A quiet confession about regret, restraint, and the long road toward emotional honesty — a song that ages with the listener, not the charts
When Tom Rush recorded “These Days” for his 1968 album The Circle Game, he did something rare and enduring: he took a song written by a much younger man and made it sound as though it had already lived a lifetime. Released at the height of the American folk revival, Rush’s version did not storm the charts or announce itself with radio-friendly urgency. Instead, it arrived quietly, almost humbly, and stayed. That, in many ways, is the story of this song.
“These Days” was written by Jackson Browne when he was just sixteen years old, an almost unbelievable fact given the emotional restraint and reflective maturity of the lyrics. The song was first recorded by Nico in 1967 on her album Chelsea Girl, but it was Tom Rush’s interpretation that brought the song into the folk mainstream. Appearing on The Circle Game in 1968, Rush’s version became the one that countless listeners encountered first, and for many, the one that felt most truthful.
In terms of chart performance, Tom Rush’s “These Days” was never released as a major hit single and did not enter the Billboard Hot 100 upon release. The album The Circle Game itself made a modest appearance on the Billboard 200, reflecting the era’s folk audience rather than mass pop appeal. Years later, when Jackson Browne finally recorded his own version on For Everyman in 1973, the song reached No. 84 on the Billboard Hot 100, a small but symbolic acknowledgment of its slow-burning power. Yet charts were never the measure of this song’s value. Its true ranking has always been in memory.
What makes “These Days” so haunting is not what it declares, but what it withholds. The narrator speaks of roads not taken, friendships quietly abandoned, mistakes carefully examined but never dramatized. Lines about “making plans” and “standing on corners” suggest a life lived with caution, even fear — fear of hurting others, fear of being exposed, fear of one’s own emotional weight. In Tom Rush’s delivery, this restraint becomes the song’s emotional engine. His voice is calm, almost conversational, as if the singer has learned that some truths are best spoken without emphasis.
There is a deep, almost philosophical sadness in the song’s refusal to ask for forgiveness or redemption. The narrator does not beg to be understood. He simply observes himself, with a clarity that only time can provide. For listeners who have lived long enough to look back on friendships that faded without explanation, or choices made quietly and carried forever, “These Days” feels less like a song and more like a mirror.
Tom Rush, already respected for his interpretive skill and emotional intelligence, understood that this song required stillness. His acoustic arrangement leaves space between the notes, allowing the listener to sit with the words. In contrast to the turbulence of the late 1960s — a time of protest, volume, and generational rupture — “These Days” speaks in a lower voice. It is inward-looking, personal, and unresolved. That quality has allowed it to age gracefully.
Over the decades, “These Days” has been covered by many artists, but Rush’s version remains a cornerstone of the song’s history. It captures a moment when folk music was not just about commentary, but contemplation. The song does not tell us how to feel; it trusts us to bring our own memories, our own unfinished conversations, into its quiet frame.
In the end, “These Days” endures because it understands something essential about growing older: that regret does not always arrive with drama, and wisdom does not always offer comfort. Sometimes, all we can do is acknowledge where we’ve been, speak softly about what we’ve lost, and keep walking — carrying the song with us, like a familiar thought we return to when the world grows quiet.