an hour for slow dissolves, for the velvet drape of a late-night arrangement that suggests comfort while detailing devastation. We’re here with Glen Campbell’s 1969 recording of “It’s Only Make Believe.”
It is a piece of music that exists in two distinct temporal dimensions. First, the song’s origin: a 1958 hit written and recorded by Conway Twitty, a wild, almost manic rockabilly number driven by youthful urgency. Then, the second life, the version that commands the room: Campbell’s reading, released eleven years later, on his album Try a Little Kindness. It is a complete sonic reframing—a testament not merely to a great cover, but to the transformative power of a seasoned vocalist paired with a world-class arranger.
The contrast is the core of the story. Twitty’s version was sweat and shout; Campbell’s is a sigh and a whisper. By 1969, Campbell was not just the “Rhinestone Cowboy” of later years, but a truly ubiquitous figure, a crucial bridge between Nashville, the West Coast session scene, and primetime television. He had already established his bona fides with landmark recordings of Jimmy Webb songs like “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” and “Wichita Lineman.” These hits solidified his niche: a country voice applied to sophisticated, soaring pop-orchestral settings. His recording of “It’s Only Make Believe” lands squarely in this golden period, a time when his label, Capitol Records, was perfecting the elegant, expansive sound known as Countrypolitan.
The production of this track, often attributed in part to Al De Lory—a long-time Campbell collaborator who helped define the sound of his most famous singles—is an exercise in luxurious restraint. The song opens not with a boom, but with a lingering texture. A solitary, reverbed piano chord hangs in the air, establishing a mood of immediate, contemplative intimacy. This is quickly joined by the low, almost mournful register of the strings. They are not used for aggressive swell; they are padding the architecture of the emotion.
The whole arrangement feels like listening to a secret being told in a vast, empty theater. The rhythmic foundation is delicate, anchored by a softly brushed drum kit and a bass line that moves with surprising grace. The rhythm section never intrudes, operating instead as a quiet, relentless pulse beneath the emotional action.
Campbell’s vocal performance here is the masterclass. He doesn’t try to out-sing Twitty’s grit; he out-thinks it. His delivery is incredibly controlled, navigating the melody’s wide leaps with a fluid, natural tenor. Notice the phrasing on the central lyric: “My heart cries out for you / But that’s only make believe.” The slight, almost imperceptible hesitation before “make believe” is everything. It is the sound of a man catching himself just before the final emotional descent, clinging to a thread of dignity. His voice is close-mic’d, creating that signature Campbell presence that is both warm and technically pristine.
“His recording transforms the song from a desperate plea into a sophisticated, aching confession.”
It is easy, listening today on a quality home audio system, to appreciate the meticulous layering of the recording. The arrangement introduces subtle, high-register string figures that seem to weep around the periphery of the melody, never fighting the vocal, always supporting the narrative. The guitar, of course, plays a crucial, though understated role. It is not the flashy, lead instrument of a country track, but a supporting element—perhaps a muted electric strumming a slow, mournful arpeggio just below the strings, adding harmonic depth without drawing attention.
This piece of music is structurally brilliant because it relies on the slow build. The dynamics are tightly managed, rising and falling not with raw power, but with harmonic tension. When the chorus arrives, the strings do finally swell, but it is a soft, deep surge, like a tide coming in, not a wave crashing. It’s an arrangement that understands that true emotional weight often comes from holding back.
Think of a listener in 1969, sitting in a dimly lit den, the amber glow of the receiver dial the only light. This song was the perfect companion for that moment—a soothing delivery system for complex, adult sadness. It resonated because Campbell’s persona, the wholesome, talented farm boy who could play with The Wrecking Crew, lent an inherent sincerity to the high-gloss production. When he sings about loneliness, you believe that even the man with a hit TV show and a stack of gold records feels the hollow ache of pretending.
The track’s enduring appeal also lies in its accessibility. While the arrangement is complex enough for someone studying sheet music to appreciate the counter-melodies, the core feeling remains universal. It speaks to the private performances we all stage: the smile we put on, the confidence we project, while our inner life is silently, hopelessly devoted to someone or something just out of reach. It is a song about being utterly exposed to yourself, yet completely guarded in the eyes of the world.
This version of “It’s Only Make Believe” didn’t just chart well; it defined a moment in Campbell’s career where he stood comfortably at the nexus of several genres. He brought a country sincerity to pop’s sonic ambition, delivering songs that sounded equally at home on a jukebox in Bakersfield or a console stereo in Manhattan. It remains an essential track, not just as a cover, but as a definitive statement on the power of musical interpretation. It is the gold standard for how to completely reinvent an established classic by trading volume for vulnerability. It invites, demands even, an intimate re-listen, stripping away the decades of familiarity to reveal the exquisite, fragile structure beneath.
Listening Recommendations
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Bobby Goldsboro – “Honey” (1968): Shares the same lush, melancholy Countrypolitan string arrangement and narrative focus on sentimental regret.
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Ray Price – “For the Good Times” (1970): Another Country artist whose orchestral arrangements defined the sophisticated, late-night heartbreak sound of the era.
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Frank Sinatra – “It Was a Very Good Year” (1966): Features the same masterful use of dynamic control and string texture to convey deep, adult reflection.
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The Association – “Never My Love” (1967): Excellent example of West Coast pop’s smooth, seamless vocal delivery and high-fidelity arrangement complexity.
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Jim Reeves – “He’ll Have to Go” (1959): Exemplifies the quiet, intimate baritone style that bridged the gap between traditional Country and later, smoother sounds.
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Skeeter Davis – “The End of the World” (1962): A perfect adjacent mood piece, utilizing close-mic’d vocals and soaring orchestration to express devastating, personal loss.