John Prine’s conjuring nature put him among history’s finest interpreters of the human condition
John Prine is perhaps the most cunning and imaginative human being to ever pick up a guitar.
His last studio album, “The Tree of Forgiveness,” was released 48 years after his first, and it features the same insight and soul-examining forces that made his self-titled debut a masterpiece in the early 1970s.
No artist has sustained such a high level of quality and possessed such a keen eye for life more than John Prine. No matter how fast it moved, he could see things, both micro and macro, and get straight to the bottom of them. If you’re unfamiliar with his work, just pick a song and sit back.
It’s fascinating to see how a man who never lived in East Tennessee could forge so many connections here. The most notable one, though, is the bond he shared with Knoxville’s modern musical godfather, RB Morris. Though he rarely if ever covered other artists’ songs, Prine recorded Morris’ “That’s How Every Empire Falls” for inclusion on his “Fair & Square” EP. The song will stop you where you stand, and for a songwriter, there can’t be higher praise than to have Prine record a song that he didn’t write himself. Below is a video of Prine and Morris performing a different song (“Paradise”) together in 2012 at the Thomas Wolfe Auditorium in Asheville, North Carolina. Below that are more clips interspersed with testimonials written by various members of the BLANK/Knoxville community and beyond, each speaking to the power of Prine’s music and, more importantly, to the strength of his character.
Wayne Bledsoe, BLANK Newspaper
John Prine was one of the first artists to be dubbed “the new Dylan” and he was the only one who really might have deserved that title. He didn’t write like Dylan. He was his own thing, but his songs were just as powerful.
Prine was our generation’s Mark Twain or Will Rogers or maybe Woody Guthrie. His songs were filled with common sense, deep intelligence and a real sense of the things that connect us all as humans. He used language that was sometimes almost childlike, but delivered a gut punch with its simplicity. Was there ever a sadder line than “there’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes/And Jesus Christ died for nuthin’, I suppose”?
I don’t think so.
John’s debut album is probably the best debut album of all time with every song on it becoming a classic. He was the last guy to really write campfire songs. Songs everyone loved and knew the lyrics to. Songs that were funny sometimes and heartbreaking at other times. Even when they were silly, they connected.
I only got to interview him once. He called me at 2 a.m. after one of his shows on the West Coast. He apologized for not calling earlier and forgetting that I was probably on East Coast Time and we had a great conversation. I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about John Prine. How many times has that been the case with an artistic giant? He cannot be replaced, but his music will last forever.
Matt Rankin, BLANK Newspaper
I came across John Prine’s music later than most (and much later than I am comfortable admitting), but it touched me for all the same reasons everyone else has cited in the many fine eulogies written in the wake of his passing. A few people, though, have mentioned how genuinely nice he was, and I’d like to add my experience with him to that narrative.
A few years ago, Fiona checked into the hotel where I worked as a bellman, and I helped her with her luggage. She was all business but very friendly. She also was rather embarrassed to be out of cash for a tip, but she apologized and told me that her husband would need my assistance later and would take care of me then.
John rolled into the driveway solo that evening in a newish pickup that absolutely dwarfed him in size. As soon as I recognized him, I grabbed a cart and began unloading his bags. “You must have been the one to help my wife earlier,” he said. “Thank you.”
Although on that occasion they were in town for pleasure, we had another group of musicians (Leon Bridges and his band, maybe) staying with us, too, and they had parked their tour bus across the street from the front entrance. Some twitchy rando had been scoping the bus for a while from the hotel’s alcove and asked me, as I was handling one of John’s heavier suitcases, “Hey, is there, like, someone famous staying here?”
The guy’s gaze was laser-focused on the bus, so I was able to shoot a quick glance at John, whose face exhibited a fairly even mix of fear and bemusement. Here was this dude, standing directly in front of a legendary singer-songwriter, not knowing him from Adam and he just so happens to make that query? It was too perfect.
“I dunno, man,” I said with a grin. “But even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to tell you.” He softly mumbled something unintelligible, and relief washed over John’s face, which then broke into a wide smile.
Inside, he thanked me for playing it cool. “No worries,” I replied. “But I don’t know who is gonna freak out more when I tell them I helped you today: my wife or my dad.” That elicited a legitimate chuckle, and I felt a huge sense of accomplishment.
