The Mud and the Blood and the Beer

Johnny Cash, one of the greatest artists of the past century, was born on this day in 1932 in Kingsland, Arkansas. A member of both the rock & roll and country music halls of fame, Cash, with his deep, rough voice and evocative blend of country, gospel, blues, and rockabilly, left an imprint on American music so deep and vast that it virtually beggars description.

He cut his first records in 1955—“Hey Porter,” “Cry! Cry! Cry!” “Folsom Prison Blues,” and others—for Sam Phillips’ Sun Records on 706 Union Avenue in Memphis, Tennessee, the same spot where Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Roy Orbison, as well as bluesmen like Howlin’ Wolf and B.B. King, got their start. His third Sun release, “I Walk the Line,” hit #1 on the country charts in 1956 and crossed over to the pop charts, where it cracked the Top Twenty.

In 1958 Cash left Sun for Columbia, where spent three decades. There were hits: “Ring of Fire,” written by Merle Kilgore and future wife June Carter, hit #1 on the country charts and #17 on the pop charts in 1963. A new version of “Folsom Prison Blues,” recorded live at Folsom Prison itself, peaked at #1 on the country charts in 1968. “A Boy Named Sue,” recorded live at San Quentin Prison, did the same in 1969, then crossed over to the pop charts, reaching #2. It would be the biggest hit of Cash’s career.

Eventually the hits stopped, as they always do. The country audience was turning towards the same sort of garbage you hear on country radio today. Cash was outcast from the very culture he helped build. Poor sales, bad reviews, mediocre records: times were hard. Then Cash hooked up with Rick Rubin. A native of Queens, New York, Rubin, who founded Def Jam records in 1984 with hip-hop impresario Russell Simmons, introduced the world to Public Enemy, LL Cool J, and the Beastie Boys (Rubin and Simmons also produced Run-DMC’s 1986 masterpiece Raisin’ Hell, the record that started it all for me). In 1988 Rubin formed his own label, Def American, now just American, where he released Danzig’s self-titled debut, Slayer’s Seasons in the Abyss, and Sir Mix-A-Lot’s Mack Daddy (featuring "Baby’s Got Back"!), among other notables.

“He came backstage,” Cash told writer Nick Tosches. “I asked him, ‘What would you want from me?’ He said, ‘I want the best Johnny Cash record that we can get out of you, whatever that is.’ I got to thinkin,’ I never have done my best. So we agreed…I’d bring in my guitar, and I’d just sit down in front of a microphone and just start singin’ and see what sounded good.”

The result, 1994’s American Recordings, is a stark, deeply moving collection that captures Cash about as well as anything he’s ever done (excepting only his extraordinary prison albums: 1968’s At Folsom Prison and 1969’s At San Quentin). There’s “Delia’s Gone,” a traditional country blues totally re-conceived by Cash as an unforgettable portrait of sadistic torture, murder, and supernatural terror; it’s simply magnificent. “Redemption,” a sparse and stunning profession of faith, is as openly and beautifully religious as anything I’ve heard. “Drive On,” a rugged first-person narrative voiced by a haunted Vietnam Vet, is the sort of gripping story-song that Cash has built his career with. There’s much more to recommend, particularly the brooding majesty of “Thirteen,” which was written for Cash by punk/metal icon Glenn Danzig, but you’re better off listening for yourself.

Three American releases followed, each containing a number of electrifying performances: 1996’s Unchained, 2000’s American III: Solitary Man, and 2002’s American IV: The Man Comes Around, before Johnny Cash died in September 2003.

The older I get, the more his music means to me, and the more I realize just how long a shadow he cast. Thus the great punk band Social Distortion, whose phenomenal version of “Ring of Fire” first introduced me to Cash, come into focus as the heirs to America’s glorious honky-tonk tradition. Then there’s Bob Dylan, who made his television debut in 1968 on The Johnny Cash Show (they performed “The Girl from the North Country,” their duet that appears on Dylan’s classic Nashville Skyline album). From the Dustbowl ballads of Woody Guthrie to the blue yodels of Jimmie Rodgers and the country blues of Blind Willie McTell, Dylan—like Cash—both draws from and expands upon the common roots of popular music. To put it another way, Johnny Cash’s songs are like a history lesson, revealing the hidden currents that shape American culture. I can’t really say enough about him, and I certainly can’t say anything good enough to do any justice, so I’ll stop trying.

Happy birthday, Johnny Cash.