OldiesButGoodies

Country

Toby Keith – Country Comes To Town

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Introduction:

Country Comes To Town, released in 1999, is a energetic anthem that celebrates the spirit of small-town America and its deep-rooted country music culture. The song was written and performed by American country music artist Toby Keith. It found a home on his 1999 album, How Do You Like Me Now?!, which marked his first release under the Dreamworks Records label. Country Comes To Town was not initially chosen as a single, but eventually gained traction and was released as the album’s third single in May 2000. The song was produced by James Stroud and Toby Keith himself.

Country Comes To Town quickly became a major hit, climbing the charts and reaching number four on the Billboard Hot Country Singles & Tracks chart in the United States. The song’s success extended beyond the US, peaking at number three in Canada. The energetic celebration of small-town life resonated with audiences and helped solidify Toby Keith‘s reputation as a major country music star.

Country Comes To Town‘s influence wasn’t limited to the charts. The song won the prestigious Academy of Country Music Award for Song of the Year in 2004. This award, voted on by members of the Academy of Country Music, recognizes the most outstanding song material released during the previous year. Earning a Song of the Year award is a significant accomplishment, and it cemented Country Comes To Town‘s place as a meaningful song within the country music genre.

Today, Country Comes To Town remains a popular choice for country radio stations. Fans can expect to hear it played alongside other Toby Keith hits. The song continues to be a staple at his live concerts, where it ignites a sense of community and enthusiasm among the audience. Country Comes To Town stands as a timeless anthem that captures the essence of small-town America and its enduring country music culture.

Video:

https://youtu.be/fpUWr4gCCL0?si=Z9lZdNy9YWI67jjI

Lyrics:

Well, the weatherman said it might storm todayI gotta hit the field, gotta bail some hayAnd I can’t let it rain on my daddy’s farm‘Til I get it all stacked up high in the barn
And I’m gonna call my baby, she’s been waiting on me, yeahShe lives downtown on Sycamore Street andThe wheels on the blacktop are startin’ to whineAs I pass that Oklahoma City limit sign
I’m a hayseed and a plowboyI’m a farm kid and a cowboyI’m a roughneckMy daddy was a roughneck too, whoa
I run around with hillbilly girlsThe weekend sits on my hillbilly worldYou better be ready when the sun goes downThat’s when country comes to town
Well, her daddy said, “Child, better let him be”Well, I don’t like him and he sure don’t like meHer momma just says, “Y’all have a little funSee, ain’t doin’ nothing me and papa ain’t done”And, uh, open up the door to my pick-up truckAnd my baby jumps in and she fires it upAnd she gives me a kiss as I crawl inWe’ve been waiting all week for a weekend
I’m a hayseed and a plowboyI’m a farm kid and a cowboyI’m a roughneckMy daddy was a roughneck too, whoa
I run around with hillbilly girlsWhen the weekend sits on my hillbilly worldYou better be ready when the sun goes down‘Cause that’s when country comes to town
Yeah, it’s true I run around with hillbilly girlsThe weekend sits on my hillbilly worldYou better be ready when the sun goes downThat’s when country comes to town
Here I come

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FOUR MONTHS AFTER JUNE’S DEPARTURE — JOHNNY CASH SEEMED READY TO CROSS THE LINE. When June Carter Cash passed away, a heavy stillness settled over the home in Hendersonville — a silence so deep that even friends could sense it without a word being spoken. Johnny carried on in the only way he knew how. He continued to record. He remained seated in his familiar chair. He kept dressing in black. Yet those closest to him understood that something fundamental had shifted. The steady flame that once anchored him appeared to flicker in the distance. He did not unravel. He did not rage. Instead, he moved with a quiet deliberation — like a man straining to hear a call rising above the world’s noise. There was no dramatic collapse, no public display of sorrow. Only a softer presence, as if part of him had already begun the journey. A few days before his passing, he confided to a visitor, “The pain is gone… but the silence is loud.” It wasn’t the voice of despair. It was the voice of acceptance — calm, resolute, almost peaceful. On September 12, 2003, the world grieved the loss of the Man in Black. But for those who truly knew him, it felt less like a farewell and more like the closing of a distance that had grown too wide to bear. Because sometimes love does not disappear when the last note fades. It transforms. It becomes the quiet light that guides you home.