Prine was by far the most down-to-earth celebrity I dealt with in that job, and I truly enjoyed our brief interaction; however mundane it was for him, I was able to catch a glimpse into the kind soul of a man responsible for crafting some of the best lyrics ever conceived. I imagine there’s a lot of stories about him like this one that are floating around. May he rest in peace.
Steve Wildsmith, BLANK Newspaper
There’s not much I can add to the boundless outpouring of love, grief, admiration and beauty that encompasses all that John Prine meant to so many people. Marissa R. Moss does as good a job as any, but I’ll pile on my own connection all the same.
I had probably heard of John Prine when I came out of college in the early 1990s, but it wasn’t until a bunch of us were living in a house on River Drive in McMinnville that my pal Terry opened my eyes, ears and heart to so many musicians that had previously existed outside of my orbit, John Prine among them. I can remember sitting on the back deck, overlooking a ravine’s drop-off that sheltered our suburban neighborhood from the adjacent highway and gave us enough of a buffer from town that it felt rural, even though a 5-minute walk across the river would put us on Main Street.
“The Missing Years” was my gateway, and to this day, I know the words to every song, because rarely is an album so perfect, so tender, so witty and sublime and beautiful. From ruminations on things of the spirit to things of the heart to things of the funny bone, John managed to crawl through the speakers of whatever device on which you listened to him, pull up a chair and make himself at home like that guy you never realized how much you loved until he comes back around again.
“Exactly Odo, Quasimodo.”
Throughout the years, I discovered the entirety of his catalog and loved everything therein, but that record remains a linchpin of my existence.
“All the Best” was my go-to song for heartbreaks. “Jesus the Missing Years” is my dogma. “Daddy’s Little Pumpkin” is the lullaby I sing to my daughter. “You Got Gold” is the love song that plays in my head when I see my wife across the yard. “It’s a Big Ol’ Goofy World” … “Great Rain” … “Unlonely” … “Take a Look at My Heart” … what a treasure. What a joy.
What a loss. Will we be alright? Sure. Will we be the same? Probably not.
Rest well, Mr. Prine.
Benny Smith, WUTK station director
I’ll chime in with one of my John Prine memories … If you ever worked with Ashley Capps, you know how much John Prine meant to the company, and for so many reasons, many more than just promoting his shows. I was lucky enough to get to work some of those, and they were always some of the best shows of the year, no doubt. ALWAYS a strong opener (I’m looking at you, RB Morris), and an audience that worshiped one of the greatest-ever songwriters. His songs were amazing, but his in-between song chats were the best. It was like sitting on the floor at a family reunion, and listening to your favorite uncle tell stories about the family, WWII, growing up, etc.
When John was diagnosed with neck cancer in early ’98, the whole AC Entertainment office staff was heartbroken for him, and for his lovely wife, Fiona. We patiently waited for news, and wondered if this might be it for his live performances. We all knew how he loved to play, and tell those stories. And, his fans loved it, even more. We also knew how tough of an man he was, and knew he would give it his all in this fight. When AC got the call from Prine’s longtime manager, Al Bunetta, that John had recovered, even with a portion of his neck visibly removed, they were all ready for him to try out going back on stage. And, they wanted AC Entertainment to book the show, and they wanted to do it at the Paramount Theater in Bristol. It was small enough venue to where he would not have to push too hard for his vocal delivery, and of course, the history of that town, was an inspiration, as well. We had a bigger show (bigger, but never better that John’s) that night, so AC VP Troy Sellers was asked to rep that show. Because of that, I was asked to work the Prine comeback show. It was March 1999, and I knew what was on the line, that night. As everyone has already said, John was one of the nicest, most sincere artists you would ever want to meet. But, that night, everyone was a good bit nervous about how it would turn out.
Sound check went well, and Fiona, Al, and Dan Einstein (co-founder of Oh Boy Records) had all come into town for the show. AC drove up from Knoxville, as well. Mark Arnold was my wingman that night (and, many others) selling merch, and helping out with running, etc. The show, of course, sold out in no time, at all. Bill Bowman, you were probably there, too.
