Introduction

Johnny Cash – the man, the artist, the legend – might be the ultimate paradox, a barrel of incongruities that seems to be driven by unsolvable conflicts that always set him apart from the flock, who never entirely dismissed him. Like so many of his songs’ protagonists, Cash is the perpetual bystander, the loner at the outer rims of the terrain. While Cash himself undoubtedly contributed to the saga and fired an endless series of rumours and near-myths (“He’s a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction” said Kris Kristofferson), his life and work are enriched by the tension between a few irreconcilabilities.

With his black attire, commanding baritone and fascination with sinners, losers, loners, and other assorted misfits, the Man in Black introduces himself as a world-weary pariah, a singer of songs depending solely on himself and his gift. On the other hand, Cash is a family man, a full-fledged patriarch, a magnet who attracted people like stray dogs attract fleas. He had four daughters with his first wife, Vivian Liberto – whom he married in 1954 and divorced in 1966 – and one son with his second wife June Carter Cash, who brought two children along from a former marriage. Directly related to this opposition, is the eternal duality of sin and salvation, a tension that also would trouble several of his contemporaries who’d been raised on Southern food and the bible and reverted to the perverted world of rock ‘n’ roll (Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis Presley). Influenced by his mother’s hymns (material he’d revisit at the very end of his life and recording career) and the gospel songs he heard and sang in church (he often recounted the music was the only reason why he liked going to church), Cash was determined to give his own interpretation of the creed of Jesus Christ. Unfortunately, Sam Phillips of Sun Records wasn’t interested, because he didn’t think it would be commercially viable, and only after a transfer to Columbia in 1958, Cash was given the opportunity to record an entirely non-secular album (Hymns, 1959). The image he seemed to be looking for, on the other hand, seemed to hold an entirely different promise: already in the first stages of his career, Cash sang about an unrepentant murderer who “shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die” (“Folsom Prison Blues”), with a big portion of his catalogue being dedicated to murderers, stalkers and other heathens. Throughout his career, Cash’s out-of-step reputation would leave people (both admirers and opponents) at a loss, while at the same time becoming irresistibly intriguing. As Steve Earle writes in the liner notes to the reissue of At Folsom Prison:

And the sinning didn’t stop at the fictitious world: already during his stay at Sun, Cash had developed an addiction to pills and amphetamines that wouldn’t end for an entire decade. Coupled to gruelling touring schedules, it often turned him into a nasty troublemaker, a hotel room trashing rebel rouser and, worst of all, a lousy father and husband. His creativity didn’t diminish throughout the sixties – if anything, his conceptual albums were innovations that rubbed the conservative country world and its headquarters Nashville the wrong way – but his private life increasingly turned into a disaster that culminated in a year long drug party with Waylon Jennings and a near fatal overdose that made his wife file for divorce in 1966. Luckily, he found comfort in the arms of June Carter, who helped him kick his habit, converted him to fundamentalist Christianity and prepared him for the comeback of the late ‘60’s with the prison albums and his own successful TV-show.

