The Late Great John Prine
The Late Great John Prine
A personal tribute to a unique voice in American music
I remember the precise moment I first heard John Prine’s voice, even though someone else was singing. That’s how distinctive his songwriting has been.
This was the fall of 1975, during the first few weeks of my time as a student at the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California. The division of UOP I was enrolled in was called Raymond College, and it was one of those semi-experimental, accelerated, interdisciplinary liberal arts programs that had become quite popular in the 60s—in other words, a haven for nerdly hippies like myself and other brainy kids who saw themselves as square pegs in the big old round-holed world of higher learning.
It was a semi-regular function at Raymond for students to stage their own version of “Show and Tell,” sort of a smart, young and mouthy update on the old grade school tradition. And so it happened, at the first Show and Tell that I attended there, in the Raymond Common Room right off the quad, that an older student strapped on an acoustic guitar, took the stage and performed Prine’s song, Illegal Smile, a wry and winking ode to the stress-busting benefits of unnamed controlled substances.
The humor and the folksy wordplay in the title lured me right off. Then I was hooked by the rebellious mischief in lines like: “Won’t you please tell the man I didn’t kill anyone, no I was just tryin to have me some fun.” But also the hint of depth in the verses: “When I woke up this morning things were looking bad. Seemed like total silence was the only friend I had.”
Then a line only Prine could write: “A bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down. And won.”
It’s quintessential Prine, giving you the shallows of depression wrapped up in a self-deprecating joke, all in a simple unassuming image that sticks to the side of the bowl of your heart.
So, thanks to Steven Meinrath, wherever you are, for introducing me to John Prine’s voice that night at Raymond Show and Tell. It has led to many indelible memories scrawled across decades of my life.
By my second year at Raymond, I had become something of a Prine evangelist, spreading the good news of his workboot wit and wisdom to a cousin, a sister and a few left-behind high school buddies and crushes. “You gotta listen to this!” I’d say. “It’s like a whole goddamn novel in a three-minute song. It’s some kind of country existentialist parable.” And I’d put the needle down on “Six O’clock News,” a haunting tale of illegitimate birth, diary secrets and suicide, in which the past sings harmony with the present and the knick-knack shelf has a speaking part. In the final scene, Prine sings: “The whole town saw James Lewis on the six o’clock news. His brains were on the sidewalk, and blood was on his shoes.” Then, for the final time, the past echoes the refrain: “C’mon baby, spend the night with me.”
Around school, in the dorm rooms and disheveled off-campus rentals where empty bottles clattered in the morning trashload, a small enclave of cultists formed. There was me and my girlfriend Emma, plus a redneck pharmacy student nicknamed Eddie simply because his surname was Haskell, and two blandly named engineering students, John and Steve. Truthfully, the engineers barely put up with it, but the trio of Emma, Eddie and I were hardcore. I remember the three of us standing around a yardsale table in someone else’s kitchen, singing Prine songs loudly from heart-memory in drunken acapella far after our schoolnight bedtimes.
And I remember the summer after I dropped out of UOP and thumbed down the California coast with my copy of Kerouac’s On the Road in the back pocket of my overalls. I met a junkie Nam vet named Terry who wept honest tears right there on the onramp when I sang Sam Stone, Prine’s sad and sharp-eyed portrait of a vet who o.d.’s after coming home from the war. “There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes,” Prine laments, and today, after a white-powder past of my own and a veritable police lineup of friends and family lost to the low ravages of hard drugs, that searing image still stings the heart like the cherry of a lit Marlboro.
It might not seem an obvious connection, but there’s huge crossover between fans of The Grateful Dead and John Prine. I remember the parking-lot joy of singing Prine songs with a just-met burrito-selling guitar player outside a Dead show at Cal Expo in Sacramento. And you can always spot a few Dead shirts at a Prine show, at least in Northern California. Prine speaks to the Dead’s Americana foundation that was built in to Jerry Garcia’s bluegrass roots, Bob Weir’s love of cowboy songs, and lyricist Robert Hunter’s deep poetic connections to the mythologies and imagery of Old West outlaws and Depression Era wanderers. Like much of the Dead’s work, Prine’s songs were obviously not designed and constructed with the market in mind. In fact, these songs don’t feel designed at all, but rather, revealed, in the sense of a sculptor of song chipping at the rock of his experience with simple sounds and rhymes, finding an image, a figure, a theme, and honing it to rough perfection.
To the audience’s ear and eye and heart, Prine did not perform these songs—the songs were him, and he was the songs.
Many pop, rock or even pop-country fans still don’t know Prine’s name, but ask other artists who their favorite songwriters are, and his name often comes up. Johnny Cash once put him in his “top four.” Roger Waters of Pink Floyd called his work “extraordinarily eloquent.” None other than Bob Dylan has also named Prine as a favorite. Elvis Costello said what he desperately wanted to do when he started out was write songs like John Prine. But he couldn’t. No one can.
Lazy magazine writers will write about Price’s work and call it the poetry of the common man. But it’s not. It never was. He was not a common man. He was a quite uncommon artist who happened to come from a common history. Small town Midwestern upbringing, undistinguished military service, a limited non-classical musical education, delivering the daily mail in Chicago while making up songs as a hobby. It’s that meeting of an uncommon mind with a common past, that artistic but grounded knowing of the ordinary, that gave him the standing to say what he said the way he said it. Like no one else. This is the elusive and prized quality of authenticity, which I think really comes down to honesty. Prine had all of that in spades. He had a royal flush of it.
Down through the years, I saw Prine perform live four times. I wish it were more because each of those four shows is in my top twenty concert memories of all time. But I’ve been lucky in a weird way because each of the shows was in a different decade—late 70’s, early 80s, early 90s, and late 2000s (or “oughts” if you prefer). So, each show was at a different point in Prine’s career but also at a different point in my life. This has made it feel as if Prine’s songs and my heart met in a different space each time, as if the songs kept finding other parts of me to touch.
In 1990, my sister Debi was 35 years old and dying from a rare lung disease called pulmonary fibrosis. I was living with her and my two little nephews, trying to be of some use during the mystifying and relentless progress of her disease. I had turned her on to Prine way back in the 70s, and his music had ever since been something we had a special connection over. Early in that last year of her life we made it to Berkeley for a double bill of Prine and Nanci Griffith, another shared favorite. We sat in the eleventh row with Debi’s oxygen tank on the floor between us.
At one point it all became too bittersweet for me.
Prine was singing Bruised Orange (Chain of Sorrow). The chorus goes like this: “You can gaze out the window, get mad and get madder, throw your hands in the air, say what does it matter? But it don’t do no good to get angry, so help me I know. For a heart stained in anger grows weak and grows bitter. You become your own prisoner as you watch yourself sit there, wrapped up in a trap of your very own chain of sorrow.”
I was deep-down angry and weak and bitter at the approaching death of my sister, but Debi was one of those rare people who lived instinctively by the advice in those lyrics. She was not wrapped up in a chain of sorrow. I looked over at her with a tear slipping down my face and she just smiled and nodded her head at the song and at my tear. It was the last concert she ever attended.
I’ve never believed in heaven, and I’m damn sure these days that your flag decal won’t get you in, but maybe a life of picking up a guitar, opening up your country mouth, your full heart and slightly disarrayed mind, and then reaching a million other people in the gut, where their own deep histories live—maybe that could get you in if there is such a place. I ain’t in charge, but it sure would count by me.
Farewell, John Prine. We will miss you down here.