I had a recollection recently from when I was 12 or 13 years old. Some details, such as it being a cool night on a dark street in the Oxford Circle neighborhood of Philadelphia, are crisp, clear, and sharply in focus. Who accompanied me is unknown, although I believe it was either two or three other boys. I don’t know how or why we were miles from home, but I know who and what we were looking for.
Psychology Today describes memory as “the faculty by which the brain encodes, stores, and retrieves information. It is a record of experience for guiding future action.” They divide it into three types: sensory, short-term, and long-term, which is also known as episodic or semantic memory. They also note that “memory is notoriously untrustworthy,” and that “people can be easily persuaded to conjure false memories.”
On this particular night we were walking the streets looking for Lesley Gore’s house.
I don’t why we thought we were walking through Lesley’s neighborhood, because she lived in Tenafly, New Jersey, about 60 miles north. It was a rumor, I suspect, some sort of story in the pre-internet days that was likely manufactured and distorted before being passed around to young boys with nothing more to do than try to meet a pretty recording star. Although I don’t recall hearing it myself, I’ve read that disc jockeys often called her “the sweetie pie from Tenafly.” I wish I had known.
All week I’ve been thinking about Lesley Gore and figured that maybe there was a story there, and that I’d write about her. A young Jewish girl, born in Brooklyn, only 16 when she recorded “It’s My Party” with producer Quincy Jones and it reached number one on the charts. And then she followed it up with what’s known as an answer record.
When her boyfriend Johnny kissed Judy at her own party she was humiliated. But at the next party when she danced and kissed another boy, Johnny jumped up and hit him. Why? Because he was jealous and still loved her. Johnny came back to her, and now it was Judy’s turn to cry. This was serious subject matter in the early ’60s to young boys and girls. It had deep meaning of love, pain, and betrayal, and it stirred up strong emotions. People actually argued during lunch at school about whether or not she should have taken Johnny back.
The morning after John Prine died I woke up and laid in bed. I felt sad and scared. It could have easily been me. And still might be. And in a moment of absolute clarity I sat up and suddenly remembered something extremely important. It wasn’t Lesley Gore we were looking for that night. It was Diane Renay. Thanks, John.
This was originally published at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music’s website, as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column.
John Prine passed on April 7, 2020. He died at Vanderbilt University Medical Center in Nashville, Tennessee of complications from the COVID-19 coronavirus. He is survived by his wife, Fiona, two sons Jack and Tommy, his stepson Jody and three grandchildren. I never felt the need to write an obituary or put my thoughts down, as it would have been redundant. I can’t think of many people who were so universally loved and cherished as John, and we each felt his loss in our own way, with our own memories. I wrote this five days before he left us, and it stands as my tribute to the man.
Perhaps if my kids were a few years younger they might be asking their old man if he’s ever seen anything like this in his lifetime. The daily death count; world shutdown; deserted streets in Manhattan, Paris, and Rome; refrigerated trucks parked outside hospitals; panic buying of toilet paper; the complete failure and incompetency of the American government; and all that other crazy stuff we’ve been experiencing. “Nope,” I would reply, “this is all new to me.” All I have is a vivid memory of standing in line with hundreds of other kids to receive the polio vaccine on top of a sugar cube back in the ’50s, but maybe it was just an injection and I’m mixing things up with a different decade.
Today we are grateful to all the people who are still working each day to deliver us pizza; fill our prescriptions; sell necessities such as food, liquor, cigarettes, and guns; keep us alive; telecommute so the economic wheels don’t fall off; teach the kids; and whatever needs to be done. For many of us, we’re sitting home and looking for stuff to keep us busy. Knock out that to-do list, read a book, find a movie, binge watch Tiger King, stare and share at social media, organize the sock drawer, and if you get totally bonkers you can take a solitary walk outside with your hands in gloves and face covered up. I’m personally switching off using two cowboy-style bandanas, one red and the other blue, so that on any given day I’m either a target for the Crips or the Bloods.
Over the last week a new type of Candy Crush-style mania has taken hold on Facebook that involves challenging people to post what concerts they’ve attended from A to Z. You’d have to be an online hermit to miss this fad, and I personally found it only mildly interesting for about two and a half minutes. It’s boring enough to try and remember my own concert history let alone to get excited that somebody has seen both Queen and X.
