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17 #1 HITS. COUNTRY MUSIC HALL OF FAME. BUT HERE’S SOMETHING ALMOST NOBODY KNOWS: DON WILLIAMS MADE ONE OF COUNTRY MUSIC’S FIRST MUSIC VIDEOS — IN 1973, EIGHT YEARS BEFORE MTV. When “Come Early Morning” appeared on his debut album, Don Williams and producer Allen Reynolds did something almost unheard of in Nashville — they turned the song into a filmed visual piece. This was 1973. Country artists were still figuring out television. MTV wouldn’t exist for another eight years. But the Gentle Giant was already there, quietly doing what he always did — staying ahead without ever raising his voice. That was Don Williams. He never chased trends, never shouted for attention. He just showed up first, did it his way, and let the world catch up. Eric Clapton became a fan. Pete Townshend covered his songs. Radio stations played his records before promoters even called. And it all started with a man too gentle to brag about any of it.

Before MTV Ever Existed, Don Williams Quietly Made One of Country Music’s First Videos

Seventeen number-one hits. A place in the Country Music Hall of Fame. One of the most recognizable voices Nashville has ever known.

But there is one part of Don Williams’ story that even many longtime fans have never heard.

In 1973, nearly a decade before MTV changed music forever, Don Williams quietly helped create what would become one of country music’s earliest music videos.

The song was “Come Early Morning.” It appeared on Don Williams’ debut album, released at a time when country music was still deeply rooted in radio, vinyl records, and live performances. Most country artists in 1973 were not thinking about visual storytelling. Television appearances usually meant standing under bright lights, singing into a microphone, and letting the camera stay still.

But Don Williams and producer Allen Reynolds had another idea.

Ahead of His Time Without Trying to Be

Together, Don Williams and Allen Reynolds created a filmed visual piece to accompany “Come Early Morning.” It was simple. Quiet. Honest. Much like the man himself.

There were no flashy effects. No dramatic costumes. No attempt to turn Don Williams into something he was not.

Instead, the video matched the feeling of the song. Open roads. Early sunlight. Stillness. A sense of loneliness mixed with hope. It looked less like a television performance and more like a small film built around a country song.

Today, that might not sound unusual. But in 1973, it was almost unheard of in Nashville.

MTV would not launch until 1981. The idea that a song could have its own visual identity was still new, especially in country music. Rock artists in other parts of the world were beginning to experiment with filmed performances, but Nashville remained cautious and traditional.

Don Williams never announced what he was doing as a revolution. He never walked into interviews claiming he was changing the future of country music.

That simply was not who Don Williams was.

Don Williams did not chase the future. Somehow, the future kept arriving where Don Williams already was.

The Gentle Giant Who Never Needed Attention

People called Don Williams “The Gentle Giant” because of his tall frame and his calm, steady presence. Standing over six feet tall, Don Williams could have dominated a room the moment he entered it. Instead, Don Williams usually spoke softly, smiled politely, and let the songs do the work.

That same quiet confidence shaped his entire career.

While other artists tried to follow trends, Don Williams trusted simplicity. While others chased louder sounds and bigger productions, Don Williams leaned into stillness. The voice was warm. The stories were clear. The emotion felt real.

By the time the world finally caught up, Don Williams already had a long line of hits behind him. Songs like “Tulsa Time,” “I Believe in You,” “Good Ole Boys Like Me,” and “Some Broken Hearts Never Mend” turned Don Williams into one of the most beloved artists in country music.

But even then, Don Williams never seemed interested in reminding people how much influence he had.

The Artists Who Followed Don Williams

The reach of Don Williams went far beyond Nashville.

Eric Clapton admired Don Williams. Pete Townshend recorded one of Don Williams’ songs. Musicians from Britain, Australia, and across America heard something in Don Williams that felt rare: honesty without performance.

Long before country music became global, Don Williams already had fans around the world. In some places, radio stations were playing Don Williams records before local concert promoters even knew who Don Williams was.

