“That’s golden!” John Prine exclaims, after the last strains of a guitar chord fade away on the last (bonus) track on his latest album, Fair & Square. Those two words sum up the whole album.
Prine is an absolute treasure of American music, and Fair & Square gives his many fans great cause to celebrate that he’s still with us. After surviving a cancer scare and throat surgery, he had to re-learn how to sing in a lower register. He could undoubtedly continue to tour to packed houses on the strength of an extensive catalog of fine songs spanning more than 30 years, but thankfully he’s not content to do that. No, John Prine is still writing down his wryly sentimental, three-chord songs about human foibles and quirks, and singing them in his endearing way.
If you’re not familiar with Mr. Prine, you may wonder what kind of music this is that he makes. Well, he’s one of those who’s hard to classify. Contemporary folk, definitely; a shade of country, especially in instrumentation; a bit of rock ‘n’ roll attitude; sometimes some blues, talking or otherwise; and the occasional topical protest song; all anchored by his percussively fingerpicked acoustic guitar. Nothing fancy, but a winning combination all the same.
When he first came on the scene, he was one of a succession of young singer-songwriters dubbed “the next Dylan.” It was a silly comparison, but in one way Prine has turned out to be remarkably like Bob Dylan. Although his voice could only charitably be described as limited, he has used it as an instrument with uncanny ability, turning its limitations into strengths. He conveys a full range of emotions, from sadness to joy, amusement to anger, with small adjustments of his gravelly vocal cords.
Fair & Square is right up there with anything John Prine has ever done, including his classic 1971 self-titled debut, and his 1989 comeback (one of several) The Missing Years. What a wonderful collection of songs. All but two are written or co-written by Prine; his collaborators include some long-time compadres such as Keith Sykes, Donnie Fritts, Roger Cook and particularly Pat McLaughlin, who also contributes his talents on guitars, keyboards and backing vocals.
The songs are prime Prine. Featuring strongly are tales of lovable losers like the guy in “Long Monday,” “sittin’ all alone on a mountain / by a river that has no end” pining over a lost love; or the fellow in “I Hate It When That Happens To Me,” who gets arrested for climbing a tree naked because his girl left him; or the codger who has learned to take a little mental vacation to the “Other Side of Town” when his wife starts criticizing him.
Prine also tosses in a couple of besotted love songs, including “She Is My Everything,” dedicated to that special woman: “You can always find her / standing right beside me / in the rain”; and “Glory of True Love”: “I got some friends in Albuquerque / Where the governor calls me ‘Gov’ / You can give ’em all to Goodwill / For the glory of true love.”
Another Prine specialty is the song about common everyday folks baffled by the wierdness of everyday life, like the fellow in “Taking a Walk” and the one who doesn’t know how he got so lucky with his lover, who puts him on the “Morning Train.” Particularly poignant is “The Moon Is Down,” a lament over the end of a love affair: “The stars in the skies / fell out of her eyes / they shattered / when they hit the ground / and now the moon is down.” “My Darlin’ Hometown” is the sort of homesick lament you find in Irish folk music, with beautiful accompaniment by Alison Krauss and members of Union Station, Jerry Douglas and Dan Tyminski.
Social commentary comes in unexpected places. In “Crazy As a Loon” Prine’s character sings about his troubles as he moves from one American city to another — Hollywood, Nashville, New York — only to find that they all make him crazy in some way. “Some Humans Ain’t Human” starts off as a more or less typical Prine “mean people suck” rant about ornery folks, full of non-sequiturs like the chorus of “Jealousy and stupidity / Don’t equal harmony.” But then in the penultimate, spoken, verse, he turns his sights on “some cowboy from Texas (who) starts his own war in Iraq.”
The album has a couple of “bonus” tracks (bringing the total to 14), including the aforementioned “Other Side of Town,” performed live at Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium in November ’04, and a live in-studio effort called “Safety Joe,” about a guy who won’t take any emotional risks. Prine and his three collaborators, who sing the response lines in the chorus, have quite a hard time holding in the laughter at Prine’s absurd lyrics.
One of the covers is the superb uptempo rendition of A. P. Carter’s “Bear Creek Blues.” The other is my favorite performance on the album, a spot-on rendition of a poignant song called “Clay Pigeons” by the late Blaze Foley, a hard-living former Austin singer-songwriter. It’s a song of four verses with chorus in between, from the point of view of a man who’s determined to get his life back on track. The lyrics in each verse end on an un-resolved note, so you know his emotional resolve could crumble at any minute: “I could build me a castle with memories / Just to have somewhere to go / Count the days and the nights / That it takes to get back in the saddle again…”
Production is beautiful and unobtrusive. A solid outfit backs Prine instrumentally, especially the aforementioned McLaughlin, Jason Wilber on guitars and Phil Parlapiano on keys. Hot new alt-country starlet Mindy Smith provides some sweet vocal harmonies. About the only mis-step is the Owen Bradley-like chorus on “Taking a Walk.” This is about as likeable an album as has come down the pike this year.
(Oh Boy, 2005)
