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Country Music

TRACE ADKINS WAS SHOT BY HIS SECOND WIFE DURING A 1994 DOMESTIC DISPUTE. THE BULLET PASSED THROUGH BOTH LUNGS AND HIS HEART — AND HE SURVIVED EMERGENCY TREATMENT. TWO YEARS LATER, HE WAS WALKING INTO A NASHVILLE STUDIO TO MAKE HIS FIRST ALBUM. On February 21, 1994, Trace Adkins was at home outside Nashville with his second wife, Julie Curtis. He had been drinking. The argument got worse. Curtis picked up a .38 pistol. Adkins later said he tried to take it from her. Then she fired. The bullet went through his left lung, through his heart, through his right lung, and out the other side. He was rushed to Vanderbilt. Doctors operated. For a while, the people around him were waiting to find out whether he would make it through the night. At that point, Trace was still just another big-voiced singer trying to get noticed in Nashville. He had moved there from Louisiana in 1992. He was playing Tillie and Lucy’s, a small beer joint in Mount Juliet. No hit record. No Capitol album. No “You’re Gonna Miss This.” No crowds waiting for the deep voice everybody would know later. He survived. He did not press charges. The marriage ended. Then he went back to Tillie and Lucy’s. Later that year, Capitol Nashville executive Scott Hendricks came in to hear him. Trace sang. Hendricks signed him on the spot. In 1996, Dreamin’ Out Loud came out. A year later, “(This Ain’t) No Thinkin’ Thing” went to No. 1.

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“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” TRACE ADKINS TOOK A BULLET THROUGH BOTH LUNGS…

Country Music

HE WAS ON THE ROAD, TALKING TO HIS WIFE, WHEN HE SAID THE WORDS THAT WOULD TURN INTO A SONG ABOUT A MAN DYING UNDER A BRIDGE. The road had become part of the job. Airports, buses, hotel rooms, soundchecks, another city before the last one had settled in his mind. He tried to reassure her the way people on the road often do. “This is temporary,” he told her. “I’m almost home.” The phrase stayed with him. Later, Morgan and songwriter Kerry Kurt Phillips built a different story around it. Not a road song. Not a love song. A song about a homeless man lying under a bridge, cold and tired, dreaming of a woman named Jenny and a place he can finally reach. “Almost Home” did not sound like a normal radio calculation. The man in the song was not drinking in a bar, driving a truck, or trying to get a girl back. He was dying. The final turn was quiet: the police officer finds him in the morning, but the man has already gone where he believed home really was. Morgan recorded it for his 2003 album I Love It. The song became his breakthrough. It reached the country Top 10, won BMI Song of the Year recognition, and introduced a different side of Craig Morgan to listeners. They knew the soldier. They knew the working-class singer. Now they heard him telling a story about someone most people passed without seeing. Years later, Jelly Roll told Morgan that “Almost Home” had helped him through jail. That may be the strangest part of the song’s life. It began with a husband on the road trying to reassure his wife. It became a dying man’s last dream. Then it reached people in places Craig Morgan could not have imagined when he first said the words into a phone.

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“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” HE WAS ON THE ROAD, TALKING TO HIS…

Country Music

NINE YEARS AFTER COUNTRY RADIO LAST TOOK RANDY TRAVIS TO NO. 1, HE CAME BACK WITH A SONG ABOUT THREE CROSSES BESIDE A HIGHWAY. By the early 2000s, Randy Travis was no longer the new man changing Nashville. The years of “On the Other Hand,” “Forever and Ever, Amen,” and “Deeper Than the Holler” were behind him. Country radio had moved toward younger voices, bigger production, and songs built for a different kind of audience. Randy was still recording, still touring, still carrying the deep baritone that had helped bring traditional country back in the 1980s. But his last No. 1 had come in 1994. Then he began making gospel records. It was not a sharp break from the Randy Travis people already knew. Faith had always been close to the way he sang. The voice was still slow, low, and steady. But the songs came from a different room now — less about barstools and broken promises, more about judgment, mercy, and the things people carry after the road has gone dark. In 2002, he recorded “Three Wooden Crosses.” The song followed four strangers on a midnight bus bound for Mexico: a farmer, a teacher, a preacher, and a woman nobody in the story expected to matter most. Then an eighteen-wheeler came through the darkness. Three people died. Three crosses were left beside the highway. But the song did not end at the wreck. The preacher handed his bloodstained Bible to the woman who survived. Years later, her son stood in a church holding that same Bible, telling the story of the night that changed his mother’s life. Randy did not sing it like a sermon. He sang it like a country story people had to sit still and hear all the way through. The record kept climbing. In May 2003, “Three Wooden Crosses” reached No. 1 — Randy Travis’s first chart-topper in eight years and the last No. 1 of his career. It later won CMA Single of the Year, while the album Rise and Shine earned Grammy recognition. For a singer country radio had started treating like part of another era, the comeback did not come with a flashy new sound. It came with a bus, a dark highway, and three crosses standing where four people had been.

