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John Prine with his Irish wife Fiona Whelan.
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Note—When the news came out last Sunday that
singer/songwriter John Prine was on a ventilator and in critical condition with
the Coronavirus social media erupted with out pourings of concern, grief, and
sympathy. Fans and musical peers alike posted
favorite songs or made their own video tributes. For many of us of a certain age from Chicago
it was also deeply personal. Fortunately
John’s wife Fiona has since reported that he is in serious but stable condition. For a 73 year old man with a history of
serious health problems he is not out of the woods yet. During National Poetry Month in 2017 I posted
an appreciation of Prine and the poetry of his lyrics. Here it is again with some updating.
Ordinarily,
we don’t think much of it, but song
lyrics—literally verses—are poems set to music. Perhaps that is
because when it comes to modern popular
music the words are secondary to
other elements of the song—the melody or hook, beat, harmonies, arrangements and orchestrations, instrumentals,
even, increasingly, theatrical stage or
video presentation. Lyrics have to be exceptionally strong to stand out. But a lot are as disposable as used Kleenex,
clichéd restatements of convenient and comfortable tropes. It may
not seem as corny as the Moon/June/Moon of vaudeville era pop standards, but from Nashville to Rap and all
of the stops in between, there is
plenty of plug-in-here familiarity to
mix with vocal trills and tricks to make earworm music that is easy
to love.
But
in most songs, if you plunk the
words down on paper to read without
the music they don’t have legs to stand
on their own. Back in the day Steve Allen, the late night TV host and
comedian who was also a jazz
aficionado, composer, self-proclaimed intellectual, and, let’s face it,
something of a musical snob, could
always get laughs by pulling out the lyrics to one of the new rock and roll songs and reading them
with mock seriousness.
Well
be-bop-a-lula she’s my baby,
Be-bop-a-lula
I don't mean maybe.
Be-bop-a-lula
she’s my baby
Be-bop-a-lula
I don’t mean maybe
Be-bop-a-lula
she's my baby doll,
My
baby doll, my baby doll.
Well
she’s the girl in the red blue jeans.
She’s
the queen of all the teens.
She’s
the one that I know
She’s
the one that loves me so.
Say
be-bop-a-lula she’s my baby,
Be-bop-a-lula
I don’t mean maybe.
Be-bop-a-lula
she's my baby doll
My
baby doll, my baby doll
Let’s
rock!
—Jean Vincent
I’ve
probably seen a half a dozen comics do
the same thing with everything from heavy
metal to hip-hop to Rascal Flats.
Of
course it was not always its way. Music
and poetry were inseparable from birth.
From drum chants around Neolithic fires, to Psalms, Homer, and Medieval ballads what we now think of as great poems were sung by bards and minstrels to long-lost
melodies. In the 18th and 19th famous poems were routinely set to music becoming the basis of
everything from Protestant hymnals,
romantic ballads, patriotic anthems,
to German Lieder songs. Then Tin
Pan Alley and the three minute
song—dictated by the capacity of
a Victrola disk—and snappy came roaring into fashion. A lot of wonderful songs with catchy patter and the foundation of what would become known
as the Great American Song Book. But the words on their own were seldom
great poetry.
There
were some exceptions, of course,
moving forward in the 20th Century the
archly playful words of Cole Porter were as clever as anything by Dorothy Parker. The German
exile Kurt Weil brought his European
aesthetic and paired with great
writers who produced real poetry to go along with his songs—Berthold Brecht, Ogden Nash (Speak Low), and Maxwell Anderson (September Song,
Lost in the Stars.) Richard Rogers could rise to the
occasion. And there were some smokey saloon songs from the film
noir era, anti-love songs mostly,
that hit the mark.
The
ballad—the story telling not just
any slow tempo love song—was
relegated to the edges of popular music—hillbilly
begetting country & western, and folk
music through various waves of
revivals. Now it has even been bled out of modern country hits radio
which prefers what is basically rock and
roll with a nasal twang.
But
in folk music, the words were always the thing.
Stripped down the accompaniment
of a single guitar or a handful of acoustic instrument, voices sweet
and perfect or raw and real, the lyrical content was front and center.
When
I was in High School a hip English teacher had us study the
lyrics of Simon and Garfunkel as
poetry in an APP class for smarty pants nerds. Everyone knew Bob Dylan was a poet. Leonard Cohn was a poet before Judy Collins almost literally pushed him on stage. Non-folk singer/songwriters
like Laura Nyro were also
writing lyrics that could be—and were—published comfortably as quality poetry.
