The Melancholy Aria of the Unattainable: A Voice That Turned Heartbreak into High Art
A Ballad Where Lost Love Lives Only in the Beautiful, Cruel World of Sleep
There are voices that merely sing a song, and then there is the voice of Roy Orbison, a canyon-deep well of operatic melancholy that could transform a simple pop tune into a soaring, epic tragedy. In 1963, a truly singular piece of work emerged from the “Big O” that would cement his reputation as rock and roll’s most uniquely tormented romantic: “In Dreams.”
Released in February 1963 on Monument Records, “In Dreams” was immediately recognized for its distinct, almost ethereal quality. It was a substantial success right out of the gate, proving that his blend of country music heartache and dramatic, symphonic rock was a potent formula. The single climbed to No. 7 on the US Billboard Hot 100 chart and achieved an impressive peak of No. 6 on the UK Singles Chart, enduring on the charts for nearly half a year. Its success was so significant that it became the title track for his album, In Dreams, released that July.
The story behind this iconic track is as evocative as the tune itself. Orbison famously claimed that the entire song came to him as a complete entity—words, melody, and structure—while he was falling asleep, only for him to wake up, sit down, and write the whole thing in a mere twenty minutes. Whether literal or simply poetic, the anecdote perfectly captures the song’s dreamlike, disjointed brilliance. It’s a work that completely eschewed the traditional AABA verse-chorus structure common in pop music. Instead, it moves through a sequence of seven distinct, non-repeating melodic movements, building tension and emotion until the breathtaking final release. This unconventional architecture gives the song its unforgettable, mesmerizing flow, mimicking the way a dream shifts and swells, each moment vivid but fleeting.
The deeper meaning of “In Dreams” is a masterclass in elegant devastation. It details the plight of a heartbroken narrator whose lost love—the one he walks with, talks to, and has entirely—exists only when he is asleep, ushered into his subconscious by a “candy-colored clown they call the sandman.” It is a beautiful fantasy—until the moment “just before the dawn,” when he awakes to the brutal, crushing reality that she is gone. The song is not merely sad; it is an agonizing portrait of dependence on fantasy for emotional survival, a recognition that the only place he can find happiness is in a world that ceases to exist the moment he opens his eyes.
For those of us who grew up with Orbison’s music echoing through the years, this song holds a special, almost sacred place. It is a portal back to a time when heartbreak wasn’t shouted, but felt with quiet intensity, amplified by that extraordinary three-octave voice that could transition from a fragile, whispered plea to a towering, desperate wail in a single breath. And of course, a new generation of listeners—and a surge of nostalgia for the old guard—discovered its profound darkness when director David Lynch controversially used it in his 1986 film, Blue Velvet. Lynch’s surreal and sinister use of the song, performed by a deeply unhinged character, peeled back the candy-coating to reveal the true, existential dread at the song’s heart, proving that Orbison’s masterpiece was far more than a 1960s pop single—it was, and remains, a timeless, unsettling operatic aria of human solitude. At its core, “In Dreams” is the most exquisite lament for the phantom of lost love ever recorded.