That is part of what made Don Williams so unusual. Don Williams never seemed to push for fame, yet fame kept finding him.

And the same thing happened with that little filmed version of “Come Early Morning.” Don Williams never promoted it as something groundbreaking. There was no headline. No big announcement. Years later, many people forgot it even existed.

But it was there.

Eight years before MTV. Years before music videos became a business. Years before every artist was expected to have a camera following every song.

Quietly, almost invisibly, Don Williams had already done it.

A Legacy Built in Silence

Perhaps that is the most Don Williams story of all.

Don Williams spent a lifetime arriving first and never asking for credit. Don Williams created timeless songs without trying to be a star. Don Williams helped shape the future of country music without ever saying so.

And somewhere back in 1973, while the rest of Nashville was still looking toward the stage, Don Williams was already looking toward the screen.

Not because Don Williams wanted attention.

Just because Don Williams could already see what was coming.

 

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GEORGE JONES ONCE SAID ANOTHER SINGER WAS BETTER THAN HIM — AND ALMOST NOBODY REMEMBERS WHO IT WAS. George Jones didn’t hand out compliments. He didn’t need to. But when asked who had the greatest pure country voice, The Possum didn’t hesitate — he pointed to a man from Alabama who spent years working in a glass factory just to survive. That man walked away from Nashville when the money dried up. He cut glass instead of records. Then he came back and recorded what many call the saddest country song ever written. “The greatest pure country singer there is,” Jones said. Not Haggard. Not Cash. Not Strait. Him. Yet when he passed in 2009 at 74, Nashville barely whispered goodbye. No grand tribute. No primetime memorial. The voice that made George Jones bow his head simply went silent — and most of the world never even noticed. His name was Vern Gosdin. They called him “The Voice.” But what happened during his final years — when that voice was taken from him — is something even fewer people know.

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HE GREW UP PICKING COTTON IN MISSISSIPPI, BUT THE ONLY RADIO STATION IN TOWN PLAYED COUNTRY MUSIC — AND A BOXING LEGEND NAMED JACK JOHNSON MADE HIM BELIEVE A BLACK MAN COULD LOVE IT WITHOUT SHAME. In Sledge, Mississippi, young Charley Pride worked the cotton fields alongside his family. The only radio signal that reached their small town was a country station — and he fell in love with every song he heard. But loving country music as a Black boy in the segregated South wasn’t easy. People told him it wasn’t “his” music. Then he learned about Jack Johnson — the first Black heavyweight boxing champion — a man who refused to let the world tell him where he didn’t belong. That spirit lit a fire in Charley. He didn’t just keep listening. He started singing. He carried that defiance from the cotton fields to the Grand Ole Opry stage, where he became only the second Black member in history. “I never let nobody tell me what I could or couldn’t love,” Pride once said. He went on to sell over 70 million records and prove that music has no color line. Most people know Charley Pride’s voice — but very few know about the boxing champion who helped shape the man behind it.

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HIS WIFE DIED ON MAY 15, 2003. HE CALLED HIS PRODUCER THE NEXT DAY — NOT TO GRIEVE, BUT TO RECORD. IN HIS LAST 4 MONTHS, JOHNNY CASH RECORDED 60 SONGS FROM A WHEELCHAIR.When June Carter Cash passed away, Johnny told Rick Rubin five words that still haunt everyone who heard them: “You have to keep me working — because I will die if I don’t have something to do.” He was nearly blind. He couldn’t walk. Some days his voice simply wouldn’t come. But he showed up anyway — recording from his cabin, from his bedroom, from wherever they could set up a microphone. He sobbed for June every day. He picked up the phone to talk to her as if she were still on the other end. He had an artist paint her face on his elevator doors so he could still see her. His very last song was about a train engineer who crashes and dies — ending with the words “Nearer my God to thee.” Twenty-two days later, Cash followed June home.

