Warren Zevon looked like he knew something you wouldn't want to know. There were reasons for that. Warren may not have been the original sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll boy, but if he didn't write the book, he surely edited it for a new edition.In the course of living the life, he produced the work to back it up. Sure, I knew Werewolves, but I learned Warren just like most of America (outside Southern California) after David Letterman introduced us. Warren filled in for Paul Shaffer on the High Holy Days, and any other time he was needed. And he played his music, his wonderful, wonderful music. Another godawful crime committed in the community? Awww, he's just an Excitable Boy according to the neighbors. Think boxing is all art? Listen to Boom Boom Mancini. Tired of hearing all that crap about potential? Try Genius. And talk about real life love songs? Get Mutineer, Reconsider Me, Searching for a Heart or Keep Me in Your Heart. Want the even darker side of Hotel California? Go into a room by yourself and play Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me; just make sure it isn't the abominable Ronstadt mutilation.
Warren was just plain noble following his terminal diagnosis (he had mesothelioma-the asbestos cancer; even his illness was bizarre). His appearance on Letterman's program in October, 2002, was designed as a public farewell of sorts. He lasted almost another year, and produced a final album that is as powerful and poignant as anything you'll ever listen to. Dave tells a story about that night in the current edition of Rolling Stone. After Warren had shared his now epic advice to "Enjoy every sandwich" and thanked Letterman for being the "best friend my music's ever had" the long-time friends visited after the show. As they talked, Warren stowed his guitar in its case. As he closed the snaps, he handed the case to Dave, and told him to take good care of it. The legendary wiseass was reduced to sobs.
So was I when Warren died on September 7, 2003. So am I each year when I lift a glass in his memory.
Johnny Cash looked like he knew something he wished he didn't know. There were reasons for that, too. Cash made as many runs up to the abyss as anyone who ever lived, and he lived to tell the tale every time until September 12, 2003, five days after Zevon left us. Johnny didn't sing as much as he rumbled. He had this BIG baritone voice that seemed to come from somewhere down around the earth's core. He was the voice of apocalypse, the voice of doom, the voice of a prophet.
He started in the Cradle of the Immortals, Sam Phillips' Memphis Recording Service, soon to be known as Sun Records. Elvis, Jerry Lee, Carl Perkins, Charlie Rich, Howlin' Wolf, and Cash, among many others; not bad company for schooling. Fresh out of Arkansas, Mr. Sam got him, as only Sam could, and made him a star.
Johnny Cash knew from early on that life sucks and then you die. He knew it from childhood (inflicted on him) and adulthood (self-inflicted). But he also had hope of redemption, as learned through the eternal grace of love that came into his life through June Carter. Johnny kicked against the goads all his life. He kicked out of anger before June; he acted out of expectation once she entered his life. He sang and fought for the downtrodden, whether prisoner, minority or radical. The authorities at San Quentin told him he couldn't perform Folsom Prison Blues due to the line about having "shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die." Don't want to rile the inmates, don't you know. Maybe that's why he seems to almost scream those words on the recording of the concert. Debuting his short-lived Johnny Cash Show on ABC, he wanted Bob Dylan on the premiere. The network shrieked that he would lose his audience if he had one of those anti-war anarchists on the show. Dylan performed. That was Cash.
Eventually Cash, like Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard (championed from his prison time by Cash), couldn't find a recording contract in Nashville. Country Music without Cash, Nelson and Haggard is pretty much the best definition (next to Dubyer) of "All Hat and No Cattle." So in typical Cash fashion, he went to work with Hip Hop Entrepreneur Extraordinaire Rick Rubin, and produced some of the most powerful, most American music (no pun intended) of his career. Hunt up those last albums. They are gold, and I don't measure by units sold. Most everyone knows the gut-wrenching take on Trent Reznor's Hurt that became a sort of valedictory for Johnny's career. The sound recording was devastating. The video (which, all by itself, made the medium acceptable), featuring June but released only after her death, as Johnny moved through the closed House of Cash museum, intercut with images from younger, and much happier days, proclaimed, again, the apocalypse: "I got old and you will, too" the old prophet boomed out. "I should have done better" said the voice of experience. "Don't throw your time away!"
Johnny Cash was America. That's why I got my first taste of a Cash concert. He was chosen to headline the show on July 4, 1976, beneath the Washington Monument on the Mall in our nation's capitol. Then Vice President Nelson Rockefeller ran on at length about something or other, and then this figure took the stage, almost invisible in his black mourning coat, black shirt, black pants and black shoes and thundered "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash!" Before, I had known who he was. That night, I learned what he meant.
He still means that much to me. And to everyone else that knows about life's shit. And believes in the possibility of redemption. Well done, good and faithful servant! I'm certain that you've entered into the joy of your master. But, brother, would I be grateful to have heard you sing about where our country is now, and how much better we should be doing!
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