50 YEARS AFTER “EL PASO”… A SON STILL STANDS THERE KEEPING HIS FATHER ALIVE.
When Ronny Robbins steps up to sing “El Paso,” there’s always this quiet moment — the kind that makes a whole room lean in without even realizing it. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t pose. He just lowers his eyes a little, takes a slow breath, and for a few heartbeats, it feels like he’s reaching for a hand that isn’t there anymore… but still guiding him.
Most people hear the song and think of Marty Robbins — the legend, the storyteller, the cowboy with the velvet voice who painted whole movies in three-minute ballads. But Ronny? He hears something different. He hears the needle touching the vinyl in their living room. He hears his father humming the harmonies under his breath. He hears the low click of Marty tapping the rhythm with his boot without realizing he’s doing it.
And he remembers being that little boy sitting cross-legged on the carpet, swinging his legs, watching his dad fall completely into the world of a song. There was no lesson. No speech. No “one day this will be yours.” Marty never needed to say it. A child knows when something sacred is happening.
That’s why, when Ronny sings “El Paso,” it never feels like a cover. It feels like walking back into a room he’s missed for half a lifetime.
The first line always drops soft — almost careful — like he’s afraid one wrong breath might make the memory fade. Then something shifts. His voice steadies, warms, finds that familiar path worn down by years of listening. He doesn’t try to sound like Marty, and he doesn’t need to. What comes out is something quieter: a son’s voice carrying a father’s shadow with gentleness instead of imitation.
And the crowd feels it. They always do. They don’t stand there watching a tribute performance. They’re watching a man hold onto the last thread of a legacy he refuses to let go of.
As the story of Feleena unfolds, Ronny’s eyes soften — not for the drama of the song, but for the echo of the man who first brought it to life. You can almost see the reflection of that living room floor… the record spinning… the soft static… Marty Robbins leaning back with that half-smile he got whenever music took him someplace deeper.
By the time Ronny reaches the final line, it isn’t just the end of a ballad. It’s a promise — the same one he’s been keeping for more than fifty years:
As long as he sings it, Marty never really leaves.