Some have taken this challenge to new heights, like the friend who not only listed the musicians alphabetically, but added the venues as well. But after posting it he had second thoughts when he realized it looked so “white.” So he created a second one using only those of color, and failed to complete D, I, N, U, V, X, and Z. He wrote “I’m not terribly proud of what it reveals, and am tempted to come up with a third list limited only to female performers.” Well, he did that too. It was indeed an impressive list, missing only I and Q before he threw in the towel after choosing Lucinda Williams for W.
For my part I’ve been lurking online enjoying those impromptu concerts that so many musicians have been posting. I’ve learned that Larkin Poe do some of the best guitar playing I’ve ever heard, wished that Rufus Wainwright would keep his robe closed a bit more, and never knew that Garth Brooks’ “Thunder Rolls” was originally meant to be recorded by Trisha Yearwood. I’ve also been on the hunt for both new and old music to listen to and sharing it with friends.
Which brings me to John Prine. As I write this on Thursday, April 2, at 7 p.m. — hours past my deadline — I don’t know whether he will live or die. Since his wife, Fiona, shared that he’d been hospitalized with COVID-19 symptoms and was not doing well, social media has brought together his legion of fans and friends. I cannot recall this many people touched by a man and his music in such a tsunami-like outpouring of emotion since perhaps when John Lennon left us. Thanks to the magic of YouTube, I have been revisiting many of his performances and interviews. I’ve laughed, I’ve cried, and I am sitting here in both hope and fear. A world without this John will never be the same.
An occasional series of Americana and roots music videos. Sharing new discoveries, and revisiting old friends.
Next February will mark the 15th anniversary of YouTube, though it seems as if it’s been around forever. Owned and operated by Google, it is second only to its parent company’s search site as the most visited on the web. The statistics are staggering, and while I’m much more interested in the incredible access to music and its impact to modern culture than reciting a bunch of numbers about YouTube, there are a few that deserve to be shared. While there appears to be no single source of information about the company, sites such as Techjury, BiographOn, BrandWatch, and Wikipediaaggregate from many data sources in an attempt to give us the freshest information. I scanned all of the above in order to share just a few facts and figures with y’all.
Almost 5 billion videos are watched every day, although 20% are usually abandoned in the first ten seconds. Four hundred new videos are uploaded every minute. Last year 95% of the most watched clips were music videos, and the all-time champion clip that sweeps all categories is the song “Despacito” by Luis Fonsi, featuring Daddy Yankee, with over 6.6 billion views as of August 2019. Don’t be too concerned if you’ve never heard of it before (neither had I), because we Americana and roots music fans are simply a demographical blip. And while all age groups regularly visit the site, those between the ages of 18-44 dominate the audience. Finally, the gender gap has leveled out over the years, with an almost 50-50 split now, which might explain the popularity of topics such as makeup and video games.
For those of you who have been reading my columns through the years here at No Depression or follow my Americana and Roots Music Daily page on Facebook, you know that I use YouTube to hunt down and share music videos on a regular basis. It’s also become a regular Broadside feature to post my favorite new music videos each season, but this summer I’m feeling challenged to do so. In all candor, there just haven’t been many new albums that have knocked me over in the past few months. That said, I’ve decided to share a few recent discoveries that might be best described as old, new, borrowed, and blue. Happy listening.
John Prine and Poor Little Pluto
Just days after announcing the cancellation of summer tour dates due to dealing with some health issues, Prine released a new video from Tiago Majuelos, produced by the Spanish animation production company Bliss. As of this writing, the tour dates scheduled to begin in September are still on.
That Other Americana-Outlaw ‘Supergroup’
There is much press, publicity, hype, and anticipation for the upcoming release from The Highwomen — Brandi Carlile, Amanda Shires, Maren Morris, and Natalie Hemby. They’ve put out a video, played at Newport Folk Festival, covered Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain” on Jimmy Fallon’s The Tonight Show and are being hailed as the all-female update of The Highwaymen, the supergroup launched in 1985 by Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, and Kris Kristofferson. I’ve listened to four of the songs that they’ve released so far, and my ears must be broken because it’s not working for me. Sorry.
