Rod Lyman's John Prine Tattoo
"She got a tattoo on the side of her chest ... god-damn, my thoughts are still hard." ~John Prine
Chief Rick were the two counselors for our group of ten kids. As we were cutting and chopping two cords of wood per day, building up our campsite and cleaning up the Appalachian trail they taught us two songs. One was called "Dear Abby" the other "Grandpa Was A Carpenter" don't recall if the name John Prine was mentioned, but I did know all the words to those songs long before I heard the originals. Some years passed and I raged my way through the DC, New York hardcore scene. Slam dancing, mohawks, makeup, clubbing and groupie girls. Later we dubbed it the "Barbazon school of rocking" (do you want to be a rock star, or just look like one) in 1995 I moved to a town in South Carolina with a population of 32. We reopened Grandpa's Old Country Store with tongue and groove everything, on premise beer sales, a minnow tank and a cricket cage. One day while browsing the bargain bin at Cat's Records I noticed a John Prine tape (the first one) on clearance for two dollars. I bought it, took it home and played it, over and over again. When the ends of the tape stretched and distorted the sound, I went and bought another one (Prime Prine) and played it over and over until the tape stretched. That was it.
I'd moved to the country and was building on our home. We ate a lot of peaches, and wel,l my ex was an Atheist . . . due to the impact these two tapes had on me I decided to explore other "country" music. Thankfully Johnny Cash was putting some new stuff out with producer Rick Rubin covering some Beck and some grunge and offered an opportunity to cross over with less pain involved. Punk was great as a kid, but for a guy who was driving a '68 Ford truck to and from work in the lumber mill, the country lyrics were speaking to me more personally. I got my hands on more John Prine. CD's now.
Another changeover. In the late '90's my brother sent me the pre-release for "In Spite Of Ourselves". That cd was played 3, 4, 5 times per day for months until I finally acquired tickets to see the man in person in Charleston SC. I shaved my head with a Bic razor for the event and wore an Armani suit out of respect (and reverence) for the man that completely changed my musical world. After Iris DeMent played an incredible starter set, I went out to the smoking section and was approached by a very hippy kind of hippy who offered to smoke some funny tobacco with me. By that time I had become a rare part time smoker, so it turned out to be a mistake accepting his offer (the first 20 minutes of the show was a blur until I finally came down enough to enjoy it.) The only reason I mention this is that it proves that a dreadlocked hippy and a bald Armani suit wearing "punk" can find each other and share and common bond through the music of John Prine, although he did beg to differ when I described the music as country ("it's FOLK, not country". whatever). The last 3/4 of my first country (no folk!) concert felt as if the heavens had opened up and rained love and laughter on my soul. I knew every word to every song. Lyrical genius, in my humble opinion.
Wow. John Prine is the king and I am just a humble servant. How could day two possibly beat this?
The next day we arrived in Phoenix at 1 pm. Way early, so we got coffee, and more coffee. At 3ish we met the friend who had the extra tickets. More coffee followed, then more. Before we found a spot to dine, we ran into Jason Wilber walking back to the hotel from sound check. Introductions were made, hands were shook, and he actually remembered me from the night before. After a dinner (and more coffee) of lobster pot pie and lobster mac and cheese, the box office opened and I was jaw droppingly thrilled to learn that we were to be in row two of the orchestra pit (out of two rows in the orchestra pit) "now here's the important part" I was told while being handed an "after show pass", nothing was guaranteed, yet I did carry a cd and a blue sharpie on the off chance that... close up is an amazing place to see John play. He exudes an aura of peace and serenity and humor and reality that is nearly unmatched by any other performer. The Phoenix show was nearly identical to the Tucson show, with a few changes thrown in to keep everyone on their feet.
Seems as if I fell in love with the music again that night. With the exception of a couple sound problems it was a spectacular show. When the house lights came on we peeled the backing off the cloth after show passes and tried to figure out exactly where that was. Soon we wound up in the back stage hallways and talked with Jason and Dave, complimenting the show, just generally shooting the breeze. We went out to the lobby and my friend asked if I was ready to go, but I want to shake John Prine's hand if not get him to sign me. Well, somehow we ended up in Jason's dressing room where a handful of other people were already gathered. We all talked some more, when at long last, John Prine entered the room, not to sound like a little girl, but my heart skipped a beat, or two. I picked up my pen and asked Jason what he thought the reaction to my request might be. He held up his hands and said "You're on your own with this one.
"I'm not shy, so I jumped forward eagerly shook his hand, and babbled "12 years ago you turned this old punk country, I wore out your tapes, will you sign my chest so I can get it tattooed on me? I'll put it up on the shrine..." I don't think I allowed him a word in edgewise, but he just smiled and nodded OK, so I whipped my shirt off, handed him the sharpie, fumbled the camera to Dave Jacques, said "take a picture" and puffed out my chest for the autograph. Very carefully, avoiding my other tattoos, he signed me. Dave snapped two pictures. My brain very nearly exploded at that moment. What a thrill. After a few more minutes that I recall nothing about, I realized that I was the only one in the room shirtless, so I pulled it back on as I was beckoned out of the room. I should have been exhausted, but instead I was energized with a Prine rush that made the 100 mile drive home seem like a walk across the street. Got home at three am, got to sleep at 4, awakened at 10 and called my tattoo artist. "Did you actually get it?" he asked. "Yes!" So he opened the shop up on a Sunday especially for me and tattooed the John Prine autograph on me, so that my memories will not be the only part of that night that will last forever.
Somebody else got their chest tattooed?
Yeah, what kind of idiot would tattoo his chest anyway?
I'm the idiot that had John Prine sign his chest a week and a half ago. Tattooing it is the only way to keep it forever.
It is cool, but i just keep remembering how starstruck and fumbling my words to him...
He did change my entire musical perspective.
My tattoo artist has known me for years. He knew the (John Prine) name.
What was funny is that he asked me while I was getting my tattoo if I "had lost my ever loving mind"