1. Song Information
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Title: That’s Texas
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Artist: Cody Johnson
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Songwriters: Cody Johnson, Glenn Middleton, Chris Stevens
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Producer: Chris Farren
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Album: Leather (2021)
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Release Date: April 23, 2021 (as a promotional single before the album release)
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Genre: Traditional country, with touches of honky‑tonk and Texas swing
This track showcases Cody Johnson’s dedication to roots‑oriented, Texas‑sized country music. It was included on Leather, Johnson’s major‑label debut with Warner Music Nashville, and quickly became a fan favorite thanks to its swagger, regional pride, and dance‑hall charm.
2. Song Content
“That’s Texas” opens with a laid-back, swinging groove – fiddle and steel guitar trading licks over a rollicking backbeat. Cody Johnson steps forward and sings with warm confidence, detailing everything that makes Texas feel like home. He sings about the wide-open skies, dusty roads, and the hearty personalities that fill the state’s bars and backroads. The chorus is catchy and declarative: he declares “that’s Texas” whenever he mentions pickup trucks, neon lights at night, two-steppin’ under bare bulbs, or tall tales around a campfire. Rather than focusing on a single romantic storyline or melancholy ballad, this song paints a colorful collage of characters and settings: cowboys, ranch hands, small-town legends, corner diners, and the adrenaline of high‑school Friday‑night football games. Johnson’s vocal delivery feels conversational, like he’s greeting you at a dance hall by the door. He evens drops in a playful line about “grits, brisket, and sweet tea” – classic Texan staples. Musically, the track grooves in that unmistakable Western swing style: the fiddle hums, the steel guitar weeps, and the drums shuffle in a two‑step tempo perfect for dancing. By the end, listeners feel they’ve taken a short—but vivid—trip across the Lone Star State.
3. Explanation of the Intriguing Element
One curious aspect of “That’s Texas” is how the song can feel like both a love letter and a travelogue without focusing on a single relationship or story. Instead of telling the tale of one person, Johnson appreciates the collective character of a place. This raises the question: what makes a place itself feel like a person you can love or miss? The song answers this by layering sensory details—faded neon, wood‑floored bars, hot asphalt, late-night diner coffee—against communal scenes of dancing, storytelling, and shared small joys. Essentially, Johnson isn’t singing about a lover; he’s singing about belonging. That tension between the concrete (pickup trucks, brisket) and the abstract (feelings of freedom, nostalgia, pride) gives listeners a doorway to their own memories. Even if you’re not from Texas, the specifics allow you to mentally place yourself in your own hometown.
Additionally, there’s a subtle romantic arc, not with a person but with the idea of “home.” Although no individual is named, you sense affection for the land and its rhythms. The question—“what is Texas?”—is playfully answered: it’s not a state, or an idea, but a collection of moments and traditions that, together, spark emotion. That’s the clever twist—Texas becomes the “beloved” of the song. In doing so, Johnson taps into a universal longing: for community, familiarity, and the places that shape us. He shows that a song about place can strike an emotional chord just like a love song—perhaps even deeper, because our bond to place is often lifelong.