On the other hand, I recently came across this performance that was filmed at the Country Music Hall of Fame back in 2017. Featuring Jason Isbell, the above-mentioned Shires, Gillian Welch, and Dave Rawlings, it strikes me as the perfect union of both the not-that-old and new guard of the genre. If these four ever joined forces on an extended project they would most definitely and organically take the title of “supergroup.”
The Great Lonnie Johnson in Germany
Filmed in a Baden-Baden, Germany, studio with sets designed to reflect the realities of the urban blues, this clip is from the early ’60s, as it appears on the first of three volumes from the DVD set titled American Folk-Blues Festival. I believe that’s Sonny Boy Williamson doing the intro, and the band features Otis Spann paying piano, Willie Dixon on bass, and Fred Below on drums.
Lonnie Johnson was born in New Orleans in 1899 and as a child he studied piano, violin, and guitar. In the early 1920s he recorded for Okeh Records and has been acknowledged as a pioneer of the single-string guitar solo style. He recorded and performed through the late ’50s, and for a time he worked in a steel factory and as a janitor until being “rediscovered.” He toured throughout the ’60s and passed in 1970. Most of his recordings were done with an acoustic guitar, which is why I treasure this clip so much.
The Doctor Makes a House Call
I was searching for a Dr. John performance that wasn’t simply him playing the same three songs that he’s most famous for and came across this gem. I believe it’s from the TV show Sunday Night, later changed to Night Music.Jools Holland hosted the first season in 1988, and then David Sanborn took over. The show featured an eclectic list of musicians from across many genres, and you can still find some of the performances posted on YouTube. This is simply the best.
Has Mexico Sent Us the Check Yet for the Wall? LOL.
Tom Russell put a song out back in 2007 that could have been written yesterday: “Who’s Gonna Build Your Wall?” Russell, who lives in the El Paso-Juarez area, explained to NPR: “The danger in the song was thinking I was taking a cheap shot at the government, which isn’t where I’m at. I want to be honest about it — I don’t have any politics one way or another. That just doesn’t interest me. I turn my gun barrels on the people I dislike, which are white developers who have used these people and then are the first to jump on the bandwagon and say, ‘Yeah, we gotta get rid of them now.’”
And One More for the Road
This video has probably received more views, likes, and comments on my Facebook page than any other. I had no idea how beloved and respected Junior Brown is in the roots music community since he’s never really had a huge album throughout his career despite releasing 12 great ones. The 67-year-old musician who plays a double-neck guitar he invented is one of the best performers I’ve ever seen, and his shows are high-energy affairs that show off both his virtuoso playing and songs with whimsical lyrics. This one is from his 1998 appearance on Austin City Limits.
This was originally published as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column at the website of No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music.
I published this at the No Depression website on the tenth anniversary of 9/11. Living in California at the time, I was inspired to write it after listening to a favorite song of mine. You know it too…John Prine’s ‘Hello In There’. As much as it’s about growing older, for me it also represents the stories of those that passed away too soon. It’s curious that this past year has seen Prine release his biggest selling album, going out on a long tour that sold out at every stop and receiving accolades far and wide. I saw him perform for the first time right before last Christmas and he was sharp and spry, literally dancing across the stage at the end of the night. He sang that song I like, and as usually the case when I hear it, I cried a bit. It used to be about old folks, now it’s about me. And maybe you, too.
My mom will turn ninety next month and my sister has been going through boxes in her basement looking for old photographs. She found the one above just last week, and mom is on the right looking very fashionable while standing with her Uncle Alfred and Aunt Tiny on the roof of the Empire State Building. I think it must be sometime in the late thirties before the second world war started, and it looks so peaceful and calm so far up in the air. That this was found just days ahead of the tenth anniversary of what we simply call 9/11 was not lost on me.
For the second time in as many years, yesterday I learned that an old friend, someone I’ve known and cared about, died. I’m used to seeing social media reminders that this or that musician was either born or died on this date, and we’ll watch a video, say nice things about them and move on with our lives. News about people you really don’t know personally is just that…news. But when you find out a person you’ve spoken with, shared time together with, broken bread with, laughed and cried with has passed on, it’s a very different experience. It’s hard.
