You play close to a hundred and fifty dates a year. What do you miss most about Texas when you’re on the road?
It’s really my family—that’s it. I’m standing on a street corner right now in West Palm Beach and there’s a Chili’s and a Ross Dress for Less, and I could as well be in San Antonio or San Jose.

You don’t miss your ranch, the wide open spaces?
I do, but the line between isolation and solitude gets real fuzzy out there. There are a lot of myths about living in the country that just aren’t true. Like people are always looking out for one another. Please—I’ve got neighbors at the ranch who will shoot you.

While you have a loyal fan base, mainstream success has eluded you. Does that bother you at all?
I tried to do that, being on a major label [for 1997’s Picnic and 1998’s Walking Distance], and it just didn’t work out. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wanted it at one point, but now it just doesn’t matter.

But you still open shows for people like the Dave Matthews Band, playing to huge audiences.
We usually do about four dates a year with them. I just really enjoy being around Dave, and I do enjoy doing big shows. It’s a different venue for us. We play everything from bars to high school gyms, so arenas and stadiums are a nice break. I love having the beat pounding in my chest at those big places.

Your most famous song is the Bonnie and Clyde-esque  epic “The Road Goes On Forever.” Can you ever do a show without playing that song?
Occasionally. I always write the set list before the show, and if I don’t put it on there, it’s like major news backstage. But the best reaction was after this show in Lubbock a few years ago. There was this cowboy leaning against the building as we walked out, classic cowboy pose, hat pulled down low, smoking a Marlboro or something. As I passed him, he looked up and said, “Apparently the road doesn’t go on forever.” Hilarious.