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Tim Hardin: The Voice I Never Knew I Needed

  • Vijeta
  • Jul 13
  • 3 min read
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Just when you think you’ve aged out of discovering music that moves you deeply—when the soundtrack of your life feels mostly set—I stumbled upon Tim Hardin.  Listening to him felt like finding something I’d always needed but never knew existed.

Imagine Leonard Cohen’s transcendental poetic introspection, fused with Nick Drake’s tender, aching melancholy. That’s Hardin. A voice that doesn’t just sing—it trembles, it confesses, it longs- and in doing so, delivers a quiet catharsis. There’s a fragile masculinity in his music, a vulnerable honesty rarely expressed with such grace and sincerity.


Bob Dylan reportedly called Hardin “the greatest living songwriter” after hearing his first album. Coming from Dylan— a man who set the gold standard for lyrical genius—that’s a staggering compliment. But listen to Hardin, and you’ll understand why. 


“If I listened long enough to you

I'd find a way to believe it's all true

Knowing that you lied straight-faced while I cried

Still I look to find a reason to believe”

(Reason to believe, 1965)


“What can I say, she's walking away

From what we've seen

What can I do, still loving you

It's all a dream

How can we hang on to a dream

How can it, will it be, the way it seems

How can we hang on to a dream”

(How can we hang on to a dream, 1966)


“Lady came from Baltimore

All she wore was lace

She didn't know that I was poor

She never saw my place

I was there to steal her money

Take her rings and run

Then I fell in love with the lady

Got away with none”

(Lady came from Baltimore, 1967)


These aren’t just lyrics. They’re unsent love letters, whispered apologies, memories suspended between hope and heartbreak. He was a master of writing love songs- not the sweet, sugary kind- but ones that carried quiet desperation and tragic honesty with a tender grace. 


His first two records—Tim Hardin 1 and Tim Hardin 2—are full of promises. You can hear something extraordinary unfolding, leaving you yearning for more. A spark of greatness that tragically faded sooner than one would have expected. 

His addiction with heroin followed him like a shadow all his life. In 1966, he recorded Black Sheep Boy, a haunting track about his drug use and estrangement from his family. 


“I'm the family's unowned boy

Golden curls of envied hair

Pretty girls with faces fair

See the shine in the Black Sheep Boy

If you love me, let me live in peace

Please understand

That the black sheep can wear the golden fleece

And hold a winning hand”

(Black sheep boy, 1967)


His son, Damian Hardin, once told a heart-breaking story: Tim sold the rights to his entire catalogue for a suitcase of cash. He took the money and flew to London, just to register for free methadone. That’s how far he’d fallen. 


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“It seems the songs we're singing are all about tomorrow

Tunes of promises you can't keep”

(Don't make promises, 1967)


He made promises he couldn’t keep—both in life and in music. Yet with what remains, his songs remain a fix, a refuse, a moment of catharsis and relief- perhaps the same solace he sought for himself. 

Tim Hardin is one of the most overlooked and underappreciated voices in 20th-century music. He deserves a revival. Just as Nick Drake was rediscovered by new generations, Hardin’s time is overdue. He’s not a footnote in music history. He’s a missing chapter.


I’m gutted I didn’t find him sooner. But I’m grateful I found him at all. Some voices don’t come to you until you’re ready. Tim Hardin was waiting—quietly, patiently. And now that I’ve heard him, I can’t un-hear the longing, the love, the loss.


If you haven’t yet, go listen.


 

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