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“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” NINE YEARS AFTER COUNTRY RADIO LAST TOOK RANDY…

Country Music

FOR YEARS, NEAL MCCOY WALKED ONSTAGE BEFORE CHARLEY PRIDE. THEN ONE DAY, COUNTRY RADIO FINALLY STOPPED TREATING HIM LIKE THE OPENING ACT. He had grown up in East Texas listening to country, R&B, gospel, and whatever else came through the radio. He worked a shoe store job. He sang in clubs. He entered a talent contest in Dallas in 1981, and Janie Fricke heard enough to help him get in front of Charley Pride’s people. For years, Neal toured as Charley Pride’s opening act. Night after night, he walked out before the crowd had fully settled in. He sang while people were still finding their seats, still buying beer, still waiting for the name on the ticket to come onstage. Charley Pride was the star. Neal was the young singer trying to make sure people remembered him after the headliner had finished. He got a small record deal in the late 1980s. He released singles. They barely moved. The label closed. Then Atlantic signed him and changed the spelling of his name from McGoy to McCoy because people had already started calling him that anyway. The first albums did not break through either. “One More Time.” “Where Forever Begins.” “Now I Pray for Rain.” The songs charted, but not enough to change his life. For a singer who had spent years opening for a legend, it must have felt like country music was still asking him to stand at the edge of the stage and wait his turn. Then came “No Doubt About It.” Released at the end of 1993, the song climbed slowly into 1994. It became Neal McCoy’s first No. 1 country record. Then “Wink” followed it to No. 1. The album went platinum. The singer who had spent years warming up crowds for Charley Pride suddenly had crowds waiting for him. And he never forgot where he had learned how to hold a room. In 1994, Neal recorded Charley Pride’s “You’re My Jamaica” and brought Pride in to sing on it with him. The opening act had become a star, but he still took time to stand beside the man who had let him ride the road long before radio gave him a reason to headline.

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“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” FOR YEARS, NEAL MCCOY WALKED ONSTAGE BEFORE CHARLEY…

Country Music

FOUR YEARS AFTER JOE DIFFIE DIED, TOBY KEITH WALKED INTO A STUDIO TO SING ONE OF HIS SADDEST SONGS. IT BECAME THE LAST RECORDING TO CARRY TOBY’S VOICE. In 1992, Joe Diffie recorded “Ships That Don’t Come In” for an album called Regular Joe. It was not built like one of the songs that would later make him the man of “Pickup Man” and “John Deere Green.” There was no joke. No neon barroom punch line. Just two men sitting together, talking about roads they had not taken, loves that had gone wrong, and the people who never got the chances they were still complaining about. The song reached the country Top 5. For Joe, it became one of the quieter records in a career often remembered for humor, trucks, jukeboxes, and the wild energy of 1990s country radio. But “Ships That Don’t Come In” carried another side of him. The Oklahoma singer who had lost a job, sold his studio, left two children behind, and gone to Nashville with almost nothing knew what it meant to measure a life by the chances that never arrived. Joe Diffie died in March 2020 at sixty-one. Four years later, HARDY built Hixtape: Vol. 3: Difftape, a tribute album made from Joe’s songs. Artists who had grown up with his records came in to sing them again. Reba McEntire. Darius Rucker. Lainey Wilson. Morgan Wallen. The songs came back with new voices, but the old man from Oklahoma was still inside them. Then Toby Keith chose “Ships That Don’t Come In.” He went into the studio with Luke Combs while fighting stomach cancer. Toby had spent years singing about soldiers, working people, hometown pride, and men trying to stand tall when the world did not make it easy. This was a song he understood. Two men talking about bad luck, then raising a glass for the ones who never got another chance. The recording was finished before Toby died in February 2024. It became his last studio session. Joe Diffie had been gone four years by then. Toby Keith would be gone before the tribute record reached listeners. Luke Combs was left singing beside two country voices that had both already crossed the line the song had been talking about all along. Two men from Oklahoma and country music’s long road. Still talking about the ships that never came in.

