Title: Shadows on a Midnight Road: Remembering “Tulsa County Line” by Steve Young
There’s a funny thing about country songs—the rare ones, the cobwebbed gems that nestle between the cracks of memory and muffle themselves against the thunder of the hits. In a world full of rhinestone noise, sometimes it’s the subtle glimmer that sticks with you longest. Tonight, with a Helmond rain dappling my old porch, I find myself reaching for one of those gems, for a song etched in the marrow of my youth—a song I’ve carried like a secret, “Tulsa County Line” by Steve Young.
I reckon most folks might recall Steve Young for “Seven Bridges Road,” or perhaps as a songwriter revered more than celebrated. But in 1976, he released “Renegade Picker,” and tucked there—not exactly hidden, but not exactly in the spotlight either—was “Tulsa County Line.” It never roared up the charts. It didn’t need to. It had already carved itself deep into the heart for any soul willing to listen.
The first time I heard it, was late autumn, 1978, before dawn had the audacity to lift the morning fog over Helmond. I was just a scruffy kid with a guitar too big for my arms and a yearning too big for my town. One of the local radio jockeys had a penchant for oddball imports—he’d sneak in southern country between the hoarse-voiced Dutch hits. That morning, he spun a song that rode on a gentle guitar and a voice weary as whisky:
*”There’s a greyhound bus rollin’ down Highway 49
Headed for the dust of that old Tulsa County line.
And I’m leavin’ my sorrows behind me one last time
Yeah, just me and my shadow, and that old county line.”*
Even just now, the words run cool through my veins. As a boy, I’d never seen a Greyhound bus, never ventured further than Eindhoven, but that road—dusty, endless, full of promise and punishment—felt as close to me as my own skin. Back then, my world seemed small and bricked in, but music—this music—spun the fences out of gold and longing.
My mother, bless her, kept a little transistor radio on the kitchen sink. All week long it whispered news and chatter, but on Saturday afternoons, she’d let me choose a station. After I’d heard “Tulsa County Line,” I haunted that dial, waiting for the next time they’d set it free. For me, it wasn’t just a song. It was an answer. I didn’t know the question then, but it was something about escape, something about leaving behind the ache and finding another horizon.
Years later, I’d buy the “Renegade Picker” LP from a surly Englishman at a flea market in ‘s-Hertogenbosch, the sleeve faded but the vinyl still rich as new-shucked corn. When I dropped the needle, there was that aching guitar, those lines that sound like they come from the far side of midnight.
*”I gave up searchin’ for answers at the bottom of a glass
Now I’m ridin’ with strangers with a past I can’t outlast.
The moon’s ridin’ shotgun, in the rearview it shines
Lord, help me make it across that old Tulsa County line.”*
What’s beautiful about Steve Young’s writing is its honesty—it’s unpolished but not unkind. These words, dressed in the dust of regret and the hope of escape, speak to anyone who’s ever watched the taillights disappear into tomorrow’s fog. It’s a road song, yes, but not the triumphant kind. It’s about surviving yourself as much as the journey. It asks: what happens if you outrun what’s chasing you, but find you’ve brought it along for the ride?
I remember a time, not many years after first hearing “Tulsa County Line,” when I found myself at a crossroads all my own—music pulling me one way, duty and expectation the other, Helmond small and wide at the same time. I’d sneak out past midnight, guitar slung over my shoulder, and walk along the canal, playing that song with numb fingers. The Dutch winter mocked the Oklahoma wind, but the longing was universal.
It wasn’t just me. Years on, at little bars in Limburg or open fields near Eindhoven, I’d run into a few old souls who knew Steve Young. They’d lean in and quote one of his lines and ask if I remembered the song about Tulsa. We’d share a beer, and for a while, we’d be out on Highway 49 together, rolling toward some imaginary sunrise.
Why, you might ask, is “Tulsa County Line” so special? To me, it’s because of its humility. It promises nothing but the possibility of moving on. No easy salvation, no flag-waving anthem. Just a guitar, a dusty voice, and the quiet ache of hope that tomorrow might be easier than today. Young captures the feeling of being in between—between home and adventure, comfort and risk, sorrow and some nameless hope. Isn’t that just what life is?
It must be close to forty-odd years since I first heard that lonely song on a cold Helmond morning, but its chords linger whenever I cross a border, literal or not. I play it sometimes at home, fingers softer now, memories brighter in the telling.
*”When you find what you’re lookin’ for on the other side of time,
Say a prayer for the lost ones on the Tulsa County line.”*
I reckon for some, the Tulsa County line is a place on a map. For me, it was always a state of mind. For every soul who’s ever stared out a rain-specked window, wondering where the road leads, Steve Young’s tune reminds us: sometimes it’s enough to keep moving, to keep believing the next mile might bring sun to the dust.
Next time the night feels long, spin this song. Let it ride with you, wherever your Tulsa may be.
With all the heart these old hands can muster,
Kroes den Bock