Let me take you back to the summer of 1977, when the streets of Helmond seemed just a touch quieter, and the lazy hum of bicycles kept time with the chime of church bells near the Markt. I was nineteen years old—unruly, unsteady, and burning with the feverish desire to turn every heartbreak into a song. I spent my afternoons skipping school along the banks of the Zuid-Willemsvaart with an old transistor radio in hand, twiddling the dial past all the familiar Dutch standards, always searching for something that sounded like my own wandering heart.
On one muggy July afternoon, with rain tapping its steady metronome on my window, I stumbled across something that would stitch itself to my soul for the rest of my life. That day, a strange frequency faded in and out of the static: “Somebody Loves You,” sung by Dave Loggins. Not Kenny, not that version—this was Dave’s own, off his 1977 album *One Way Ticket to Paradise*. Now, I realize the song was never a chart-topper, especially with Loggins standing in the shadow of his cousin Kenny’s later fame. But as I sat in that damp Dutch room, the way Dave sang made me feel as though he were crooning across the canal just for me.
*”Somebody loves you, I want you to know
Longs to be with you wherever you go
Somebody loves you, and right from the start
Happiness flew into somebody’s heart”*
There was a vulnerability in his voice—a light quiver around the edges—that made it sound as if each word had been pulled from the last hopeful corner of his heart. Unlike the bombastic, radio-polished country anthems surfacing then, “Somebody Loves You” felt small and humble, a song sung softly at midnight to no one but yourself. This song isn’t usually on the lists, not the “Top 100 Country Songs of the ‘70s,” or tucked into retrospectives of Outlaw Country. But for those of us who found it, Dave Loggins’ gentle voice offered a private kind of sanctuary.
My English, even then, was piecemeal, strung together from schoolbooks and song lyrics. I listened, rewound, and rewound again, scribbling the lines in smudged blue ink in my notebook. It felt as if Dave Loggins was letting himself hope for love, gently reminding someone out there—maybe even his younger self—that love was real and waiting, even in backwater towns or rainy Dutch afternoons.
*”Somebody misses you each hour of the day
Wants to be near you and wants you to stay
Somebody loves you, well, can’t you see?
And that somebody is me…”*
At a time when most love songs seemed to revel in heartbreak, this one stood apart for its persistent hopefulness. Every time Loggins sang “Somebody loves you, and that somebody is me,” it was less a boast and more a heartfelt confession—one I desperately wished I could echo to Marie, the neighbor’s daughter with the blue dress and storm-grey eyes. My confidence in love was, much like my grasp of country guitar picking, clumsy at best. But the song nudged me forward.
I remember that autumn, finally gathering the nerve to perform “Somebody Loves You” at a friend’s living room party. There were only seven of us, huddled around a battered acoustic guitar, the kind where the G string always buzzed. My accent was thick, the chords simple, but somehow the room quieted as I started the chorus. Marie locked eyes with me in the glow of the table lamp, and while I nearly lost my place, the words came anyway—the words Dave Loggins had lent to me. Afterward, she squeezed my hand, and though our romance was as fleeting as the autumn leaves on the canal, I believe she understood the message, even across the tangle of languages.
What makes “Somebody Loves You” so special, even decades later, is its tender earnestness. There’s no bravado, no wild declarations; only the ache and longing that haunt every secret crush. Loggins didn’t shout from the streets of Nashville—he murmured from some unseen corner, a single voice saying, “Don’t give up. Love’s waiting, even if it’s just me, here and now.”
In the years since, as I’ve played festival tents in Eindhoven or whispered old standards in the smoky cafés of Den Bosch, I return to this song time and time again. I keep the battered notebook in my guitar case, right beside my capo and the lucky guitar pick. And every once in a while—especially when I feel the creeping chill of loneliness—I’ll play Loggins’ gentle hymn for whomever will listen. The faces may have changed, the years may have left me grayer and rounder, but what hasn’t faded is that first electric moment when a simple song made me believe, if only for three minutes and seven seconds, that the right words can reach across oceans and break through even the thickest Dutch rain.
So if you can find it—seek out Dave Loggins’ “Somebody Loves You.” Put it on in a quiet room. Listen to the understated strum, the hope lingering in his voice. There are country songs for the broken-hearted, the wanderers, the wild ones. But this one, gentle and sweet, is for all the secret hopefuls whispering love into the static.
With a tip of the hat and a grateful heart,
Kroes den Bock