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“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” FOUR YEARS AFTER JOE DIFFIE DIED, TOBY KEITH…

Country Music

IN 1995, TY HERNDON HAD A NO. 1 RECORD ON COUNTRY RADIO. THEN, IN THE SAME YEAR, HE WAS FORCED INTO REHAB WHILE NASHVILLE WAITED TO SEE IF HE WOULD COME BACK. Before “What Mattered Most,” Ty Herndon had spent years trying to get country music to give him a place. He sang gospel as a boy in Alabama. He worked Texas clubs. He chased auditions, sang on Star Search, joined the Tennessee River Boys, and kept moving through rooms where a singer could be talented and still go home without a contract. Epic Records finally signed him in 1993. Two years later, the title song from his debut album went to No. 1. For a moment, everything looked like the beginning he had been waiting for. Then June 1995 came. Herndon was arrested in Fort Worth after an undercover police sting. Authorities also found methamphetamine when he was taken into custody. The headlines did not care that he had just made one of the biggest new-country records of the year. They did not care about the years of waiting, the clubs, the demo tapes, or the first chart-topper. Ty entered treatment. The exposure charge was dropped under a plea agreement, and he was sentenced to probation, community service, and drug rehabilitation. But the real damage was not something a courtroom could measure. The record business had given him a stage. Addiction and shame had already started trying to take it away. He did not disappear. “I Want My Goodbye Back” reached the Top 10. “Living in a Moment” followed. Then came “It Must Be Love,” “Hands of a Working Man,” and years of touring through a career that never again looked as simple as it had on the day “What Mattered Most” reached No. 1. Decades later, Ty began speaking openly about the parts of his life he had spent years trying to hide: addiction, mental-health struggles, trauma, faith, and the cost of living as someone country music had not always made room for. But the first public break came when the hit was still climbing. A singer had finally reached the top of the chart. And then had to fight to stay alive long enough to sing another song.

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“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” IN 1995, TY HERNDON HAD A NO. 1…

Country Music

15,000 TURKEYS. 135,000 MEALS. NOW EVERY THANKSGIVING, TRACY LAWRENCE SPENDS FEEDING PEOPLE WITH NOWHERE TO GO. In 1991, Tracy Lawrence was still waiting for country music to decide whether he had a future. He had just finished the vocals for his first album when three men cornered him outside a Nashville hotel. Tracy tried to protect the woman with him long enough for her to get away. Then the shots came. Four bullets. Surgeries. A long recovery. A debut record delayed while the singer who had come to Nashville for one chance was trying to walk normally again. “Sticks and Stones” still made it out. The song went to No. 1 in early 1992. Tracy became one of the voices of 1990s country. There were more hits, more tours, more years on the road. But Nashville had also shown him how quickly a person could lose the ordinary things people take for granted: safety, health, a place to go at night, the feeling that tomorrow was promised. In 2006, he and a few friends bought some turkey fryers, gathered in a parking lot, and started cooking. The idea was simple. Fry turkeys. Take hot meals to homeless camps and shelters around Middle Tennessee. No big launch. No speech about legacy. Just oil, smoke, volunteers, food trucks, and people carrying meals toward those who had nowhere else to be during Thanksgiving week. Then it kept growing. The Mission Turkey Fry became an annual Nashville event. Country singers showed up. Volunteers filled the fairgrounds. Benefit concerts were added at night. The fryers kept going long after the cameras had moved on. By 2025, Mission had fried more than 15,000 turkeys, shared over 135,000 meals, and donated more than $1.3 million to Nashville Rescue Mission. That is a long way from the parking lot where Tracy Lawrence nearly lost the career before it began.

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“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” 15,000 TURKEYS. 135,000 MEALS. NOW EVERY THANKSGIVING, TRACY…

Country Music

THE FOUNDRY CLOSED. JOE DIFFIE SOLD HIS STUDIO, LOST HIS MARRIAGE, AND WENT TO NASHVILLE WITH TWO CHILDREN WAITING BACK HOME. He worked oil fields. He drove a concrete-pump truck in Texas. Then he went back to Duncan, Oklahoma, and took a job at an iron foundry. At night, he sang in a gospel group and played bluegrass with a band called Special Edition. He built a small recording studio because sending demos to Nashville was the closest thing he had to a plan. Then the foundry closed in 1986. Joe lost the job. The money ran out. He filed for bankruptcy and sold the studio he had built to keep the dream alive. Around the same time, his first marriage ended. His wife left with their two children, and Joe spent months trying to figure out what was left of the life he thought he was building. Then he packed for Nashville. There was no record deal waiting there. Joe took a warehouse job at Gibson Guitar, loading and unloading instruments during the day. At night, he wrote songs, sang demos, and looked for anybody willing to listen. A neighbor named Johnny Neal helped him get closer to publishing work. Hank Thompson recorded one of Joe’s songs, “Love on the Rocks.” Holly Dunn recorded “There Goes My Heart Again,” and Joe sang harmony on it. The checks were small at first. But they proved something. By 1990, Epic Records signed him. His first single was “Home,” a song about a man looking down a long road and realizing the place he misses most is not somewhere he can drive back to. It went to No. 1. The man who had sold his own studio, lost his job, and left Oklahoma with two children still back home had made his first record a hit before country radio had even learned what to expect from him. Then came “If the Devil Danced (In Empty Pockets).” “Third Rock from the Sun.” “Pickup Man.” “John Deere Green.” But before Joe Diffie became one of the voices people heard coming through pickup-truck speakers all through the 1990s, he was a man standing in a Gibson warehouse, trying to believe that losing everything had not been the end of the song.