Which
brings us at long last to today’s subject.
Just
last week a short news item floating around the web caught my
attention from the Boston Globe.
PEN New
England will honor songwriter John Prine with its Song Lyrics of Literary Excellence Award,
an accolade that has been previously upon Kris Kristofferson, Randy
Newman, Chuck Berry, and Leonard
Cohen. PEN New England hasn’t officially announced the selection, and
it’s possible a second songwriter will be honored in addition to Prine. We
learned of Prine’s selection by way of Rosanne Cash, who serves on the
committee that chooses the honoree and spilled the beans to a New
York Times reporter who wrote a profile of Prine last week. Prine, 69, has never enjoyed a lot of
commercial success, but his songs, which range from wry acoustic folk to
country, are much admired by his peers. The award ceremony will be held at the JFK Library, though the date has yet to be announced.
So
there you have it. No less an august body than a section of PEN, the international organization of writers,
will bestow its blessing on Prine
and his words. I guess that makes ‘em officially poetry if anything does.
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John Prine just starting out at the 5th Peg Pub in front of a banner that misspelled his name.
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Around
Chicago the legend of the Maywood
Mailman is well known and time honored.
In May 1970 Prine, a skinny guy with a mop of brown hair, was
hanging around the 5th Peg Pub a saloon and folk club operated by Ray
Tate, the chief instructor at
the Old Town School of Folk Music just
across the street on Armitage. Prine was in the audience of a weekly Monday night open mic that featured
mostly teachers and students from the school.
Fueled, perhaps, by an extra drink or two, he may have made a disparaging comment about some fledgling songwriter’s effort which
supposedly resulted in an “Oh, yeah, I’d like to see you do better,” dare.
Prine borrowed a guitar and took to the stage. He sang five original songs, every one of which was a masterpiece destined to
become a revered classic including Your
Flag Decal Won’t Get You into Heaven Any More, Hello in There, Sam Stone,
Paradise, and Angel from Montgomery. The audience sat in stunned silence before bursting into cheers.
Prine
kept coming back to the open mic in the weeks that followed and word of mouth spread through the close knit Chicago folk music
scene. The place was jammed week after
week. Tate gave Prine a steady Sunday night slot in July where he was
greeted with a backdrop banner that misspelled his last name. No
matter. Soon he was so popular he was
given Friday and Saturday slots as well. The small club with virtually no advertising was turning
people away at the doors week after week.
It was about that time that I first saw him, the 5th Peg being one of
several regular watering holes then
on my rounds of dives.
More
importantly in November Chicago Sun Times movie critic Roger
Ebert caught him there in November and was so awe struck that he rushed back
to the paper and pounded out a virtual paean
of a column—Prine’s first ink.
He appears on
stage with such modesty he almost seems to be backing into the spotlight. He
sings rather quietly, and his guitar work is good, but he doesn’t show off. He
starts slow. But after a song or two, even the drunks in the room begin to
listen to his lyrics. And then he has you… You hear lyrics like these,
perfectly fitted to Prine’s quietly confident style and his ghost of a Kentucky
accent, and you wonder how anyone could have so much empathy and still be
looking forward to his 24th birthday on Saturday.
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Best buddies Steve Goodman & Prine at the Earl of Old Town
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After that Prine was an official Chicago sensation. He played to top folk clubs—the Saddle Club on North Avenue, Richard
Harding’s second Quiet Knight location
on Belmont, The Bulls on Lincoln, and later Somebody Else’s Troubles and Holstein’s
further up Lincoln. But he made the
established folk Mecca The Earl of Old Town an unofficial home
base and was the center there of a fabulous scene that included his good buddy Steve Goodman, Bonnie Koloc, Jim Post, Fred Holstein, and others. He also worked with established folk legend Bob Gibson and mandolinist Jethro Burns of Homer
Jethro. When he added electric sets to his repertoire Jethro’s son Johnny Burns traded riffs with
him.
It was at the Earl that Kris Kristofferson, no slouch as a songwriter and lyricist
himself, heard Prine and helped him get a deal
with Atlantic Records. John
Prine came out in 1971 and never got above number 154 on the Billboard
charts. But it was a passed-from-hand-to-hand cult hit among
folkies and Nashville rebels. Half the
albums must have been sold to other awe
struck musicians many of whom covered his songs and clamored to play with
him on stage. Even Bob Dylan himself climbed on the stage of Prine’s first New York City gig to anonymously blow back-up harp. I was then on the staff of the old Chicago Seed underground newspaper and
got to write one of the first reviews of the album, an unapologetic rave.
