<< Back 11/20/02 Saving grace The man in black’s new CD showcases his ability to take songs from different genres and make them his own By Karl Rohr Johnny Cash probably doesn’t like fans like me. Count me among those who have written that such and such album could be his last, or that song is the voice of a man in pain, or those reports of his debilitating disease are true, blah, blah, blah. But let’s get that stuff out of the way now. The 70-year-old Cash is a sick man. His voice shows it. He has continued his work with rap and heavy metal producer Rick Rubin, who brought Cash in from the cold after Nashville abandoned him. His music since 1994 has been the best of his life and has included originals and stunning covers of songs written by Beck, Soundgarden, Tom Waits, Glenn Danzig, Leonard Cohen, Neil Diamond, Tom Petty and other artists who can craft lyrics worthy of the Man in Black persona. Oh yeah, and he has a new album. It’s one of his greatest ever. “American Recordings IV – The Man Comes Around,” might well be the best of the Rubin-produced projects. In terms of sheer boldness, it’s the most daring project of his career. The first American Recordings project, a concept album of sin and redemption, starkly showcased Cash’s ragged voice and simple acoustic guitar accompaniment. The next album, this time with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, rollicked and rocked hard in sharp contrast to “American Recordings III – Solitary Man,” a dark night of the soul that ended on too much of a downer to serve as Cash’s final address. “The Man Comes Around” is so encyclopedic that the first listen leaves the listener in awe. You’ve heard some of these songs before, but never dreamed that they could appear on a Johnny Cash album. But it isn’t just the various songwriters and guest musicians that amaze us. Instead of using a concept approach, this album, according to Cash himself, is 15 songs taking 15 different directions. But certain themes recur. Anyone who has followed Cash’s career knows that God has always been part of the Man in Black’s persona, either as a source of compassion for the downtrodden and the evil, or as the wrathful divine judge of the afterlife, leaving Cash to either praise God or tremble in fear at His name. In some of his songs, he simply disregards God entirely, boasting about some horrible crime. Other songs earnestly question at what point sin is overtaken by redemption. Cash is simultaneously the Prince of Darkness and Light. These songs may go 15 different directions, but many of them make a spiritual statement. The packaging features a close-up photo of Cash’s wrinkled hand bearing a ring containing the image of Christ on the cross. Another photo shows microphone stands on the altar of St. James’ Episcopal Church in Los Angeles. The two photos effectively convey the majesty of God and the humility of His Son. Maybe the inclusion of a photo of an Episcopal church suggests the Anglican inspiration for the album’s title track. I’ll have to let Cash explain it: “The initial idea for the song came from a dream I had seven years ago. I was in Nottingham, England, and had bought a book called, Dreaming of the Queen. The book talked about the great number of people in that country who dream that they are with the Queen Elizabeth II. I dreamed that I walked into Buckingham Palace, and there she sat, knitting or sewing. She had a basket of fabrics and lace. Another woman sat beside her, and they were talking and laughing. As I approached, the Queen looked up at me and said, ‘Johnny Cash! You’re like a thorn tree in a whirlwind.’” Cash found similar imagery about the whirlwind in the book of Job, and he uses the phrase, “thorn tree in a whirlwind,” in the song’s chorus. It’s wholly appropriate that Cash found personal inspiration in Job. Satan, one of God’s counselors, doubts Job’s piety and makes him suffer to test his faith. The lyrics of the song describe the Second Coming in which faith prevails, and everyone gets what they deserve. Cash’s raspy, gasping voice effectively recites scripture from Revelation 6 to open and close the song, ending with, “And I looked and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.” So what follows this upbeat apocalyptic vision? Why, a cover of a Nine Inch Nails song about a suicidal heroin addict, of course! Trent Reznor’s chilling junkie confession, “Hurt,” reminds us that Cash fought his own drug demons for much of his career: “I hurt myself today to see if I still feel/I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real/The needle tears a hole, the old familiar sting/Try to kill it all away, but I remember everything.” In sharp contrast to the heavenly kingdom inherited by true believers in the previous song, the main character in “Hurt” declares, “You can have it all, my empire of dirt.” This is a difficult song to listen to, but even more difficult to ignore. Cash sounds extremely convincing. The next song resurrects one of Cash’s Sun Records classics from 1957, but it’s not one of the clacking, train trestle rockabilly numbers. Cash sings “Give My Love to Rose” as somber and plaintive as he did 45 years ago, letting his dying ex-convict narrator explain to a stranger that he has simply been trying to get back home. We want to cry for the narrator and his