Album Review: Too Much Is Not Enough / The End Of Me by Billie Jo Spears
Man, this album snuck up on me like an old friend you haven’t seen in years but instantly click with again. Released back in ’77 under United Artists Records, Too Much Is Not Enough / The End Of Me is one of those country gems that doesn’t shout for attention—it whispers and lingers. Produced by Larry Butler (yeah, the guy who worked magic with Kenny Rogers) and engineered by Billy Sherrill, it’s got that warm, lived-in sound that makes you wanna sit down with a cup of coffee and just… feel something.
The title track, “Too Much Is Not Enough,” hits hard right outta the gate. I mean, dang, Billie Jo Spears knows how to sell heartbreak without overdoing it. Her voice cracks just enough to let you know she ain’t faking the pain—it’s real, raw, messy. There’s no flash here, no wild vocal runs or tricks; it’s just her pouring herself into every word like she’s telling you her story. And oh, those strings arranged by Bill Justis? They’re subtle, almost shy, creeping in like shadows behind her voice until they wrap around you tight. It’s not flashy, but man does it stick. Every time I hear it, I think about late nights driving through empty streets, wondering if love ever really works out. Spoiler alert: probably not.
Then there’s “The End Of Me.” This one’s quieter, slower—like the moment after a storm when everything feels too still. It’s haunting, honestly. You can almost picture Billie Jo sitting alone in some dimly lit room, staring at the floor while she sings about giving everything and getting nothing back. That line—"It’s the end of me"—landed so heavy the first time I heard it. Like, wow, have we all been there? Giving till we’re running on empty, hoping someone will notice? Ugh. It’s rough stuff, but it’s beautiful too. Sometimes music needs to hurt a little to heal, ya know?
What strikes me most about this record isn’t just the songs themselves—it’s the space between them. The quiet moments where you can practically hear the air moving in the studio. That’s rare these days. These tracks don’t rush you—they give you room to breathe, to think, to cry if you need to.
And honestly? Listening to this album now feels kinda strange. Like finding an old Polaroid photo tucked inside a book you forgot you owned. It reminds me how short life is—and how long good music lasts. Funny thing is, as much as these songs are about loss and longing, they make me feel less alone. Go figure.
So yeah, grab yourself a copy if you can find one. Put it on vinyl if possible—the pops and hisses only add to the charm. Just don’t blame me if you start crying halfway through.