A devoted father and his young daughter stood side by side beneath the stage lights, Indy’s fragile voice blending with Rory Feek’s as they sang the very hymn her late mother, Joey, once held so close to her heart. “That’s Important To Me” echoed once more—no longer just a song, but a bridge between worlds. As their harmonies rose, it felt like a quiet reunion beyond this life, a sacred moment where time seemed to pause and heaven itself leaned in to listen. Tears streamed across faces far beyond the theater walls. Indy’s voice—gentle, unguarded, and achingly sincere—carried a purity that wrapped every lyric in tenderness, as though Joey’s spirit lingered in each trembling note.

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On April 6, 2016, Merle Haggard quietly turned 79. There were no balloons, no spotlight cutting through the dark, no roaring audience echoing lyrics that had defined generations. Instead, there was stillness. A modest room. A body worn by time. A man who had already poured his truth into every verse he would ever sing. Phone calls came in from old friends. Somewhere nearby, his songs drifted softly through the air — familiar melodies that once filled arenas now settling gently into the background. Those closest to him sensed something unspoken. This birthday did not carry the warmth of celebration. It carried reflection. He wasn’t talking about upcoming tours. He wasn’t sketching out new plans. He simply listened — as if absorbing the quiet after a lifetime of noise. There was no grand finale, no dramatic curtain call. Just a pause. The next morning, he was gone. Country music didn’t say goodbye beneath blazing stage lights or during an emotional final encore. It lost him in the hush that followed his 79th birthday — after the candles had burned down, after the last well-wishers had hung up the phone, after the road that had called his name for decades finally fell silent. And that is what makes it linger. The final milestone he marked wasn’t a farewell performance or a triumphant send-off. It was a birthday — subdued, unfinished — that quietly closed the book on one of the most enduring voices in American country. No spectacle. No dramatic exit. Just the stillness that follows a life fully sung. Sometimes the heaviest silence is not the one after applause. It’s the one that comes when the music simply stops.

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FOUR MONTHS AFTER JUNE’S DEPARTURE — JOHNNY CASH SEEMED READY TO CROSS THE LINE. When June Carter Cash passed away, a heavy stillness settled over the home in Hendersonville — a silence so deep that even friends could sense it without a word being spoken. Johnny carried on in the only way he knew how. He continued to record. He remained seated in his familiar chair. He kept dressing in black. Yet those closest to him understood that something fundamental had shifted. The steady flame that once anchored him appeared to flicker in the distance. He did not unravel. He did not rage. Instead, he moved with a quiet deliberation — like a man straining to hear a call rising above the world’s noise. There was no dramatic collapse, no public display of sorrow. Only a softer presence, as if part of him had already begun the journey. A few days before his passing, he confided to a visitor, “The pain is gone… but the silence is loud.” It wasn’t the voice of despair. It was the voice of acceptance — calm, resolute, almost peaceful. On September 12, 2003, the world grieved the loss of the Man in Black. But for those who truly knew him, it felt less like a farewell and more like the closing of a distance that had grown too wide to bear. Because sometimes love does not disappear when the last note fades. It transforms. It becomes the quiet light that guides you home.

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A devoted father and his young daughter stood side by side beneath the stage lights, Indy’s fragile voice blending with Rory Feek’s as they sang the very hymn her late mother, Joey, once held so close to her heart. “That’s Important To Me” echoed once more—no longer just a song, but a bridge between worlds. As their harmonies rose, it felt like a quiet reunion beyond this life, a sacred moment where time seemed to pause and heaven itself leaned in to listen. Tears streamed across faces far beyond the theater walls. Indy’s voice—gentle, unguarded, and achingly sincere—carried a purity that wrapped every lyric in tenderness, as though Joey’s spirit lingered in each trembling note.

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