family when he says, “Give my love to Rose, please won’t you, mister/Give her all my money, tell her to buy some new clothes/Tell my boy his daddy’s so proud of him/Now, don’t forget to give my love to Rose.” We need levity after those last two songs, and it comes in the form of a duet with Fiona Apple on “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Yes, I mean the 1970 Simon and Garfunkel anthem that attempted to lift the spirits of the Vietnam War generation, long before Apple was even a thought. We all love that song, but can you honestly say that Art Garfunkel sounds like he has just crossed troubled water? He sounds more like he has just crossed the studio floor to get another Perrier. This song belongs to Cash. He sings like he has crossed a troubled ocean, and is so thankful that he wants you to hear every word of his journey loud and clear. Apple’s harmonies add sweetness that soothes the wounds Cash sustained on the journey. Their version is a beautiful experience we don’t want to end. But don’t worry, another song you know falls into capable hands once again. John Lennon and Paul McCartney’s “In My Life” should be required listening at least once a month no matter who sings it, but Cash’s version lets the words speak for themselves, reminding us that this is one of the most intelligent declarations of “think globally, act locally” that has ever been written. When Cash chose this song, he must have been thinking about his departed friends and how he would be remembered on Earth when he finally joins them. Cash has a stunning ability to make absolutely any song his own. I’m not making this up: He actually covers Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus,” the same techno-pop dance hit that accompanied the sex as salvation video so visible on MTV in the early 1990s. Put the same lyrics into the same hypnotic instrumental hook, this time performed on acoustic guitar, and you’ve got Cash as the charismatic evangelist: “Feeling unknown and you’re all alone/ Flesh and bone by the telephone/Lift up the receiver, I’ll make you a believer.” The refrain of “reach out and touch faith” sounds sincere, but is this actually a song that describes the marketing of religion as a consumer product? You make the call. Cash has not confined his spirituality to churches and doctrines. Ewan MacColl’s “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” avoids the hushed, dreary tone of Roberta Flack’s 1969 version and lets June Carter Cash know that she is the one true love of his life. If you didn’t have hearing aids when you listened to Flack’s version, here is your chance to finally hear what a great love song this is. Cash’s wife and soulmate is the main focus of Cash’s liner notes: “I am persuaded that nothing can separate me from my love of my God, my wife and my music. Life is rich when I can come home, after hours in the studio, feeling as frayed as a hundred Big G strings, and curl up to June Carter. She’s a soft, fluffy Mama Bear. That’s when I give God a ‘Thanks a lot, Chief.’ Sometimes in the morning I’ll say ‘Good morning’ to the Awesome Presence, but sometimes I forget to.” Nice thoughts, but let’s not forget that this is a Johnny Cash album. That means that somewhere, sometime, we’re going to hear outlaw anthems. This album gives us five of them, but only one, “Sam Hall,” features an unrepentant character. It’s difficult to work up any sympathy for a murderer who looks up at the gallows and sneeringly declares, “A swingin’ I must go, while you critters down below/Yell up, ‘Sam I told you so,’ well, damn your eyes!” I listen to this song and recall a photo I saw of Cash onstage. With face pinched and mouth forming an “f” sound, he had thrust an extended middle finger in front of the camera lens. He later used it as a sarcastic full-page thank you to country music radio executives. Sting’s “I Hung My Head” describes a fatal shooting that may or may not have been accidental. The condemned killer is vague on the subject: “I felt the power of death over life/I orphaned his children, I widowed his wife/I begged their forgiveness, I wish I was dead/I hung my head, I hung my head.” Even Sting can write a song for Cash. Does this mean we can now call him, “Stang?” Unless you’re a masochist or a slave to classic rock radio, Don Henley and Glenn Frey’s “Desperado” should have permanently ridden off into the sunset in the 1970s. But here it is, and it sounds like a Cash song that the Eagles ripped off. Let’s face it. Who has more of a right to sing this – Cash or the blow-dried California dudes who wrote it? Freakin’ Johnny Cash, man, who can rightfully proclaim, “You’re a hard one, but I know that you got your reasons/These things that are pleasing you have hurt you somehow.” I won’t attempt any more predictions about Cash’s future. I want to believe he has another album in him. A cynic would say, “Yeah, with everybody else writing songs for him.” But Cash’s persona brings the songs to him. He doesn’t need to search for a hit. He only needs to send out his message. Those of us who receive it hear a reaffirmation of our fears and follies, a darkness large and lurid and a light of hope and eternity. Here’s until next time, Johnny. (Karl Rohr teaches history at Western Carolina University. He can be contacted at rohr@email.wcu.edu)