Throughout the past week my fifteen year old German exchange student and I have sat on the couch together in front of the television and watched many of the special broadcasts about 9/11. She was just five when it happened, and seemed as interested to learn about that day as I was in trying to forget about it. It’s been many moons since I’ve watched the footage of the planes smashing into the Towers, the dust storm as they fell, the people searching for survivors, the doctors and nurses waiting to treat the sick and injured who never showed up. Three weeks after the attacks I stood at Ground Zero and ten years later I can still smell of death.
Last night down in Florida there was a Republican presidential primary debate, hosted by the Tea Party people. I didn’t watch it, as I’m not interested in the venom they spew and the hate they peddle. It was reported in the news that when the talk turned to health care issues and a question was asked about what you do with a sick and uninsured person…do you let them just die…several in the crowd yelled “Yeah!”. Not one single candidate spoke out against that “Yeah!”…and they’re not ashamed of it and they don’t give a shit. Just let ’em die.
As we remember the lives lost on 9/11, we also think of those that are slowly dying today due to the after effects of toxic exposure. I imagine that survivors, family members and loved ones who’ve lost someone must think of those final moments over and over in their heads every night as they lay in bed. And often I think of the indescribable pain suffered on the nights and days after 9/11 as they hopefully waited for husband, wife, son, daughter, relative or friend to come back home.
My mom will be ninety next month. I’ll be flying into New York in about ten days to visit with her and my family. My sister and I will drive her down the turnpike to Philadelphia where we grew up and lived for much of our lives, and visit the grave of my father. Maybe we’ll drive by our old house on the way back. The next day I’ll take the train alone into Manhattan to visit Ground Zero . And as I fly back to California, when I pass over Ohio, I’ll look down and remember my old friend who died too young.
Postscript: A lot has changed since then, a lot hasn’t. My wife and I divorced the year after, the boys and I moved to New York, the exchange student I mentioned went back home to Germany (she turned twenty-four this week) and many of my friends and family have passed on. Mom’s not with us anymore, and if you’re a believer she’s in a batter place with dad, the love of her life. If you two are looking down or listening in, I just wanted to take a moment and say…hello in there.
A week ago, give or take, the columnists and reviewers of No Depression received a note from Stacy Chandler, our chief for all things web related and self-described “killer of spam, keeper of the style guide, friend of good music and the good people who make it and listen to it,” letting us know that if we wanted to send her a top ten list of our favorite roots music titles for 2018, she’d be pleased to do something with them. What exactly she planned to do with them I didn’t know, and since I normally don’t participate in such things because I covet my status as the world’s largest collector of half-empty glasses, I deleted the email. Then I changed my mind.
Many of you know that in addition to writing for this website I also aggregate articles primarily about roots music and its weak-kneed country cousin Americana, posting several times each day on multiple platforms. Over the past few weeks I’ve stumbled upon and read endless lists for best rock, folk, indie, Americana, roots, blues, jazz, country, K-pop, hip-hop, live, and reissued albums of the year. While in the past I’ve just skipped or skimmed over them, this year was different.
While new album releases have dipped from a previous high of 130,000 titles per year to a more manageable 75,000 in 2018, when you’re not actually purchasing music because you’re accessing it through the stream at $9.99 per month, the act of finding and listening to new stuff is like having a giant crack addiction. After you the fill up the tank you still want more. And you can have it. Which leads me to why I’ve been searching through all these lists for things I’ve missed or never knew existed, and then adding them into my library with facial recognition and the flick of a thumb.
I’m not just looking for new music, but also books, films, Scandinavian television series on Netflix, the latest discounts on electronic gadgets that I have zero interest in ever buying, celebrity hairstyle transformations and facts about Dove Cameron, whose first kiss at age 17 was with Luke Benward. Not a clue as to who either of them are, but they must be important. I’ve also come across the ten best record stores in America, the best all-in-one turntables, the 13 best blues guitarists in the world, best concerts of the year, ten best music festivals of the year, seven English classic songs to sing out loud with children, and the best song from every Journey album (which is a bit presumptuous if you ask me).
Publishing your own personal list for other people to see and judge, unlike casting a vote in a poll by secret ballot, seems akin to standing naked in front of your tenth-grade public speaking class, and that just sucks. As you can tell by the photo above, I chose to utilize a rather simple system that I discovered on a Pinterest list of ‘easy home projects for the indecisive person’. And that’s me. Because in the day to day and by and by, my favorite music is usually whatever I’m listening to in the moment. So with that said, and in absolutely no particular order, here are a few of my favorite albums for 2018.
