Frisco, TX – May 9, 2025 – The Ford Center at The Star shimmered under a Texas twilight sky, its glass facade reflecting the golden sprawl of the Dallas Cowboys’ world headquarters like a beacon for country’s faithful. Inside, the 60th Academy of Country Music Awards unfolded as a glittering tapestry of twang and triumph, hosted with effortless grace by Reba McEntire in her record 18th turn at the helm. But amid the star-studded duets, surprise collaborations, and teary acceptance speeches, one performance etched itself into the night’s lore: Blake Shelton’s raw, road-worn rendition of his chart-topping single “Texas.” What made it unforgettable wasn’t just the song’s infectious hook or the sold-out crowd’s foot-stomping fervor—it was the story behind it. In an exclusive backstage chat with this reporter, the 48-year-old Oklahoma native revealed he’d piloted his own blacked-out Ford F-150 all the way from his ranch in Tishomingo, forgoing the plush comfort of a private jet for a 400-mile solo drive through pounding rain and winding backroads. “It wasn’t about the glamour,” Shelton drawled, his voice still husky from the set. “It was about feelin’ the pull of the highway, lettin’ the dust settle on my boots before steppin’ into this circus. That song? It’s got Texas in its veins, and drivin’ here made it real.”
The 2025 ACMs, streamed live to millions on Prime Video from this state-of-the-art venue in Frisco—country music’s new epicenter since the awards planted roots here in 2022—marked a milestone not just for the genre but for Shelton personally. Celebrating six decades of ACM excellence, the evening kicked off with a thunderous 12-minute medley of Song of the Year winners spanning eras, featuring icons like Clint Black belting “Killin’ Time,” Dan + Shay harmonizing “Tequila,” and Wynonna Judd channeling her mother’s fire on “Grandpa (Tell Me ‘Bout the Good Old Days).” Reba, resplendent in a crimson gown embroidered with silver longhorns, quipped through the opener, “Sixty years of country? Honey, that’s longer than some of y’all’s marriages!” Laughter rippled through the 12,000-strong audience, a mix of Stetson-clad superfans, industry suits, and wide-eyed nominees clutching engraved flasks of bourbon.
Performances cascaded like a Lone Star waterfall: Lainey Wilson, fresh off her Entertainer of the Year sweep, tore into “4x4xU” with a fiddle solo that shook the rafters; Eric Church, honored with the ACM Icon Award earlier in the week, growled through a medley of his outlaw anthems alongside surprise guest Jelly Roll; and a cross-genre jolt came when Backstreet Boys crashed Rascal Flatts’ set for a harmony-drenched “Life Is a Highway,” prompting Reba to deadpan, “Y’all just made my boy band dreams come true.” Brooks & Dunn, the evening’s recipients of the ACM Lifetime Achievement Award, shared the stage with Cody Johnson for a boot-scootin’ “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” that had the entire arena two-stepping in the aisles. Amid the spectacle, Shelton’s slot—slotted mid-show after Kelsea Ballerini’s ethereal “Penthouse” and before Chris Stapleton’s soul-baring “White Horse”—felt like a homecoming, a deliberate anchor in the whirlwind.
But the backstory, shared in hushed tones over post-show tacos in a cordoned-off green room, painted Shelton’s journey as something profoundly un-Hollywood. It started months earlier, in the frost-kissed dawn of a February morning at his 1,300-acre Oklahoma spread, Ole Red Farm. Shelton, who’d stepped away from the relentless tour circuit after wrapping his Friends & Heroes jaunt in late 2024, was knee-deep in the creative trenches for his 13th studio album, For Recreational Use Only. The title, born from a half-joking text to his manager during a deadline panic—”Call it whatever, just for recreational use only”—stuck like gum on a boot heel, encapsulating the laid-back ethos of a man who’d hit 30 No. 1s without losing his everyman edge. “Texas,” the album’s lead salvo penned by Johnny Clawson, Kyle Sturrock, Josh Dorr, and Lalo Guzman, arrived like a thunderclap during a late-night demo session with longtime producer Scott Hendricks. “I heard that opening riff, and bam—it’s like George Strait himself whispered in my ear,” Shelton recounted, nursing a Shiner Bock. The track, a moody mid-tempo banger about a heartbroken barfly piecing together his ex’s vanishing act (“She cut me loose and caught herself a somewhere wind / I haven’t heard a word and haven’t seen her since”), nods cheekily to Strait’s “All My Ex’s Live in Texas” in its chorus: “She’s probably in Texas / Amarillo, all I know / George Strait said it / Yeah, that’s where all them exes go.”
What hooked Shelton wasn’t just the hook—it was the haunting duality, a “Stranger in My House” vibe that let him brood and boogie in equal measure. Debuting in November 2024 under his fresh deal with BBR Music Group/BMG Nashville and Wheelhouse Records—his first post-Warner leap after 23 loyal years—”Texas” shattered records, snagging the most first-week radio adds of his career and climbing to No. 1 on the Country Airplay chart by April. Critics hailed it as a reinvention: Rolling Stone called it “a dusty roadmap back to Shelton’s roots, with enough bite to remind Nashville he’s still the king of the heartbreak honky-tonk.” Fans devoured the video, directed by Ada Rothlein and starring Lioness actress Genesis Rodriguez as the elusive flame who buries a tracker in a suitcase for one last laugh. By May, it was inescapable—blasting from truck radios across the heartland, soundtracking tailgates from Ada to Austin.