Similarly complex is the position of Cash as both a patriot and a protester, and connected to that, the clash between what was considered “appropriate” country music and the less conservative alternative (whatever it was – you couldn’t get more conservative than country music). As a kid from Arkansas, he’d worked on the cotton fields, where he’d absorbed an oral tradition like sponge sucks up water and where he’d developed a love for nature and country (which would culminate into Songs of Our Soil). However, the work was hard and Cash went to the army “for lack of a better way out of the cotton fields.” Pretty harmless patriotism, indeed, but later efforts like America and Ragged Old Flag offered a more conservative view, getting an extra dimension when the title track of the latter was reissued in 1989 as a result of the Supreme Court’s flag-burning rule, and the song became an anthem for patriots ranging from moderate to the extremely right-wing nobody wants to be associated with. Opposed to the proud American (one who actually enjoyed dining with Ronald Reagan and George Bush, Sr.), however, there was also the protester. Already in 1959, Cash started writing and recording protest songs and he gradually became a spokesperson for the poor, the maltreated and minorities. Bitter Tears (1964), subtitled Ballads of the American Indian, contained Pete LaFarge’s “Ballad of Ira Hayes” (a commie song!), and Cash appeared at the ’64 Newport folk festival (anti-patriotic music!), where he met Bob Dylan for the first time. Inspired by the young dissenter’s vision, he set out to record several of Dylan’s songs, an act that probably was pretty decisive in Dylan’s eventual exploration of country music on Nashville Skyline, al album to which Cash contributed. He had never been the most traditional of country musicians, with his love for gospel, rockabilly, folk ballads and – occasionally – blues elements, but during the emotional and political turmoil of the ‘60’s, Cash laid the foundations for his transcending of generation and genre barriers. The simple “boom-chicka-boom”, the echo of the train rhythm, was always kept intact, but every so often put aside for interesting crossovers. It’s this exploration of genres, combination of favorite themes (an aptly named box set – Love, God, Murder - makes it pretty obvious what the man’s main topics were) and unique identity that gave Cash the reputation he still has today.

It’s hard to estimate the reach of Cash’s legacy, but I think it’s not far-fetched to claim that even the major individuals of country, folk and rock have been influenced by him. From Dylan to Waylon Jennings, from Springsteen and Steve Earle to Nick Cave (who shares more than just a favorite color with Cash), the list of artists that paid their dues is endless. The stats list is equally enormous: 1,500 songs, more than 50 million records sold, a recording career that spans six decades, 11 Grammies, more hits in the country charts than any other artist and placing at least 2 songs in those same charts for 38 consecutive years. Obviously, stats don’t even come close to the power of the music. In 1994, Cash’s career was given a commercial and – more importantly – a creative boost when he recorded his first true solo album (he’d never played unaccompanied before) with the aid of Rick Rubin, a hip producer of mostly rap and heavy metal albums who thought he could revive the country veteran’s career:

Rubin did so by having him return to the very basics of the artist’s craft, by having Cash sit down in front of a microphone and telling him to give it his best shot, just like Phillips did four decades earlier. Offering combinations of originals and well-picked covers by mostly rock acts, the four American-albums once confirmed the artist’s stature as a monumental singer and interpreter. I’m pretty sure that even without those albums and the posthumously released box set Unearthed, Cash could’ve been regarded as a major artist by the gargantuan size and impressive diversity of his output, but Rubin succeeded in highlighting the most timeless elements of the class act who, above all, enjoyed the simple pleasure of playing songs. As the elderly man sings during one of the songs on the box set:

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The Very Best of the Sun Years (2001)

9

I Walk the Line / Rock Island Line / Hey Porter / New Mexico / Straight A’s in Love / Cry, Cry, Cry / I Heard That Lonesome Whistle Blow / Get Rhythm / Guess Things Happen That Way / Fool’s Hall of Fame / Folsom Prison Blues / Wreck of the Old ’97 / Next in Line / Don’t Make Me Go / Home of the Blues / Give My Love to Rose / Wide Open Road / Ballad of a Teenage Queen / Luther Played the Boogie / Big River / I Forgot to Remember to Forget / Katy Too / So Doggone Lonesome / I Couldn’t Keep from Crying / There You Go / Thanks a Lot / The Ways of a Woman in Love / Train of Love / I Just Thought You’d Like to Know / Goodnight Irene