Everything was in place, and not much was different other than John not taking smoke breaks at the table on stage … he stopped smoking after the diagnosis, which was no small miracle, but showed his strength. His usual vodka and ginger ale was replaced with bottles of water. The most unusual thing, however, was the nervous tension backstage, before the show. Having RB Morris open did calm some nerves, and was always a high bar to start any show. But, Prine shows in the past were so laid back … this one was a different. Even the crowd, who LOVED LOVED LOVED John, knew a lot was on the line, that night. RB opened up, and did a fantastic job.
It was time for John to hit stage, and he hugged and kissed Fiona, and made his way to his microphone. As I have told many artists before they hit the stage, I said “Have some fun out there.” Off he went, and it was a fantastic performance. I was watching someone who was truly put on this earth to do what he was back doing, and back loving to do. His spirit was rising with each song, but it was also tiring him out a bit more than usual. Nonetheless, he told those amazing stories, sang those unmatched songs, and put on another fantastic show that only John Prine could put on. There were tears shed in the audience, and backstage. He finished up with “Paradise,” with RB on stage, singing with him. He came off stage to hugs, high fives, and to looks of relief, joy, and pride. He whipped cancer’s butt, and got back to giving us all some of the most inspiring music ever written.
Al and Fiona broke out a bottle of the best tasting (and, most expensive) champagne I have ever had in my life right after he came off stage. We all had a happy, victorious toast to the medical staff who helped him with this battle, and to the best songwriting postman this world has ever known. Shout out to my late brother, GroverBob Smith, for turning me on to Prine’s music very early on in my life. Wooo hoo to MArnold for being MArnold, as usual. Big ups to Harry and the Paramount staff for the theater. Big thanks to AC for having faith in me to work such an important show. Above all, thanks to John Prine for being John Prine.
Rusty Odom, BLANK Newspaper
I didn’t realize that Prine passed away last night because I adopted a nine-week-old puppy yesterday morning, and it kept me nice and busy. All day, I wrestled with what to name the new addition, and as we dozed off for our first night of rest together, I was still undecided. I woke up with the youngster looking me dead in the eye, and boy what a sight that was. He was happy, and I was too.
I took my new, unnamed canine outside and scraped that terrible rectangular box of connection off of my table to read the terrible news that John Prine had died due to complications of COVID-19. I don’t typically get upset about celebrity deaths. It just never really hits me the same way it seems to hit others. But this one was a bit different.
Last year, Kacey Musgraves, Jim James, ODESZA and The Lumineers were performing at the same time as Prine at Bonnaroo. It was certainly the toughest conflict of the weekend for me personally, as I’ve grown to love Musgraves, and James is the leader of My Morning Jacket, one of my favorite bands to see in a live setting. But this test was a no-brainer for me. I was going to start with Prine and stay until I felt the nudge to dip. Of course, after a few songs, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere, and it served as one of my favorite shows ever.
Now, just eight months later, Prine has moved on to the next thing.
All morning and afternoon, I’ve listened to songs from his unbelievable catalog, trying to find something that jumped out to me to tie my dog’s new beginning to the worldly ending of one of my favorite performers. And there it was.
I hadn’t even heard “Saddle in the Rain” before. It’s a departure from most of Prine’s material in terms of tempo and energy. This song has a little funk to it. To open the last verse of the song, Prine painted a picture of a laundromat not too far from the Alamo. Now, I’ve never heard of a dog called Alamo, and that name has obvious ties to the Volunteer State, as well. So of course I ran it by BLANK editor Matt Rankin (whose story about an actual interaction with Prine is much better than this one) as I do most things, and he approved.
Prine will live forever through his films and his music. That’s just all there is to it. And in a much, much smaller way, he’ll also live on through a Great Pyrenees/Labrador mix named Alamo who got a fresh start on the day of Prine’s departure. I hope he won’t mind that I borrow a molecule of his brilliance. I’ll be happy to tell anyone who will listen where the name came from as payment. The world could always use more John Prine.
Will Meyer, Star 102.1 producer/on-air personality
Feeling pretty sad and angry that Coronavirus took my all-time favorite songwriter, but trying my best to heed sage advice from the man himself:
“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.”
