Hello Darkness, My Old Friend: How Russ Taff Found Redemption in the Sound of Silence

There are songs that haunt us, melodies that linger like ghosts of our past, and lyrics that cut straight to the soul. For Russ Taff—Grammy-winning gospel legend, recovering alcoholic, and a man who has walked through the valley of shadows—Simon & Garfunkel’s The Sound of Silence is more than a melancholy classic. It’s a mirror. A confession. A testimony.

“Hello darkness, my old friend…”

That opening line, whispered like a prayer—or perhaps a plea—brings him back to the loneliest moments of his life. Nights when he’d step off a stage, having just sung of Christ to thousands, only to retreat into a dim hotel room, the weight of addiction pulling him under once more.

“You think you disappointed everybody,” Taff reflects. “But He never walked away from me. And I tried to walk away from Him.”

A Cover Story of Grace

At 71, Taff has lived enough for three lifetimes. A six-time Grammy winner and 18-time Dove Award recipient, his voice has been a beacon in Christian music for decades—first with The Imperials, then the Gaither Vocal Band, and later as a solo artist. But his greatest testimony isn’t just the songs he’s sung—it’s the story behind them.

His latest album, Cover Story, is a collection of reimagined classics, each one a chapter in his journey. From Depeche Mode’s People Are People to B.B. King and U2’s When Love Comes to Town, these aren’t just covers—they’re confessions. And none cut deeper than The Sound of Silence.

“You open that door to that hotel room again, and you’ve been there many times…” he says, recalling the cycle of relapse and sobriety. “It was a familiar place, unfortunately, but I knew that place.”

When Love Walked Into the Darkness

Even in his deepest shame, Taff says, God never left. There was no locked door grace couldn’t open.

“I tried to say, ‘Don’t come in here. Don’t come in here. I’m so embarrassed…'” he recalls. “But He walked right in there. ‘Russ, I love you. Russ, I want to help you.'”

And then, the words that shattered his despair: “Russ, that’s why I died—to give you power to do it right.”

The Hands That Held Him Up

Not every memory is wrapped in shadows. Among the album’s tracks is Bill Withers’ Grandma’s Hands, a tribute to the woman who was his sanctuary. Taff’s father, a preacher, struggled with alcoholism, but his grandmother—her silver hair flowing, her faith unshaken—whispered hope over him.

“Son, it’s going to be alright,” she’d say. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but it’s going to be alright.”

Those words became his lifeline.

The Joy After the Mourning

Today, after years of recovery—through Alcoholics Anonymous, therapy, and relentless grace—Taff speaks of a joy he never dreamed possible.

“I had no idea you could be this happy,” he marvels. “These last 18-19 years… they have just been a gift from God.”

And perhaps the most beautiful part? His honesty has given others permission to be free. Fans whisper their own struggles to him after concerts—stories of addiction, betrayal, pain. Because when one person dares to tell the truth, chains break.

“When somebody has the courage to be honest,” Taff says, “it encourages other people to be honest.”

And so, from the sound of silence to the roar of redemption, Russ Taff’s story reminds us: Darkness may be an old friend, but Light is a forever Savior.

“I was lost, but now I’m found.” And the music plays on.