It’s
been nine years since John Prine – Grammy-winner, former mailman, iconic
American songwriter, chronic dreamer, child of the Midwest, grandchild of
Appalachia – made a record. And in that time, the man whose given us “Sam
Stone,” “Speed of the Sound of Loneliness,” “Hello In There,” “Blow Up
Your TV,” “Unwed Fathers,” “Ain’t Hurtin’ Nobody,” “Angel From
Montgomery,” “Souvenirs,” “Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven
Anymore” and “The Great Compromise” made a full-immersion commitment to
living that precluded the watching-the-clock school of record
making.
“I can’t believe it,” says the gruff-voiced songwriter with that low
rumbling laugh. “Everything’s just been flowing… Days roll into each
other… You’re writing songs… You’re thinking you’re making a record… Then
you’re not sure the songs are really talking to each other. When you’re
not paying attention to how long it’s been – and you’re on the road,
raising your family, just being in your life – suddenly, it’s nine years!
Who
knew?”
Still listening to Fair & Square, it’s obvious that whatever the ever
humble musician was doing, it was time well-spent. Not only has he grown
more comfortable in his skin, many of the facets that’ve always marked his
writing – the open-armed humanity, the gentle compassion, the willingness
to shine a light on ordinary tableau – has deepened. There’s a sweetness
to songs like the frolicking “Glory of True Love,” the fond “My Darlin’
Hometown” or the aching “The Moon Is
Down.”
“I just don’t care any more,” Prine says of his sentimental side. “I don’t
care how sentimental I am…In fact, I love it and I want to celebrate it,
because it’s the way I am. After all, it’s a real thing…I think if it’s
bad sentimentality, it probably isn’t a real thing, it’s just bad. But
sometimes, things that some people think are corny – like things that are
classics -- are real; they’re classic because they are. So why pretend
it’s something
else?”
Not that John Prine’s grown overly sentimental. He’s not only unearthed a
newfound sultriness on the pining’n’kindling “Long Monday,” the exultant
“She Is My Everything” and the purring “Morning Train,” his sense of the
moment remains strong. His always clear-eyed social commentary remains
every bit as lucid – and perhaps even more
incisive.
Whether it’s the straight-up jingoistic indictment of “Some Humans Ain’t
Human,” the allegorical “Taking A Walk” or the indictment of voyeuristic
culture “I Hate It When That Happens To Me,” the first songwriter to be
asked by the United States Poet Laureate to read at the Library of
Congress isn’t afraid to illuminate the inherent contradictions in the way
some of us walk through this world. With plain verbiage and gentle
melodies, these songs speak volumes about hypocrisy, greed and a reality
of abdicating living one’s own life for tabloid
tv..
“As far as being political, it’s a real, real strange climate right now,”
offers the man whose songs have polished small lives until they shine.
“There’s nothing at all going on – as much as there was during Viet Nam…
and even with all the demonstrations, it’s not as bad as now. There’s this
whole are you or are you not an American – and you’re not an American if
you don’t agree with politics in
office.
“It really felt like the people who spoke up with a dissenting opinion
were getting condemned, which was the most un-American thing…and it was
done in a real strange way. Though the thing I dislike even more than the
policies is that I can’t find any humor in this naturally… The more this
administration did, the less humor you could find in
it”
The politics that seeps into Prine’s song is just one facet of the journey
to Fair & Square. In addition marking Prine’s debut as a producer – a
job he shared with engineer Gary Paczoza, it also marks a new comfort to
the singing style of the craggy-voiced
troubadour.
And the culprit for this new found ease of performing is a rather unlikely
reality. Not some high-powered vocal coach or breakthrough technique, but
the cancer of Prine’s
neck.
“My voice dropped after the surgery for the cancer,” Prine allows. “I
don’t know if it was that, or the radiation. I’d never even heard of neck
cancer and I had to have radiation across the throat area to heal anything
touching where the cancer was… which was my vocal
chords.
“My voice dropped, so the first thing we had to do was change the key on a
lot of songs I’d been comfortable with – and they became totally brand
new. I’d never have bet that would happen; but it totally changed my
attitude about performing…it got really interesting
again
“You know, for better or worse, I’d never liked my voice much before. It
was a bit too twangy, and when I sang, I used to go up a register – and I
don’t even know why. In fact, I was getting real curious to get in the
studio to hear it ‘cause my singing was getting more and more comfortable,
so I was looking forward to recording to hear it under a magnifying
glass.”
The magnifying glass might be too strong a word for it, as Prine often had
moments of wondering about “the new producer.” Though he’s always had a
hand in the texture of his records from Aimless Love on, he’s never been
hands on – and this marked a challenge for the homey
writer.
“Sometimes I’d go home at night with the exact same feeling you have with
a new producer: You think you trust them, but then you work a few days and
you’re not getting any energy back – and you’re convinced it’s not
working. That’s the place where you wanna call’em up and say, ‘Hey, you’re
great, but it’s just not
happening…’
“We started this a couple times… I’d get a few songs in, then think it
wasn’t going anywhere. In the end, I think it was the guy singing them who
made it all fit. I didn’t hear it exactly ‘cause I was so close to it.
That’s what a ‘producer’ sees…The artist gets almost a cloud over it that
the producer can see
through.
“I could write the songs; I could sing the songs; I could produce the
songs – and still not hear what was going on with them. I figured out you
really have to sit down and listen. It’s what a lot of producers miss --
that listening part, because the songs will tell you everything, right
down to what to
do.”
With Prine’s natural sense of grace and humor, he committed himself to the
process – even when it meant sometimes calling players and asking for
things they’d already played. “Oh, yeah,” acknowledges the producer, “we’d
put up the tracks, then realize we’d already done that, which made you
know it was the right
call.
“I didn’t mind putting stuff on that I wanted to find out about… We’d
literally have people come in and I’d say, “Play from the beginning to the
end….’ Maybe we’d use some of it, all of it or realize that was the wrong
idea, but we’d figure it out.
“And I couldn’t have done that without Gary being there. Because we’d get
all those tracks up, and it became very clear what this monster was.
Because we’ve got it all there, and the tracks would start telling you
what to do. Gary’d start pulling stuff out – and this record
emerged.”
Fair & Square is certainly a jewel in the crown of John Prine’s
catalogue. Personal without being intrusive, sweet without being cloying,
aware without haranguing, it marks the very best work of a man whose songs
are strong enough to warrant the first invitation to a songwriter by the
Poet Laureate of the United States to read at the Library of
Congress.
It’s that reverence for humanity – and simplicity of intention – that has
made John Prine one of America’s most enduring songwriters. Not that the
chuckle-and-whatever artist with the twinkle in his eye would ever sit
still for that kind of
praise.
“I don’t know about any of it,” he demurs. “It’s like when people tell me
it’s been nine years since my last record – what was I doing? Well, you
know, time just kind of slips away… I can’t even believe it. Time’s just
flowing, and I’m not even sure where it went – me scooting through the
days, that turned into well, nine
years.
“I’ve been on the road. I’ve been with my family. I’ve been writing songs…
and I’ve been, uhm, producing a record. I guess it takes times to get all
these things right. Although,” he says, pausing for wry set-up, “I know
I’m not going for perfection – unless there’s such a thing as the perfect
mistake.”
In John Prine’s world, there are no mistakes, of course. Just the
perfection of moments seen, polished, worn with warm affection or golden
clarity. So it is that Fair & Square is here, finally, and certainly
worth the wait.
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