Sarah Shook and The Disarmers – Years
John Prine – Tree of Forgiveness
Pharis and Jason Romero – Sweet Old Religion
Joshua Hedley – Mr. Jukebox
Marissa Nadler – For My Crimes
I See Hawks In L.A. – Live and Never Learn
Milk Carton Kids – All The Things That I Did and All The Things I Didn’t Do
Lindi Ortega – Liberty
The Jayhawks – Back Roads and Abandoned Motels
Brandi Carlile- By The Way, I Forgive You
This article was originally published as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column over at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music.
An occasional series of Americana and roots music videos. Sharing new discoveries, and revisiting old friends.
This started out as a story about my travels throughout the world in a quest to find hidden and long forgotten places of pleasure, often called record stores. Getting down on my hands and knees, pushing through cobwebs and kicking away a dead rodent or two in order to find those elusive hidden musical artifacts that I take home, place on my turntable while pouring myself two fingers of a fine whiskey, and then let the sweet sounds baptize my body and soothe my searing soul.
So that didn’t happen. I’m on the wagon, haven’t stepped on a winged vessel for over six years, and my turntable awaits my oldest son’s ability to rent a van, enlist a helper, and transport it to Brooklyn, where such things are cherished. I surf in the stream and scour YouTube.
Here’s a few things that caught my eyes and ears this season.
There Is Nothing Like Jason Isbell and an Acoustic Guitar
This should hardly be a surprise, as Isbell has been consistently putting out incredible music from back in his days with the Drive-By Truckers, followed by his first solo album in 2007 and those that followed with his band The 400 Unit, named for the psychiatric ward of Eliza Coffee Memorial Hospital in Florence, Alabama. His wife, Amanda Shires, manager Traci Thomas, and Ryan Adams assisted in getting Isbell into treatment for alcohol and cocaine addiction in early 2012 and he now speaks openly about it. He’s intelligent, street smart, has a sharp wit, runs one of the best Twitter accounts you’ll ever follow, he was married to Shires by musician Todd Snider, is a fanatic fan of the beleaguered Atlanta Braves — and I’ll stand on Steve Earle’s coffee table and tell you he is currently the best songwriter we’ve seen since Dylan’s most prolific period, whenever that was. While I prefer him alone with his acoustic, this year I’ve gone back into his catalog from the past ten years, and if you’re a Jason-come-lately, you’d be well served to do the same.
This Is the Dawning of the Age of Geriatrics
The other night I went to see Bob Weir and The Wolf Brothers here in NYC, and as I stepped off the subway and headed up Broadway toward the theater, it was if somebody freeze-dried 1967. People of a certain age were decked out in tie dye or wearing faded concert tees across large stomachs, and as I made my way to the loge I saw one poor soul suffering from an overdose of stool softeners. But the music? First rate and as rockin’ and rollin’ as you might not have expected, but Bobby stretched out on his guitar and sang like I’ve never heard him before. It was truly a wonder to behold.
Along with John Prine, who will likely top every person’s end of the year poll, there has been an avalanche of older musicians who’ve either gone out on tour for the first time in years or written and recorded some great music. Examples would include Willie and Dylan, who never seem to stop touring, the Sweetheart of The Rodeo show which allowed Roger McGuinn and Chris Hillman to show that they still have the chops, and Steve Earle, Lucinda Williams, and Dwight Yoakam criss-crossed the country. Paul McCartney has his first number one album in 36 years, and Diana Ross is killing it in Vegas. Paul Simon went around the world one last time, and I think by now you get the idea: It’s better to burn out than to fade away.
The Year That Americana Music Died
:
Not that anybody, but a few, cares about such things, but when was the last time you looked at Billboard magazine’s Americana/Folk chart? A few years ago everyone made a big fuss that not only did “our music” warrant a Grammy award (never televised, of course, and who can forget Linda Chorney?), but we also got our own official chart. As I wrote this Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hitsis number nine, followed by Ed Sheeran, John Mayer, Jack Johnson, John Denver, James Taylor, and Jim Croce. Sure, Chris Stapleton occupies both the number one and three spots, but if this is the best we have to show for it — schlock pop and geriatric redux — I’m outta here.