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Prine was born in Maywood, Illinois, a
western working class Chicago suburb on October 26, 1946. His father
and mother, William Prine and the former Verna
Hamm were from Paradise, Kentucky in Muhlenberg County and had joined the migration from Appalachia to
the North for industrial jobs in the War
years. His grandfather was a former coal miner and sometimes preacher who also played music professionally including stints with Merle Travis,
writer of the coal mining classics Dark as a Dungeon and Sixteen
Tons and Ike Everly, father
of the Everly Brothers. Stories about Kentucky and occasional
summer trips “home” kept the Appalachian experience alive for the boy.
When his first album came out Prine was
upset that the label posed him on bales of hay for the cover in an
attempt to win a country music
audience. Prine protested he had
never sat on hay in his life. His people
“were miners, to farmers.” He flatly refused to wear a cowboy hat.
Music always played a part in the family
life. When John was 15 his older brother
Dave, a banjo, fiddle, and guitar player, taught him how to play the
guitar. He became inseparable from his
instrument and was diddling around with making up songs while still attending Proviso East High School in Maywood.
After graduation Prine went into the Army and was lucky enough to draw posting to Germany rather the Vietnam. That narrow escape haunted him somewhat and he always felt a kinship with the guys who
went to war—many of them classmates and
buddies.
He would write about them in Sam
Stone and other songs and would always have an anti-war and anti-establishment
streak that would carry forward into songs about George W. Bush and his wasteful
wars decades later.
Out of the Army Prine returned home, married his sweetheart Ann Carole and settled down with a good job—carrying the mail in
Westchester, another western
suburb. He was scribbling song ideas and
noodling on the guitar at night and on weekends. After seeing Ray Tate interviewed on TV, he
showed up at the Old Town School, which he had never previously heard of, and
enrolled in classes. So perhaps the
legend of taking the stage on a dare at Tate’s club was a bit apocryphal.
Tate knew what a talent he had and just needed to find him a way to
get him in front of an audience.
Prine was more than a little shy and his
first public appearance earlier that
spring at a Maywood Village festival had not gone well. The festival was fun, rowdy, and beer soaked. The audience didn’t care a thing about or know
folk music. They wanted to rock.
Prine felt like a failure in his home town.
With success that shyness faded and
Prine became comfortable on stage,
especially when he could share it with buddies like Steve Goodman. He liked the camaraderie of music, the drinking,
and the weed. John and his pals knew how to party.
Through the 70’s while keeping a base in
Chicago, Prine began to tour nationally.
Albums followed almost yearly, each with memorable gems. On Atlantic he put out Diamonds in the Rough, Sweet
Revenge, and Common Sense which finally broke
into the Top 100 albums of 1975 at
#66. He moved on to Assylum for three more albums but was dropped from the label in 1980 for lack of commercial success.
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Prine and Kristofferson in Las Vegas, 2015.
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For four years despite continued success as a touring act and
the unanimous esteem of the best musicians not only in folk and
country music, but in rock and roll as well, Prine could not find a record
label. So in 1984 he started his own—Oh Boy Records. The master of his own fate, he has now
released 15 live, studio, and compilation albums on that label. Some have cracked various Billboard album
catagories—1999’s In Spite of Ourselves hit #21 on the Country Chart; Fair and Square in
2005 and Standard Songs for Average People in 2007 hit #2 and #37 on the
Indie list; In Person On Stage in 2010 got to #27 on the Rock Chart and #1 in Folk; an 2011’s Singing Mailman Delivers had
wide appeal at #20 Indie, #22 Rock, and #4 Folk.
His most recent album 2018’s Tree
of Forgiveness was a master
class and by far the biggest hit of his career peeking at #5 Billboard Album chart; #2 on the
Country, Indie, and Rock charts; and an easy #1 Folk hit.
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Prine with Poet Laureate Ted Kooser (left) at the Library of Congress.
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Prine gathered plenty of accolades and honors in his long career.
He has been cited as a favorite songwriter and/or major influence by
Kristofferson, Dylan, Elvis Pressley,
Johnny Cash, and Roger Waters of
Pink Floyd to name just a few. In
1991 The
Missing Years picked up the Grammy
for Best Contemporary Folk Album. In
2003, Prine got a Lifetime Achievement
Award for Songwriting from Britain’s
BBC Radio 2 and that same year was
inducted into the Nashville Songwriters
Hall of Fame. He got a second Folk Grammy in 2005 for Fair and Square. The same year he was also won the Artist of the Year Award at the Americana Music Awards and was invited
to be the first songwriter to read and sing at the Library of Congress by Poet
Laureate Ted Kooser.
