Their commitment to Passing Through began with their resolution to settle for nothing short of the best material they could find. This translated into an exhausting search for songs and a filtering out of everything that fell short of their standard -- even, Travis says, if he had written it himself. "Kyle has no trouble telling me if he thinks one of my songs is no good," he laughs. "But that's the only way you can do it. And that's the kind of relationship we have."
In the end they listened to more than a thousand new songs in the early stages of Passing Through. "The funny thing is, I really like that part of the process," Travis says. "I love finding songs, going through them, tearing them apart, and seeing if I can find anything wrong with them. That would irritate some people, but I know I'll always find something; it just takes patience and a lot of looking."
The search eventually led to a dozen tunes, two of them written or co-written by Travis, the rest from a mix of writers he knew and some he didnÕt. It didn't matter who created them; each song had to connect with the singer. And in some instances, the connection was uncanny.
Echoes from long ago crop up on "That Was Us," when as a teenager growing up outside of Charlotte, North Carolina, Travis dropped out of school and fell into a routine of drugs, drinking, and violence that made it a matter of speculation whether he would even live to see his 18th birthday. "From the first word, I guarantee you, 'That Was Us' is autobiographical," he says. "Just like the kids in this song I was doing crazy things, like wrecking my brother's 396 Chevelle after crashing it into the police chief's car at 145 miles an hour on a country road. The first policeman there was hot, boy. He didn't even open the door; he just reached in, grabbed me by the throat, and pulled me out through the window."
But "That Was Us" isn't just a teenage romp. Like "My Daddy Never Was," it mixes the promise of light into darkness, which is one reason why Travis sees himself in its lyric. On other songs the light prevails, as it has for Travis since he started straightening himself out; he was seventeen at the time, in Charlotte, where one night he won a talent contest in a bar owned by the woman who would become his manager and, later, his wife. Their journey, professional and spiritual, would take them to Nashville, where Elizabeth ran the famous Nashville Palace venue and Randy alternated between washing dishes in the kitchen and singing on stage. By 1987 he had won his first CMA awards, for male vocalist of the year, song of the year for "Forever and Ever, Amen," and album of the year for Always and Forever. More important, he had scattered the shadows from his life and reached a point where meaning could be found through music.
And so we have songs of love: starting with one for grandparents long gone but reflected in the present day in "Four Walls;" for mothers throughout the world in "Angels," for life long partners sought and finally found on two Travis compositions, "I Can See It In Your Eyes" and "I'm Your Man." Passing Through also points to miracles that can be too easily mistaken for everyday conversations ("Running Blind"), dishes out some wry advice on dealing with disappointment ("Pick Up the Oars and Row"), and addresses more enduring issues ("A Place to Hang My Hat," "Right On Time"). And, yes, there's some dancing too, in the honky-tonk groove and classic lament of "My Poor Old Heart" and the roll and rhythm of "Train Long Gone."
Each moment is a snapshot, a recollection, a feeling maybe forgotten and now remembered again. When each takes its place a picture assembles of an artist whose legacy is assured but whose work is only just underway. More than that, Passing Through is a mirror where all listeners, wherever they are on their path through the world, can see themselves, at a place mundane and at the same time magical, and worthy of a song.