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GEORGE JONES ONCE SAID ANOTHER SINGER WAS BETTER THAN HIM — AND ALMOST NOBODY REMEMBERS WHO IT WAS. George Jones didn’t hand out compliments. He didn’t need to. But when asked who had the greatest pure country voice, The Possum didn’t hesitate — he pointed to a man from Alabama who spent years working in a glass factory just to survive. That man walked away from Nashville when the money dried up. He cut glass instead of records. Then he came back and recorded what many call the saddest country song ever written. “The greatest pure country singer there is,” Jones said. Not Haggard. Not Cash. Not Strait. Him. Yet when he passed in 2009 at 74, Nashville barely whispered goodbye. No grand tribute. No primetime memorial. The voice that made George Jones bow his head simply went silent — and most of the world never even noticed. His name was Vern Gosdin. They called him “The Voice.” But what happened during his final years — when that voice was taken from him — is something even fewer people know.

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HE GREW UP PICKING COTTON IN MISSISSIPPI, BUT THE ONLY RADIO STATION IN TOWN PLAYED COUNTRY MUSIC — AND A BOXING LEGEND NAMED JACK JOHNSON MADE HIM BELIEVE A BLACK MAN COULD LOVE IT WITHOUT SHAME. In Sledge, Mississippi, young Charley Pride worked the cotton fields alongside his family. The only radio signal that reached their small town was a country station — and he fell in love with every song he heard. But loving country music as a Black boy in the segregated South wasn’t easy. People told him it wasn’t “his” music. Then he learned about Jack Johnson — the first Black heavyweight boxing champion — a man who refused to let the world tell him where he didn’t belong. That spirit lit a fire in Charley. He didn’t just keep listening. He started singing. He carried that defiance from the cotton fields to the Grand Ole Opry stage, where he became only the second Black member in history. “I never let nobody tell me what I could or couldn’t love,” Pride once said. He went on to sell over 70 million records and prove that music has no color line. Most people know Charley Pride’s voice — but very few know about the boxing champion who helped shape the man behind it.

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HIS WIFE DIED ON MAY 15, 2003. HE CALLED HIS PRODUCER THE NEXT DAY — NOT TO GRIEVE, BUT TO RECORD. IN HIS LAST 4 MONTHS, JOHNNY CASH RECORDED 60 SONGS FROM A WHEELCHAIR.When June Carter Cash passed away, Johnny told Rick Rubin five words that still haunt everyone who heard them: “You have to keep me working — because I will die if I don’t have something to do.” He was nearly blind. He couldn’t walk. Some days his voice simply wouldn’t come. But he showed up anyway — recording from his cabin, from his bedroom, from wherever they could set up a microphone. He sobbed for June every day. He picked up the phone to talk to her as if she were still on the other end. He had an artist paint her face on his elevator doors so he could still see her. His very last song was about a train engineer who crashes and dies — ending with the words “Nearer my God to thee.” Twenty-two days later, Cash followed June home.

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THEY SENT HIM DEATH THREATS. THEY TOLD HIM COUNTRY MUSIC WASN’T HIS. HE NEVER FOUGHT BACK WITH ANGER — HE FOUGHT BACK WITH 70 MILLION RECORDS. RCA released his first single in 1966 without a photo. No face on the album. No publicity picture. They wanted America to fall in love with his voice before they knew he was Black. And it worked — radio stations played him for months before anyone saw Charley Pride’s face. When they did, some walked away. Others sent threats. Promoters refused to book him. His own sister once asked, “Why are you singing their music?” He answered: “It’s my music too, if I like it.” He picked cotton in Mississippi at age 7. Got his first guitar at 14. Played Negro League baseball before Nashville ever knew his name. Then he stood on country’s biggest stages — looked crowds in the eye — and joked about his “permanent tan” until the silence turned to standing ovations. 29 number ones. Entertainer of the Year. Hall of Fame. He never once asked the world to feel sorry for him. He just sang — and let grace do what anger never could.