Despite the plaudits, Prine has faced serious
health issues. In 1998 surgical and radiation treatment for serious
squamous cell cancer took a lot of
tissue and radiation burns altered his
tenor voice leaving it changed and more gravely. As soon as he
was strong enough, however he was
back on tour and recording some of the strongest material of his career. In 2013 just after I last saw him at the star studded Birthday Salute to Earl
Pionke—the Earl of Old Town himself that was put together by Marina Jason, Prine was diagnosed with an unrelated early detected lung cancer. He recovered fully from treatment for that
and returned the road like the trouper he
is.
Prine now lives primarily in Nashville
with his third wife Fiona Whelan and
has homes in Galway, Ireland and Gulfport, Florida.
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Prine's most recent studio album The Tree of Forgiveness is the biggest commercial success of his career.
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And now for some of those Prine poem/lyrics.
Sam
Stone
Original Title:
The Great Society Conflict Veteran’s Blues
Sam Stone came home,
To his wife and family
After serving in the conflict overseas.
And the time that he served,
Had shattered all his nerves,
And left a little shrapnel in his knee.
But the morphine eased the pain,
And the grass grew round his brain,
And gave him all the confidence he lacked,
With a Purple Heart and a monkey on his back.
To his wife and family
After serving in the conflict overseas.
And the time that he served,
Had shattered all his nerves,
And left a little shrapnel in his knee.
But the morphine eased the pain,
And the grass grew round his brain,
And gave him all the confidence he lacked,
With a Purple Heart and a monkey on his back.
Chorus:
There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin’ I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don’t stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.
There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin’ I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don’t stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.
Sam Stone’s welcome home
Didn’t last too long.
He went to work when he'd spent his last dime
And Sammy took to stealing
When he got that empty feeling
For a hundred dollar habit without overtime.
And the gold rolled through his veins
Like a thousand railroad trains,
And eased his mind in the hours that he chose,
While the kids ran around wearin’ other peoples' clothes...
Didn’t last too long.
He went to work when he'd spent his last dime
And Sammy took to stealing
When he got that empty feeling
For a hundred dollar habit without overtime.
And the gold rolled through his veins
Like a thousand railroad trains,
And eased his mind in the hours that he chose,
While the kids ran around wearin’ other peoples' clothes...
Repeat Chorus:
Sam Stone was alone
When he popped his last balloon
Climbing walls while sitting in a chair
Well, he played his last request
While the room smelled just like death
With an overdose hovering in the air
But life had lost its fun
And there was nothing to be done
But trade his house that he bought on the G. I. Bill
For a flag draped casket on a local heroes’ hill.
When he popped his last balloon
Climbing walls while sitting in a chair
Well, he played his last request
While the room smelled just like death
With an overdose hovering in the air
But life had lost its fun
And there was nothing to be done
But trade his house that he bought on the G. I. Bill
For a flag draped casket on a local heroes’ hill.
—John Prine
Paradise
When I was a child my family would travel
Down to Western Kentucky where my parents were born
And there's a backwards old town that's often remembered
So many times that my memories are worn.
Chorus:
And daddy won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg County
Down by the Green River where Paradise lay
Well, I’m sorry my son, but you're too late in asking
Mister Peabody’s coal train has hauled it away
Well, sometimes we'd travel right down the Green River
To the abandoned old prison down by Airdrie Hill
Where the air smelled like snakes and we’d shoot with our pistols
But empty pop bottles was all we would kill.
Repeat Chorus:
Then the coal company came with the world’s largest shovel
And they tortured the timber and stripped all the land
Well, they dug for their coal till the land was forsaken
Then they wrote it all down as the progress of man.
Repeat Chorus:
When I die let my ashes float down the Green River
Let my soul roll on up to the Rochester dam
I’ll be halfway to Heaven with Paradise waitin’
Just five miles away from wherever I am.
Down to Western Kentucky where my parents were born
And there's a backwards old town that's often remembered
So many times that my memories are worn.
Chorus:
And daddy won’t you take me back to Muhlenberg County
Down by the Green River where Paradise lay
Well, I’m sorry my son, but you're too late in asking
Mister Peabody’s coal train has hauled it away
Well, sometimes we'd travel right down the Green River
To the abandoned old prison down by Airdrie Hill
Where the air smelled like snakes and we’d shoot with our pistols
But empty pop bottles was all we would kill.