To my knowledge, Johnny Cash only recorded about five dozen songs at Sam Phillips’ studio on Union Avenue, so it’s pretty baffling there’s not one box set that gathers all the material (correct me if I’m wrong). There are, however, several compilations and greatest hits packages that do a good job of giving you an idea of this small, but legendary legacy. While some of the compilations focus exclusively on the singles (usually A-sides and B-sides), others, like this one, try to combine two approaches. It contains all the singles that Cash recorded while he was under contract at Sun, adds most of the B-sides (often essential and charting songs in their own right), as well as essential stuff from his album Johnny Cash with His Hot & Blue Guitar (actually the first long-player Sun released, in 1957) like his countrified take on folk classic “Wreck of the Old ‘97” and the hasty, hyper rockabilly of “Rock Island Line.” On top of that, it also includes a few songs that were released after Cash had already moved to Columbia (“Katy Too,” “Luther Played the Boogie,” “Guess Things Happen That Way,” etc). In the light of Elvis’ increasing popularity in 1954-’55 it’s quite understandable why Philips wouldn’t let Cash record gospel, even though this guy, raised on cotton field hymns and church songs had already played a gospel-flavoured repertoire for a while in the early fifties, when he hooked up with Luther Perkins (lead guitar) and Marshall Grant (upright bass slapping).

Hearing these cuts nearly five decades after they were recorded, the most striking aspect about ‘em is their sheer simplicity. Successful country music that made an impact before Cash’s arrival (The Carter Family, Hank Williams, etc) never indulged in far-fetched complexity either, but these minimalist songs are completely devoid of excess fat. Based on the tight acoustic strumming that tried to mimic percussion, the stark twang of Perkins’ electric guitar and Grant’s bass, it tried to capture the hypnotic train rhythm, but the fact that they simply weren’t capable of playing more complicated material might make a more convincing case. The trademark “boom-chicka-boom”-rhythm and new approach would remain typical of Cash’s entire country output and it would influence entire generations of musicians, most obviously the Outlaw country movement (Waylon Jennings, Kris Kristofferson, Guy Clark, etc) during the next two decades. An outstanding example of this style, and one of Cash’s earliest songs was “Folsom Prison Blues,” a bleak tale about an unrepentant sinner, who gets his punishment each time he hears a train passing and realizes he “can’t keep movin’ on”. The classic prison song introduced an uncompromising crudeness that was hereto unheard in country music, and while it’s a gross exaggeration that the majority of his songs deal with mindless killers and madmen, there’s often a darkness beneath the surface that adds a slightly sinister tone to the music. “I Walk the Line,” still considered the man’s signature song, is nothing but a song about love and faithfulness on the surface, but the protagonist’s determination is just a bit too strong to pass unnoticed:

As sure as night is dark and day is light
I keep you on my mind both day and night
And happiness I’ve known proves that it’s right
Because you’re mine, I walk the line

You’ve got a way to keep me on your side
You give me cause for love that I can’t hide
For you I know I’d even try to turn the tide
Because you’re mine, I walk the line

It’s precisely this tension between healthy commitment and flat-out obsession that would be taken to a morbid extreme by someone like Johnny Dowd, four decades later. Coupled to the song’s trance-like rhythm and peculiar chord changes, the tone of the song results in an uncomfortable vibe that infests so many of his songs. The fragment above also serves to prove that his lyrics, like the music that propels it, is usually simple. Despite being a well-read person and, at later stages in life, being considered a biblical scholar, Cash knew that unadorned imagery and clear contrasts would be most efficient. By consequence, several of the songs on this compilation sound quite similar in style, subject matter and approach. “Cry, Cry, Cry,” actually the first single Cash recorded (and it took ‘em 35 takes to nail it down), was an obvious rewrite of “Folsom Prison Blues,” the result of a stylistic limitation. On the positive side it implies that the material was very consistent … if this is your thing. “Hey Porter,” B-side to “Cry, Cry, Cry” also became a success, while they could also afford themselves the luxury of releasing “Get Rhythm,” a terrific piece of countrybilly and one of his most energetic performances in these formative years, as a B-side to “I Walk the Line.” Throughout his tenure at Sun, the humble approach of Cash and The Tennessee Two (as Perkins and Grant were often referred to) never really changed, as the material went from good-natured countrified rockabilly (“Straight A’s in Love,” the bluesier “Fool’s Hall of Fame,” a decidedly more ‘pop’ “Home of the Blues”), country ballads (Hank Williams’ yodelling tearjerker “I Hear That Lonesome Whistle Blow,” “Give My Love to Rose,” a song that Springsteen would record as well), and a few songs that hesitantly try to meet the audience’s expectations.

