I suppose I must have been introduced to John Prine when I was, approximately, no years old. I bet my Dad listened to him while I was in the womb. This might explain the condition in which I found myself upon the discovery his death: a useless pile of endless, boundless sadness.
What occurred to me, on the second day of grief, listening to “Clocks and Spoons,” was that I, for the duration of my silly life, had never even once connected John Prine’s music to anything but joy, safety and sweetness, perhaps sadness, but not grief. His music was an institution of safety and family, of humility and boundless love. I had sainted John Prine, in my mind. He could do no wrong.
But the funnier thing is, it doesn’t seem that he ever did. He lived up to my idealistic standards, he was an angel amongst us. He graced us all with his presence, his kindness, his humor, his humility, his lyrics and his stories. I could not be more sad. I have never experienced this type of sadness in regards to a human whom I have never met, my grief took me by complete surprise.
His music made us feel like we knew him. We DID know him. He exposed himself to us with every song. He was completely true. What a fucking miracle, what a truly miraculous human being.
And so, upon his death, I found myself conflicted. It wasn’t right, the way he died. Fuck this goddamn COVID-19 and its incubated nonsense. “John Prine deserved better,” I recall sobbing to my partner the night of his passing. I know he went to heaven. I don’t even know that I believe in heaven but, in this case, they made one just for him and his rock and roll band, his vodka and ginger ale and his nine-mile-long cigarette. We are all just great, awful candy bars, walking around in pairs of shoes, after all. Dead pecker-heads in waiting.
I first saw John Prine when I took my Dad to a concert in Washington, D.C., for my dad’s 50th birthday. I don’t recall much about that besides witnessing my father’s love for this silly, rather goofy looking fellow on stage with a guitar. I can’t have been more than 18 years old, then. Yeah, I did the math. I was 18.
Later, I went to Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park, California. That’s San Francisco, for those of us that have been social distancing for some time now. This festival was “free,” put on by some high and mighty equity investor, and it was packed. John Prine’s stage even more so. My friends and I muscled our way forward, halted by a chain-link fence to the right of front and center stage. The fence itself mustn’t have been more than 25 feet from the front of the stage, but it was 8-foot-high and chain link, with a tarp zip-tied along its length, seemingly to prevent us from seeing the stage, from watching the show. I am a sailor, and I always carry a knife, so I saw this zip-tied tarp as an opportunity, and I just took out my knife and cut those ties binding those upper realms of yonder tarp. Down she fell, like a disposed angel from heaven, and, wouldn’t you know, John Prine, the True angel himself, took notice. He was between songs and he saw that tarp fall, he saw me and all my dirty, hobo, musician/artist friends with a newly liberated view through the chain link fence and he said, through the microphone, to God and everybody,
“Well, that was a good idea!”
It was a wonderful show. He told the story about the Happy Enchiladas.
Listening to John Prine, the other night, I realized that I have never even ONCE connected grief to his music. His music made me cry, frequently. Fuck Sam Stone. He’s got no right to make me cry like that, you know? I’m just trying to mind my own business and listen to some tunes. But this is different. Now I am angry, and now I am grieving.
But, I can’t let his music be tainted, be taken from me. I just can’t. I must let his memory shine on into the distinctly uncertain future. I must let the memory of John and his boundless, humble, incredible love guide my shaking steps. I must! And so, I will. His memory is like a whisper, at the back of my actions, to be kind.
Thank you, John. Thank you so very very much. For sharing your gifts, your songs and your humility with all of us mortals. We will love you forever and beyond that.
Rest well
XOXOXO
Rebecca
aefintyr 