Repeat Chorus:
Then the coal company came with the world’s largest shovel
And they tortured the timber and stripped all the land
Well, they dug for their coal till the land was forsaken
Then they wrote it all down as the progress of man.
Repeat Chorus:
When I die let my ashes float down the Green River
Let my soul roll on up to the Rochester dam
I’ll be halfway to Heaven with Paradise waitin’
Just five miles away from wherever I am.
—John Prine
Some
Humans Ain’t Human
Some humans ain’t human
Some people ain’t kind
You open up their hearts
And here’s what you'll find
A few frozen pizzas
Some ice cubes with hair
A broken Popsicle
You don’t want to go there
Some people ain’t kind
You open up their hearts
And here’s what you'll find
A few frozen pizzas
Some ice cubes with hair
A broken Popsicle
You don’t want to go there
Some humans ain’t human
Though they walk like we do
They live and they breathe
Just to turn the old screw
They screw you when you're sleeping
They try to screw you blind
Some humans ain’t human
Some people ain’t kind
Though they walk like we do
They live and they breathe
Just to turn the old screw
They screw you when you're sleeping
They try to screw you blind
Some humans ain’t human
Some people ain’t kind
You might go to church
And sit down in a pew
Those humans who ain’t human
Could be sittin’
And sit down in a pew
Those humans who ain’t human
Could be sittin’
right next to you
They talk about your family
They talk about your clothes
When they don’t know their own ass
From their own elbows
They talk about your clothes
When they don’t know their own ass
From their own elbows
Jealousy and stupidity
Don’t equal harmony
Jealousy and stupidity
Don’t equal harmony
Don’t equal harmony
Jealousy and stupidity
Don’t equal harmony
Mmmm Mmmm
Mmmm Mmmm
Mmmm Mmmm
Mmmm Mmmm
Mmmm Mmmm
Mmmm Mmmm
Mmmm Mmmm
Spoken:
Have you ever noticed
When you’re feeling really good
There’s always a pigeon
That’ll come shit on your hood
Have you ever noticed
When you’re feeling really good
There’s always a pigeon
That’ll come shit on your hood
Or you’re feeling your freedom
And the world’s off your back
Some cowboy from Texas
Starts his own war in Iraq
And the world’s off your back
Some cowboy from Texas
Starts his own war in Iraq
Some humans ain’t human
Some people ain’t kind
They lie through their teeth
With their head up their behind
You open up their hearts
And here’s what you’ll find
Some humans ain’t human
Some people ain’t kind.
Some people ain’t kind
They lie through their teeth
With their head up their behind
You open up their hearts
And here’s what you’ll find
Some humans ain’t human
Some people ain’t kind.
—John Prine
Knockin’
on Your Screen Door
I ain’t got nobody hangin’ ‘round my doorstep
Ain’t got no loose change just a-hangin’ ‘round my jeans
If you see somebody, would you send em’ over my way?
I could use some help here with a can of pork and beans.
Ain’t got no loose change just a-hangin’ ‘round my jeans
If you see somebody, would you send em’ over my way?
I could use some help here with a can of pork and beans.
I once had a family but they up and left me
With nothing but an 8-track, another side of George Jones
I was in high cotton, just a-bangin’ on my six-string
A-kickin’ at the trash can, walkin’ skin and bone.
With nothing but an 8-track, another side of George Jones
I was in high cotton, just a-bangin’ on my six-string
A-kickin’ at the trash can, walkin’ skin and bone.
Chorus:
I can see your back porch if I close my eyes now
I can hear the train tracks through the laundry on the line
I’m thinking it’s your business, but you don’t got to answer
I’m knocking on your screen door in the summertime
I can hear the train tracks through the laundry on the line
I’m thinking it’s your business, but you don’t got to answer
I’m knocking on your screen door in the summertime
Everybody’s out there climbin’ on the trees now
Swingin’ in the breeze now, hangin’ on the vine
I’m dreamin’ ‘bout a sailboat, I don't need a fur coat
Swingin’ in the breeze now, hangin’ on the vine
I’m dreamin’ ‘bout a sailboat, I don't need a fur coat
Underneath the dashboard got some sweet potato wine.
Chorus:
I can see your back porch if I close my eyes now
I can hear the train tracks through the laundry on the line
I’m thinking it’s your business, but you don’t got to answer
I’m knocking on your screen door in the summertime
I’m knocking on your screen door in the summertime.
—John Prine