Yet, as ACM invites rolled in, Shelton faced a crossroads. The smart play? Charter a Gulfstream from Tishomingo’s private airstrip, land in DFW amid fanfare, limo to the red carpet. Instead, he texted his pilot: “Stand down, buddy. I’m drivin’.” Why? The reason, as heartfelt as a back-porch confession, ties to the song’s soul—and his own. “Look, I’ve hopped more jets than I can count, from Vegas residencies to The Voice green rooms,” he explained, his blue eyes crinkling with that trademark grin. “But ‘Texas’ ain’t about flyin’ high; it’s about the grind, the ghosts you chase down I-35 with the windows down and the radio up. Drivin’ that truck—my old girl with 150,000 miles and a dent from a ‘roid rage deer last fall—felt like livin’ the damn song. No entourage, no GPS nagging me. Just me, a cooler of Dr Pepper, and three hours of thinkin’ about where I’ve been.”
The trip wasn’t all twangy reverie. A freak spring squall hammered the Red River Valley, turning the panhandle into a watercolor blur of gray. Shelton blasted a playlist heavy on Strait, Merle Haggard, and early Toby Keith—nods to the Oklahoman fire that fueled his rise from Ada honky-tonks to CMA Entertainer of the Year in 2011. Halfway through Wichita Falls, his phone buzzed: a voice memo from wife Gwen Stefani, who’d stayed back in L.A. prepping her own tour. “Babe, if you hydroplane into a ditch, I’m comin’ for you with my minivan,” she teased, her laugh cutting through the static. Shelton chuckled, firing back a blurry selfie of his dash cam: rain-smeared windshield, a faded “God Bless the USA” air freshener dangling like a talisman. But beneath the banter lay deeper currents. The drive was therapy on tires—a solo pilgrimage to process a career’s full circle. “I lost my brother Richie when I was 14; that hollowed me out,” he admitted softly, fiddling with his wedding band. “Music filled it, but the road? That’s where the echoes live. Singin’ ‘Texas’ here, in Texas, for the ACMs—it’s like tellin’ that kid in Ada, ‘You made it, but don’t forget the dirt.'”
Pulling into Frisco at dusk on May 7, Shelton’s F-150 was a mud-caked testament: red clay splatters from Oklahoma backroads, a faint whiff of hay from a pit stop at a feed store in Gainesville. He valet-parked it himself outside the Ford Center, waving off handlers with a “Boys, she earned her spot.” The next day’s rehearsal was electric—Shelton, backed by a crack ensemble of fiddle whiz Robby Hecht and pedal steel sorcerer Paul Franklin, ran “Texas” thrice, tweaking the bridge for extra ache. Onstage that night, under a canopy of LED stars mimicking a wide-open prairie sky, he owned the moment. Emerging from a haze of dry ice in a crisp white button-down, Wranglers faded just right, and boots polished to a dull shine (dust be damned), Shelton gripped the mic like an old friend. The band kicked in with that signature riff—a Telecaster twang slicing through like a prairie wind—and 12,000 voices joined the chorus before he hit the first “She’s probably in Texas.”
The performance was visceral: Shelton prowled the catwalk, eyes scanning the VIPs—Gwen beaming from the front row, Reba nodding approval from the wings—his baritone dipping low on the verses, then soaring with gravelly fire on the hooks. A subtle video wall projected sepia-toned vignettes: empty highways at dawn, neon-lit dive bars, a lone ex silhouetted against an Amarillo sunset. Midway, he ad-libbed a shout-out to Strait, parked courtside: “King George, this one’s got your name on it!” The crowd lost it, a wave of whoops crashing as confetti cannons mimicked a dust devil. As the final “She’s probably in Texas” faded, Shelton bowed deep, sweat beading on his brow, the arena’s roar a thunderclap of affirmation. Backstage, he scooped Gwen into a spin, whispering, “Told ya the truck was the right call.”
The ripple extended far beyond the footlights. “Texas” surged 20 spots on iTunes overnight, while Shelton’s post-show Instagram—a grainy dash cam clip captioned “Drove to TX to sing about TX. Full circle. #ACMawards #Texas”—racked up 2 million likes in hours. Fellow artists chimed in: Luke Combs texted, “Man, that drive was the real collab”; Miranda Lambert posted a clip with fire emojis, “Boots and heart—pure Shelton.” For the ACMs, it underscored the event’s Texas pivot: since relocating from Vegas and Nashville, Frisco has infused the show with Lone Star swagger, drawing record viewership (up 15% from 2024) and boosting local tourism by millions. Shelton’s gesture? A masterstroke of authenticity in an era of algorithms and auto-tune.
Reflecting over that Shiner as the afterparty hummed—Rascal Flatts DJing a surprise set, champagne flutes clinking amid Stetson trades—Shelton leaned back, boots propped on a cooler. “Private jets are fine for gettin’ there quick, but they don’t teach you nothin’. That road? It reminded me why I started: for the stories, the miles, the ache that turns into anthems.” With For Recreational Use Only dropping the next day—tracks like the gospel-tinged “Let Him In Anyway” promising more vulnerability—Shelton’s at a creative zenith, his 30th No. 1 a badge of battles won. “Texas” isn’t just a hit; it’s a highway hymn, a reminder that country’s core is the journey, not the jet stream. As he fired up the F-150 for the haul home, dust cloud billowing in the rearview, one truth lingered: some full circles demand four wheels on the ground.