How else could you explain the surprising backing vocals (that soprano in there is surreal!), corny lyrics (centring around the “boy next door who worked at the candy store”) and careless atmosphere of “Ballad of a Teenage Queen”? While there’s simply not enough space here to discuss all of these songs in detail, there’s so much to discover, like the piano-driven country-boogie of “I Guess Things Happen That Way,” (a song that clearly betrays a doo-wop influence), and the sturdy “Big River” that gets its main charm from those acoustic power chords (allegedly an idea suggested by Philips, with his assistant Jack Clement executing it) that top it off. If country ain’t your thing, you probably better steer clear of this compilation, but if you’re interested in the often unjustly maligned genre, you’ll quickly realize that Cash’s influence is immeasurable. He not only introduced a new style and approach, but further “refined” some of the genre’s main themes. However, it’s not only the “groundbreaking”-aspect that makes this stuff interesting: the songs are for the most part top-notch (if sometimes monotonous after an hour of listening), the performances enchantingly uncomplicated and it’s a blast to hear how Cash sounded already completely in command during his first years as a recording artist. Thirty songs about sins & redemption, love & adultery, heartbreak & train whistles (more about those later on), thirty songs carried by one of the most recognizable voices in 20th century music, thirty songs to satisfy the cowboy noir in you. What are you waitin’ for, boy?

The Million Dollar Quartet at the Sun Studio on Dec. 4th, 1956:
(L-R) Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, Elvis Presley (seated), Johnny Cash.

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The Fabulous Johnny Cash (1958)

7

Run Softly, Blue River / Frankie’s Man, Johnny / That’s All Over / The Troubadour / One More Ride / That’s Enough / I Still Miss Someone / Don’t Take Your Guns to Town / I’d Rather Die Young / Pickin’ Time / Shepherd of My Heart / Suppertime

Cash’s transfer from Sun to Columbia didn’t cause a major stylistic shift (if you’re not acquainted with Cash’s early recordings, you probably won’t be able to tell ‘em apart), but repeated listens do reveal that of the darker atmosphere and themes of the early singles has been replaced by a less ‘offensive’ or ‘friendly’ tone. Cash’s way of singing didn’t change that much (that baritone would remain striking during his entire career – even when the end was nearing and his voice started to imitate his body’s breakdown), nor did the backing of the Tennessee Two alter, as most of these cuts continue the railroad rhythm he picked up a few years earlier. It’s mainly the material that’s changed. This is not surprising, given the fact that Cash wanted to evolve into a more spiritual direction – which Columbia allowed him to follow, just check out the next album - but it also seems that the non-religious songs are usually a bit more good-hearted, homely and nostalgic, sometimes to the point of becoming silly. Even though Cash was still very much a hardcore country man in 1958, the pop touches are apparent, from the inclusion of backing vocals (courtesy of The Jordanaires, who backed Elvis for a while), a wider variety of styles (gospel-styled stuff, a ballad, market-oriented country) and a slightly brighter production.