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“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” THE FOUNDRY CLOSED. JOE DIFFIE SOLD HIS STUDIO,…

Country Music

THE FIRST TIME RANDY TRAVIS RELEASED “ON THE OTHER HAND,” IT STOPPED AT NO. 67. A YEAR LATER, THE SAME SONG WENT TO NO. 1 AND HELPED PULL COUNTRY MUSIC BACK TOWARD HOME. Before Randy Travis became the deep voice behind “Forever and Ever, Amen,” he was Randy Traywick, a troubled teenager from North Carolina who kept finding his way into courtrooms, jail cells, and trouble he was too young to understand how to leave behind. He had dropped out of school. He had been arrested more than once. He could sing, but singing was not enough to keep a life together. Then Lib Hatcher, who owned a Charlotte nightclub called Country City U.S.A., heard him. She gave him a place to work. She gave him a bandstand. When one judge was ready to send Randy back into the system, Lib promised she would take responsibility for him. For a while, he lived above the club. At night, he sang for people drinking beer under neon lights. He learned the old songs. George Jones. Lefty Frizzell. Merle Haggard. He did not have the polished sound Nashville was chasing in the early 1980s. His voice was low, slow, and traditional. It sounded like it belonged to a country radio station from twenty years earlier. Lib took him to Nashville. Warner Bros. signed him. They changed his name from Randy Traywick to Randy Travis. Then came “On the Other Hand.” Released in July 1985, the song barely moved. It stopped at No. 67. For a new singer, that kind of first single could close a door before anybody had learned your name. Warner released “1982” next. That one climbed to No. 6. Radio programmers started hearing something in him. Fans started asking for the first song again. So Warner put “On the Other Hand” back out in April 1986. This time, it did not stop. By July, it was No. 1. The song was small by country standards: a married man standing at a bar, tempted by another woman, then feeling his wedding ring in his hand. But Randy sang it without trying to make it modern. He let the guilt stay quiet. He let the steel guitar breathe. He made a new generation of listeners hear what country music had sounded like before it started running from its own past. Then came Storms of Life. Then “Forever and Ever, Amen.” Then seven straight No. 1 singles. But before Randy Travis became the man who helped open the door for Alan Jackson, Clint Black, and a whole new traditional country wave, he was a singer whose first record had failed. And one woman in North Carolina had refused to let that failure be the last thing anybody heard from him.

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“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” THE FIRST TIME RANDY TRAVIS RELEASED “ON THE…

Country Music

FOUR BULLETS HIT TRACY LAWRENCE BEFORE HIS FIRST ALBUM CAME OUT. SIX MONTHS LATER, “STICKS AND STONES” WENT TO NO. 1. By 1991, Tracy Lawrence had only just arrived in Nashville. He had come from Arkansas with a deep country voice, a record deal with Atlantic, and the kind of first chance singers spend years chasing. He had finished the vocal tracks for his debut album, Sticks and Stones. The songs were done. The studio work was behind him. All that was left was to wait for country radio to decide whether a new singer had a future. Then, on May 31, he walked a female friend back to her hotel near Music Row. Three men approached them in the parking lot. The robbery turned violent. Tracy tried to protect her long enough for her to get away. He was shot four times — in the hand, arm, hip, and knee. Two of the wounds required surgery. One bullet remained in his body. The singer who had just finished his first record was suddenly facing hospital rooms, rehabilitation, and the possibility that the career might end before the album even reached the shelves. The release was delayed while he recovered. But the record still came out later that year. Its first single was “Sticks and Stones,” a song about a man trying to sound tougher than the heartbreak tearing through him. “You can take the house, the car, the clothes,” he sings in effect. Just do not expect the damage to disappear because you walked away. By January 1992, “Sticks and Stones” had gone to No. 1. The title sounded almost cruelly fitting. Tracy Lawrence had already learned that sticks and stones could do more than hurt feelings. They could change the shape of a body, delay a dream, and leave a young singer wondering whether he would ever walk normally again. But country radio heard the record. And the man who had been shot in a Nashville parking lot before his debut album was released became one of the defining voices of 1990s country. The bullet stayed in his hip. The song stayed at No. 1.

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“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.” FOUR BULLETS HIT TRACY LAWRENCE BEFORE HIS FIRST…

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