A Diamond In the Rough

"There aren't 41 best Prine songs," rock critic Robert Christgau wrote back in 1993 with the release of John Prine's Anthology album. "There are 50, 60, maybe more." Twenty-seven years later, let me just cut to the chase and say there's a truck load more. Shit, I've got over a hundred on my iPhone and I'm still counting.

"Illegal Smile," "Spanish Pipedream," "Hello In There," " Sam Stone," Paradise," "Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore," "Angel From Montgomery," "Donald and Lydia," "Souvenirs," "Yes I Guess They Oughta Name a Drink After You," "Please Don't Bury Me," "Christmas in Prison," "Dear Abby," "Blue Umbrella," "Often Is a Word I Seldom Use," "Grandpa Was a Carpenter," "Wedding Day in Funeralville," "My Own Best Friend," "He Was in Heaven Before He Died," and that just gets you as far as 1975. Only Dylan was more prolific.

John Prine died yesterday. He was 73. A legend among his peers, he had survived two bouts with cancer, but was no match for the worst pandemic to hit the United States in over a century. When news of his passing broke last night, it was a gut punch for the millions of us who cherished his music. Gram Parsons may have invented alt-country, but John Prine brought it home like no one else.

A disciple of Jimmie Rodgers and Hank Williams, Prine was discovered by Kris Kristofferson in a Chicago night club in the summer of 1971. "It must’ve been like stumbling onto Dylan when he first busted onto the Village scene," Kristofferson wrote in the liner notes of Prine's self titled debut. Only 24, Prine was invited by Kristofferson to perform at New York's Bottom Line where he was signed by Atlantic Records' CEO Jerry Wexler. The rest, as they say, is history.

It's impossible to encapsulate five decades worth of music into one writing. It's beyond my abilities, and even if it weren't, I wouldn't dare attempt it. His talent was indelible; he could make you laugh, then cry, then laugh again without even breaking a sweat. When Leonard Cohen wrote the song, "So Long, Marianne," he kinda had John Prine in mind.

Well so long, Marianne

It's time that we began

To laugh and cry

And cry and laugh about it all again

But Prine was not nearly as serious as Cohen, nor as cerebral as Dylan. The only word that comes to mind when I think of his music is honest; gut-wrenchingly honest. There was not a pretentious bone in his body. What you heard was what you got. Among his contemporaries, only Lucinda Williams was his equal. In fact, you could say that Williams and Prine were the perfect bookends for a genre that all too often was overlooked by the music industry. The biggest disappointment I had watching Ken Burns' Country Music was his total failure to mention the contributions of both artists. It was inexcusable.

I still remember fondly the first time I played Sweet Revenge. It instantly become my favorite album. That was soon followed by his debut John Prine - yes, I sometimes work backwards - then Common Sense, then Storm Windows, then The Missing Years, then Lost Dogs and Mixed Blessings. It was that way with every John Prine album I bought. Sorta like finding a new best friend every couple of years.

Melancholy doesn't begin to describe the heaviness I feel in my heart right now. The world has lost a genius, but more than that it has lost a wonderful man. There'll never be another John Prine. There'll never be another singer/songwriter who will be able to pen a song as tragic as "Christmas in Prison" or as uplifting as "The Glory of True Love." Sometimes it's hard for me to imagine he wrote them at all.

But in our grief, we can be comforted in the knowledge that no one truly dies. They simply move on to another, better place. John Prine is in that place right now, and if I'm any judge of talent, I'd say he's putting his time to good use. The last song he wrote on his 2018 album The Tree of Forgiveness, says it all.

When I get to heaven, I'm gonna shake God's hand

Thank him for more blessings than one man can stand

Then I'm gonna get a guitar and start a rock-n-roll band

Check into a swell hotel; ain't the afterlife grand?

I can just picture God in the front row, laughing and crying, and crying and laughing about it all again.