I came to him kind of late. I was in a strange place, flipping around the dial in my car radio, trying to find the local jazz station, and I found him. Whiskey voiced, raspy, sounded a little like the Cookie Monster, and I stayed to the end of the tune to get his name. This is the song I heard. It’s called “Souvenirs.”
Here’s a part of it.
Broken hearts and dirty windows
Make life difficult to see.
That’s why last night and this morning
always look the same to me.
….And I hate reading old love letters
for they always bring me tears.
I can’t forget the way they robbed me,
of my sweetheart’s souvenirs.
That was about 25 years ago, when I first heard John Prine. Maybe the reason he’s not exactly a household name, (in most households) is he’s impossible to categorize. After over 45 years, folks have almost given up trying. He’s not a Dylan wannabe or someone who wants to sound like Arlo Guthrie. He’s not a lyric writer who wants to be Tom Lehrer. He sounds like no one else, except John Prine and you can find the evidence right here. He wrote this during the Vietnam War.
But your flag decal won’t get you
Into Heaven any more.
They’re already overcrowded
From your dirty little war.
Now Jesus don’t like killin’
No matter what the reason’s for,
And your flag decal won’t get you
Into Heaven any more.
Prine got some people buzzing in 1971 with his debut album, appropriately titled “John Prine.” “Twenty-four years old and he writes like he’s two-hundred and twenty,” Kristofferson wrote in the liner notes. How does a 24-year-old kid come up with lyrics like: “Ya know, that old trees just grow stronger/And old rivers grow wilder every day/Old people just grow lonesome/Waiting for someone to say/Hello in there/Hello.”
“If God’s got a favorite songwriter, I think it’s John Prine.” —Kris Kristofferson.
He’s a mass of contradictions. He’s from Chicago and he’s got a twang. (Not even from the south side.) Somebody described him as country-folk filtered through electro-acoustic rock. That’s probably as good a description as you’ll find, and for those who are organizing your music, you now know where to slot him.
You know you don’t hear too many decent organ donor songs, and with “Please Don’t Bury me,” I’d have to put this up there at the top of the list.
Please don’t bury me
Down in that cold cold ground
No, Id druther have em cut me up
And pass me all around
Throw my brain in a hurricane
And the blind can have my eyes
And the deaf can take both of my ears
If they don’t mind the size
And just when you think he’s completely demented, you hear a love song about a mismatched couple that makes you say to yourself, “How could he know?”
In spite of ourselves
We’ll end up a’sittin’ on a rainbow
Against all odds
Honey, we’re the big door prize
We’re gonna spite our noses
The great ones are storytellers. You don’t just listen to the words. You feel them. And those words have a way of hanging on. No matter how hard you try to push them out of your mind.
Who creeps into your brain around three in the morning?