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“SHE SAID IT WOULD HURT TO SING THIS — AND IT DID.” Reba McEntire stepped onto the Grammy stage and admitted softly that this would be a hard song to sing. You could see it in the way she held the mic. The lights felt dimmer. The air heavier. She wasn’t alone. Brandy Clark stood beside her, the one who reshaped the lyrics. Lukas Nelson waited in quiet respect. Behind them, faces and names appeared, one after another. Reba didn’t push her voice. She let it breathe. Honest. Bare. When the final note faded, no one rushed to clap. The silence said more than applause ever could. It felt less like a tribute… and more like standing inside a shared memory that still hasn’t finished speaking.

Reba McEntire Delivers Emotional In Memoriam Performance at the 2026 Grammy Awards

The Grammy Awards are a celebration of where music is headed — but also a time to remember where it’s been. At this year’s ceremony, amidst historic nominations and headline-making performances, the Recording Academy paused for a poignant moment of reflection with an In Memoriam segment led by country music icon Reba McEntire.

Making history of her own, Bad Bunny became the first Spanish-language artist to receive nominations for Album of the Year, Record of the Year, and Song of the Year. As he prepares to headline next week’s Super Bowl LX Halftime Show, the 2026 Grammys also showcased performances from Lady Gaga, Sabrina Carpenter, and more. But it was the solemn In Memoriam segment that delivered the night’s deepest emotional impact.

Honoring the Legends We Lost

2025 was a challenging year for the music world, marked by the loss of several legendary figures:

  • Ozzy Osbourne – The “Godfather of Metal,” who passed away at age 76 in July, just 17 days after his final performance with Black Sabbath.
  • D’Angelo – The neo-soul pioneer and four-time Grammy winner who died of pancreatic cancer at 51 in October.
  • Roberta Flack – Five-time Grammy-winning genre-blender who passed away in February at 86.

Each received individual tributes that honored their profound impact on music across genres. But the broader remembrance came through a heartfelt performance by Reba McEntire — her first-ever Grammy performance despite 18 nominations and 3 wins over the years.

A First Performance Marked by Loss

Joined by fellow nominees Brandy Clark and Lukas Nelson, Reba performed a moving rendition of “Trailblazer,” her Grammy-nominated collaboration with Miranda Lambert and Lainey Wilson. As the trio traded verses, the screen behind them displayed the faces of those the industry lost in the past year.

The tribute included:

  • Raul Malo – Lead singer of The Mavericks, who died in December at age 60 after a battle with colon cancer.
  • Brett James – Acclaimed songwriter behind hits like “Jesus, Take the Wheel,” who tragically died in a plane crash in September alongside his wife and stepdaughter.
  • Ace Frehley – Founding guitarist of KISS, remembered for his larger-than-life performances, who passed away in October.

The Legacy of In Memoriam

The In Memoriam segment has become a powerful annual tradition since it was first introduced at the 45th Grammy Awards in 2003. That year, Bruce Springsteen, Elvis Costello, Dave Grohl, Steven Van Zandt, Pete Thomas, and No Doubt’s Tony Kanal paid tribute to Joe Strummer, the late frontman of The Clash.

Since then, the segment has honored artists, engineers, producers, executives, and industry visionaries whose contributions helped shape the music we know today. This year’s tribute continued that tradition with a stirring mix of music, memory, and reverence.

While the Grammys celebrate the living legends and rising stars, it’s in these quiet, reflective moments that the event reminds us of music’s enduring soul — shaped not only by who’s here now, but by those we’ll never forget.

 

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“A CAMERA FOUND HER TEARS BEFORE THE SONG ENDED.” During the In Memoriam segment, Reba McEntire stood steady, voice soft, eyes shining. Photos of lost artists drifted behind her like quiet waves. Then one image appeared—Brandon Blackstock. The room shifted. What felt like a tribute to the industry suddenly felt like a family goodbye. In the audience, Kelly Clarkson didn’t move. She just stared at the screen, hands still, breath shallow. People later said they only understood the weight of the song halfway through. Brandon had passed only months before, and the grief was still close. Backstage, Reba admitted she knew his photo would come up. Singing was the only way she could let go. Her first Grammy moment became something else—a farewell that kept echoing after the lights went down.

