Tribute to John Prine

When I still nipped at my parents’ heels, small enough to be childlike and old enough to want to not be, I discovered the unquiet joy of simple songs and dreams laid out on carpets. My dad played records and cassettes in the basement, his old collection and that golden hiss the first things that held the rising darkness at bay.

I came to John Prine late, already an adult, but his songs felt immediately familiar. I could smell my childhood basement, see the wood-paneled walls, and imagine my dad sitting next to me, leaning against our ragged sofa, head lolled and facing the heavens. He harmonized with every song, his voice rising or falling, and I can imagine a world in which he sang along, Make me an angle that flies from Montgomery / make me a poster of an old rodeo / just give me not thing I can hold on to / to believe in this living is just a hard way to go.

I used to ride along in his car on the way to West Virginia, to see my grandparents. It was the other place where he introduced music to me, windows open and tinny speakers as loud as they could go, just to the edge of crackling and never beyond. I can imagine him in his old Corolla with a mixtape of Prine songs, singing for pity’s a crime / and it ain’t worth a dime / to a person who’s really in need / just treat ‘em the same / as you would your own name / next time your heart starts to bleed.

But that’s not my history. I found these songs in college, but I didn’t learn to live inside them until after college. I think Josh Ritter sang one of his songs at a show in the late 2000s – “Mexican Home” – and I took a deeper dive into Prine’s sea. They quiver with little and big truths, bristle with love and honesty, and he never shied from making the points that needed making. Some of the songs have become easy prayers, like “Everything is Cool”, with its feverish baptism, or “That’s the Way The World Goes ‘Round” with its laughter in the face of cynicism, or “New Train” and its call to carry on, no matter the damage. This last one, sometimes I sing it to my sadness, a shield, an omen for a future as-yet unknown, but coming nonetheless.

If you’re lucky, someone shares in your love for these songs, or some of the words, some of the sounds, and you can use it like a common language. In this modern age of masculinity whereby emotion isn’t a felt thing but a seen thing, my closest friend sent me a song at 1 AM this morning, his rendition of “Illegal Smile”, and it shattered me wide open like sunbeams through stained glass. Go sing with someone, please.

I think, at the end of the day, he wrote the kind of songs that touched on despair but circulated endless hope. They feel lived-in and celebratory while still acknowledging that everyone dies. But even in the dying, there’s so much fucking beauty. And maybe every song he ever wrote is about living and dying, living or dying, with everything else just filling in the corners.

So, here at the end, sing along with Mr. Prine one more time, on this final song from Tree of Forgiveness, which will inevitably be shared widely today.

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?

And then I’m gonna get a cocktail: vodka and ginger ale Yeah, I’m gonna smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl ‘Cause this old man is goin’ to town

Then as God as my witness, I’m gettin’ back into showbusiness I’m gonna open up a nightclub called “The Tree of Forgiveness” And forgive everybody ever done me any harm Why, I might even invite a few choice critics, those syphilitic parasitics Buy ’em a pint of Smithwick’s and smother ’em with my charm

‘Cause then I’m gonna get a cocktail: vodka and ginger ale Yeah I’m gonna smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl Yeah this old man is goin’ to town

Yeah when I get to heaven, I’m gonna take that wristwatch off my arm What are you gonna do with time after you’ve bought the farm? And them I’m gonna go find my mom and dad, and good old brother Doug Well I’ll bet him and cousin Jackie are still cuttin’ up a rug I wanna see all my mama’s sisters, ’cause that’s where all the love starts I miss ’em all like crazy, bless their little hearts And I always will remember these words my daddy said He said, “Buddy, when you’re dead, you’re a dead pecker-head” I hope to prove him wrong… that is, when I get to heaven

‘Cause I’m gonna have a cocktail: vodka and ginger ale Yeah I’m gonna smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl Yeah this old man is goin’ to town Yeah this old man is goin’ to town