These are the musicians who came out with some kick-ass music this year, in no particular order, and, for at least this week, aren’t on the Americana chart: Dave Alvin and Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Malcolm Holcombe, Lindi Ortega, St. Paul and The Broken Bones, Lula Wiles, I See Hawks In L.A., Laura Veirs, Milk Carton Kids, The Rails, Eliza Gilkyson, Mary Gauthier, The Jayhawks, Modern Mal, Clay Parker and Jodi James, Brandi Carlile, Shemekia Copeland, The Earls of Leicester, Pharis and Jason Romero, Tim Easton, Ry Cooder, Sarah Shook and The Disarmers, The Mammals, John Hiatt, Ed Romanoff, Jules Shear, Hayes Carll, Whitey Morgan, Rosanne Cash, and Colter Wall, to name but a few.
And now the real craziness: Of the top ten albums on this week’s chart from the Americana Music Association, not even one made it on Billboard‘s chart. Thank god for Dale Watson’s Ameripolitan music association or whatever he calls it … they’re gettin’ it right.
Why Ska and Rocksteady Have Gotten My Attention
I haven’t inhaled for over 23 years, have no hair left even if I wanted to grow it out, and never went to Jamaica. But for reasons unknown even to me, this was the year I began to get absorbed into the roots of reggae. Blame it on a small radio station in NYC with the call letters WVIP that spends much of the day hawking vitamin supplements and selling help for your damaged credit reports. But every so often they break out the music, and it’s worth the wait. I’m a white boy who can’t even begin to explain it, but here are a few albums that shouldn’t be too hard to find if you want to dip your toes into the water. Start with Lee “Scratch” Perry and Friends – The Black Ark Years, Everything Crash: The Best of The Ethiopians and then The Story of Rocksteady: 1966-1968.
Video Killed the Radio Star
When was the last time you pulled out your old Low Anthem albums? It’s amazing how great this band is, and after opening on the Lucinda Williams’ tour last year, they recorded and released The Salt Doll Went To Measure the Depth of the Sea. Best album title of the year and just a wonderful group of writers and players.
Anybody who has been paying attention these past ten years knows that I keep going back to Marissa Nadler, the Boston-based singer-songwriter-guitarist-artist who can sing about ex-Byrd Gene Clark, cover a Townes Van Zandt song, and just as easily open for a death metal band in a small club in Germany at three in the morning. When her new album For My Crimes was recently released, it coincided with this nice mention from Richard Thompson in The Quietist:
“My youngest son, Jack, introduced me to Marissa Nadler. Her music is really strange, lovely stuff. I think it’s a little bit linked to shoegazing, or that sound, although I don’t know a lot about that. I find it very mesmerising and very dreamy, especially the way she harmonises with herself. I’m also never quite sure what she’s talking about – there’s lots of ambiguity in her lyrics, which I like. Songs and stories don’t always have to be straight.”
King of The Road: Tribute to Roger Miller is a two-disc album showcasing the songwriting of Miller through artists that span all corners, from Ringo Starr to Asleep At The Wheel, Lyle Lovett to Loretta Lynn. It’s a bit uneven and sadly they really missed the mark on “Husbands and Wives,” one of my favorites. Instead of using the great Jules Shear version above (video from Sherry Wallace), they teamed a mismatched Jamey Johnson with Emmylou Harris and murdered it. Despite that, you can cull a number of great performances here if you pick and choose.
And That’s All There Is Folks … It’s Cartoon Time
This article was originally published as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column over at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music.
I can remember a hot summer day in 1961 when the trucks and cars towing shiny Airstream trailers with exotic license plates from states like Florida, Alabama, and Georgia pulled into the massive parking lot of the local shopping center just down the street from our house in Philadelphia. My friends and I sat on our bikes and watched with anticipatory excitement and awe as men with tattoos on their muscular forearms and exotic-looking women who all seemed to have long flowing black hair worked in tandem to rapidly set up the midway rides, food stands, games, and a main stage.
