The Gospel According to John Prine
As a teenager, if you asked me... and maybe even if you didn’t ask me, I’d tell you there was no music more lame than county music. I was a teen in the late 90’s so to be fair, that was not the decade where the genre truly shone but nonetheless, I was certain - It suuuuuucked. After all, what teenage rebellion would be complete without a deep-seated and mostly uninformed hatred for what was mainstream?
My love affair with country music wouldn’t really take root until I got into songwriting as an outlet for self-discovery. My love affair started with the innocuous gateway drug of folk-country and quickly inspired an unquenchable thirst that led me down the proverbial old-time, honky-tonk, and classic country garden paths. It was the messages within the words and notes of the mid-century wayward wanderers that served as both my teachers and muses in a time of seeking answers and identity through my own music. It is no wonder that these were also the years I fell madly in love with the songwriting of John Prine.
What struck me about the music of John Prine was that it was whimsical, light-hearted and funny while still maintaining wit and intellectual credibility. He was like a quirky uncle that always knew exactly what to say when you were down to make you laugh and feel loved at the very same time. The man was a true wordsmith that made navigating the English language simultaneously look like a rodeo and cakewalk. Somehow he managed to address the topics of death, loss, regret, love, yearning, and presence with a err of humor and wit that made digesting one’s own feelings on the matters approachable, relatable, nameable, palpable.
Long gone were my days of seeing country music as limited to a bunch of macho unenlightened rednecks crying into their beers about the women who had forsaken them by taking the house, the truck, the dog (and anything else they didn’t have bolted down). My country heroes were seeking a better understanding of themselves and the world around them and made music that was exquisitely vulnerable, curious, and sincere.
I found the value of my own journey falling in love with this genre so transformative that I created a music camp experience around it. A place where complete beginners of all ages could come out into the wilderness and learn a few simple old-time or classic country tunes, how to dance a square or two and know what it felt like to engage with this incredibly simple and generous musical genre on a personal level. I called the camp “Come Hill or Come Valley” as a nod to a John Prine lyric and in reverence to the sigmoid curve that is the experience of human existence.
To this day fiddle music makes me cry not from sadness but rather some sweet cocktail of nostalgia and a longing for simpler times. When I found out of the news of John Prine’s passing earlier this week I did not cry or feel a deep sadness. I felt only gratitude for the many gifts and insights his music has bestowed upon me over the years. His message was personal growth for the unfussy, the ‘who needs school when you can figure it out on the job’ approach that involves living your life instead of waiting around to die of overthinking.
John Prine didn’t cry over spilled milk, and I don’t think he would want me to cry for him now. Tears are reserved for tragedies, injustices, and the calling away of souls in the springtime of their young lives. It is no way to culminate the overlapping of existence with a man who lived a full and vibrant life. I have no tears for you John Prine, only words of praise and thanks. May your legacy live in your stead and touch the hearts and minds of many a seeking soul looking for solace in the ways of old and the truths so undisputed that no man or beast can draw asunder.
‘The Sound Behind My Eyes’ is a playlist inspired by my folk country musical coming of age journey