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A LEGEND’S FINAL WORDS THAT WERE NEVER SUNG. It was 2013, inside an intensive care unit, far from any grand stage. George Jones, the man with the golden voice who once moved all of America to tears, lay there, so frail that even breathing had become a struggle. He had spent a lifetime singing about pain and broken hearts, but now, his own heart was slowly fading. His wife, Nancy, remained by his side, gripping the calloused hand that had once strummed the saddest notes the world had ever known. Suddenly, George opened his eyes. He didn’t look at his wife; instead, he stared fixedly into the empty space of the room. His lips moved—not to say goodbye—but to speak to someone only he could see. Those final whispered words revealed a secret about the one thing he feared most…

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THIS WAS THE SONG Jerry Reed DIDN’T WRITE TO BE CLEVER. People knew him as the fast-talking rebel who made guitars laugh. The man who turned country music into motion. But this song arrived without jokes, without fireworks—almost like it slipped into the room when no one was watching. It was recorded late, when his hands slowed and his memories grew louder. The melody barely breathed, as if afraid to wake something buried. He left the cracks untouched. Some swear the tape kept rolling after he stopped, because no one dared interrupt the moment. He never sent it to radio. Never claimed it as his own. Now fans aren’t asking why it feels unfinished. They’re asking who he was really singing to… the crowd—or the part of himself that never learned how to stay.

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“A CAMERA FOUND HER TEARS BEFORE THE SONG ENDED.” During the In Memoriam segment, Reba McEntire stood steady, voice soft, eyes shining. Photos of lost artists drifted behind her like quiet waves. Then one image appeared—Brandon Blackstock. The room shifted. What felt like a tribute to the industry suddenly felt like a family goodbye. In the audience, Kelly Clarkson didn’t move. She just stared at the screen, hands still, breath shallow. People later said they only understood the weight of the song halfway through. Brandon had passed only months before, and the grief was still close. Backstage, Reba admitted she knew his photo would come up. Singing was the only way she could let go. Her first Grammy moment became something else—a farewell that kept echoing after the lights went down.

Uncategorized

A LEGEND’S FINAL WORDS THAT WERE NEVER SUNG. It was 2013, inside an intensive care unit, far from any grand stage. George Jones, the man with the golden voice who once moved all of America to tears, lay there, so frail that even breathing had become a struggle. He had spent a lifetime singing about pain and broken hearts, but now, his own heart was slowly fading. His wife, Nancy, remained by his side, gripping the calloused hand that had once strummed the saddest notes the world had ever known. Suddenly, George opened his eyes. He didn’t look at his wife; instead, he stared fixedly into the empty space of the room. His lips moved—not to say goodbye—but to speak to someone only he could see. Those final whispered words revealed a secret about the one thing he feared most…

Uncategorized

THIS WAS THE SONG Jerry Reed DIDN’T WRITE TO BE CLEVER. People knew him as the fast-talking rebel who made guitars laugh. The man who turned country music into motion. But this song arrived without jokes, without fireworks—almost like it slipped into the room when no one was watching. It was recorded late, when his hands slowed and his memories grew louder. The melody barely breathed, as if afraid to wake something buried. He left the cracks untouched. Some swear the tape kept rolling after he stopped, because no one dared interrupt the moment. He never sent it to radio. Never claimed it as his own. Now fans aren’t asking why it feels unfinished. They’re asking who he was really singing to… the crowd—or the part of himself that never learned how to stay.

Uncategorized

“SHE SAID IT WOULD HURT TO SING THIS — AND IT DID.” Reba McEntire stepped onto the Grammy stage and admitted softly that this would be a hard song to sing. You could see it in the way she held the mic. The lights felt dimmer. The air heavier. She wasn’t alone. Brandy Clark stood beside her, the one who reshaped the lyrics. Lukas Nelson waited in quiet respect. Behind them, faces and names appeared, one after another. Reba didn’t push her voice. She let it breathe. Honest. Bare. When the final note faded, no one rushed to clap. The silence said more than applause ever could. It felt less like a tribute… and more like standing inside a shared memory that still hasn’t finished speaking.