This carnival had no tents, and the shows were performed for free under the stars by clowns, acrobats, a bearded lady, Siamese twins, and The Elastic Man. The latter stood over seven feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds, yet he would fold himself up and fit into a child’s red covered wagon that would barely hold a medium-sized dog. There was also a live band that featured two male singers, and while I can’t confirm it, I’ve always believed it was the Brooklyn-based duo Don and Juan, who coincidentally recorded for the Bigtop label. I recall they covered all the current hits, and finished the set with their own top ten song.
From early morning to late at night, a few of us hung out with the carny folks, running errands or doing simple jobs. We were given free passes for the rides, had our fortunes told by some of the women, and soaked up a lifestyle and language unlike anything we’d ever experienced. They were only there for a few days, but it was long enough to put the thought in my head that I was going to run away and join them.
We had all grown up watching Circus Boy on our small black and white televisions, a show that starred future Monkees drummer Micky Dolenz playing the part of Corky, an orphaned kid who was adopted by Joey the Clown. On the morning after the last performance, I ran down the street to the shopping center carrying a small bag of clothes and found an empty parking lot. I was heartbroken, and other than the vivid memories I still carry with me, all I had to show for it was a rabbit’s foot on a keychain that I won in a stupid game. Put it into my pocket every day for years.
Unlike most people I know, there is no real or imaginary bucket list that I’ve come up with of things to do before I die. No exotic places I want to visit, no desire to skydive or walk on red hot coals, no particular women I want to date (that’s a lie), no dreams I need fulfilled. I’ve got some regrets for sure, and what comes to mind around the subject of music are the concerts I never went to and the musicians I never got to see.
It’s a short list: I was close to going to Woodstock with my friend and neighbor David, but my parents stopped me at the last minute. He went alone and came back with some crazy bug that laid him up in the hospital for a few weeks, so I was sort of okay with missing it. I never saw the Beatles play together, although over time I managed to catch three out of four and had lunch with Paul once. I was on my way to see Elvis Presley one night but made a quick stop at a record release party for Patti Smith. I never left. She was transformational, he was soon dead. Had a ticket to see Springsteen in 1975 at a small theater and was approached by a girl who said she’d do anything to get in. Half-joking I said “two hundred dollars” and she quickly counted out the dough and I was fine with it. Managed to see Leonard Cohen on his final tour, and last year scored tickets for a Gillian and Dave show.
A John Prine concert was the last must-see event I’ve had on my mind for some time, and last February I was fortunate to buy a ticket at face value for the first night of his tour: Friday, April 13th, Radio City Music Hall, New York. Center stage, second mezzanine, aisle seat. It was the day his first new album in ten years would be released, and everyone in the audience was to be given a free CD. Sturgill Simpson was opening and Brandi Carlile would join Prine’s band. While they were in town he taped The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.
Eight days before the show I got sick. Very sick. My lungs filled with fluid, my doctor pumped me up with steroids and antibiotics, and I stayed home from the day job to rest. As time passed with little improvement, I remembered that old rabbit’s foot and wished I still had it. On Friday the 13th I woke up, made a pot of tea, and with a couple of clicks on the keyboard I sold my ticket and went back to bed. Rolling Stone posted an online review of the concert that I read the next morning:
Friday night’s Radio City concert was a generations-spanning, culminating celebration of the late-career resurgence of John Prine, who over the past decade has unknowingly and unassumingly taken on the role of spiritual and musical godfather to an entire generation of 20- and 30-something country/folk-leaning singer-songwriters.
Playing at Radio City for the first time in his 50-year career, Prine’s age-weathered voice was in fine form from the onset, accentuating the time-tested vulnerability on old classics (“Hello in There”) and newly personal confessions (“Boundless Love”) alike.
The night came to a fitting close when Prine, joined by his wife, son, Carlile and several kazoos, bade farewell to the capacity crowd with his new album closer “When I Get to Heaven.” Prine delivered the song’s gently-strummed verses in a captivating, fully a cappella arrangement before erupting into the song’s ramshackle sing-along chorus with the band. But before he took his final bow, the singer neatly summed up the celebratory evening with the song’s final words. “This old man,”Prine sang, “is going to town.”
Do you want to know how I felt after reading that? It was exactly the same feeling I had 57 years earlier on the day that the carnival left town without me. And instead of a good luck charm in my pocket, I’m left with this special duet. Guess it’s just the way the world goes around.
This article was originally published as an Easy Ed’s Broadside column over at No Depression: The Journal of Roots Music.