A song like the self-penned “Run Softly, Blue River” would’ve fit nicely on the Sun-compilation above, but no one’s gonna convince me that stuff like “Suppertime” would’ve. That’s not to say I don’t like the stuff, because I really do, but it does display a certain schmalziness you perhaps wouldn’t expect on the basis of the American-releases. On most of his subsequent releases, Cash would include several of these nostalgic miniatures that pay tribute to a good, honest living, respect for one’s parents, nature and the whole of being. Most of those are an integral part of Cash’s down-to-earth spirituality, but once in a while you’ll expect a Doris Day-type of girl add her two charming cents. Anyway, The Fabulous Johnny Cash (what a title!) contains a handful of excellent ‘50’s songs: “Frankie’s Man, Johnny” (about a girl and her “long-legged, guitar pickin’ man” who tries to two-time her but falls into the trap of his sister-in-law who was checking up on him) is a funny tale stressing the album’s ‘lighter” side, as are the jocular “Pickin’ Time” and the rather silly gospel-tinged “The Troubadour.” As is so often the case, Cash is at his best when he tackles the less bright side of life: “I Still Miss Someone” is a pretty ballad about loneliness, while the foreboding, climax-directed “Don’t Take Your Guns to Town” is a foreboding, enduring song that Cash would often return to. The remainder of the album is less stellar, but it’s so hard to dislike these songs: “That’s Enough” is a spirited appetizer for the religious themes of the next album, “I’d Rather Die Young” a slow, endearing waltz and “One More Ride” another number in the endless list of railroad songs, with particularly cool backing vocals that – along with the tic-tac rhythm does a fine job at enhancing that imagery. The Fabulous Johnny Cash certainly doesn’t capture him at a peak, but it’s not a letdown either, as from today’s perspective, it comes off as a key album, a transitional effort that hints at the various impulses Cash would pursue during the next decade or so: religious hymns, hardcore country, homely ditties and other pastoral songs. The only thing that was missing were the political/cultural/social concerns that would eventually inspire him to record a few concept albums, but hey, this is 1958, why waste time on such commie babble in an age of superficial perfection, hopefulness and increasing prosperity?

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Hymns by Johnny Cash (1959)

7

It Was Jesus / I Saw a Man / Are All the Children in / The Old Account / Lead Me Gently Home / Swing Low, Sweet Chariot / Snow in His Hair / Lead Me Father / I Call Him / These Things Shall Pass / He’ll Be a Friend / God Will

As a devoted Christian who’d sung gospel songs during his entire life, Cash insisted Sam Phillips let him record such songs, but the producer sternly refused: “To record sacred music by a new country singer like me – and some of it original music, songs I’d written myself, that nobody heard – was something he just couldn’t do. That didn’t sit well with me, and when I started thinking in terms of other hard-sell music – the ideas that led eventually to my Ride This Train album – I got more restless still.” (from Cash – The Autobiography) The artistic freedom he craved so much, was finally granted by Columbia, who’d let him record gospel and would give him a shot with the concept albums he had in mind as well. Ten of out twelve songs on Hymns were recorded in January of 1959, but he’d already laid down “It Was Jesus” in the summer of 1958 “before the ink dried on his new contract.” Despite the religious nature of the songs, Hymns wasn’t a pure gospel album: of the five originals, four built upon the boom-chicka-boom-sound of the Sun recordings, while several of the covered songs were also given the country-gospel treatment, usually with fine results.

The trio’s minimalist approach was still intact, but some songs also feature drums and piano, while all of them were given backing vocals. As a result, the album (or a large part of it) probably pleased both the more conservative country-buying public, as well as those who favored the slick vocal albums by the likes of Bing Crosby and Dean Martin, making it the ideal album to play whenever your grandparents are around (I guarantee you, they’ll love it). Songs like “Lead Me Father,” “I Saw a Man” and the waltzes “Are All the Children in” (with a few immortal spoken word sections dwelling on “mother’s care”) and “Snow in His Hair” are vaseline for the soul, polished tales about the strength God gives us, the garments of Christ and the torture he had to endure. Sometimes, this comes off as a bit too didactic, like the opening track offering a brief synopsis of Christ’s greatest deeds (“With just five loaves and two little fishes, five thousand had fish and bread … Who was it everybody? It was Jesus Christ our Lord”), but in this case it’s overcome by the pleasant rhythm and the call & answer-vocals. Of course, the gospel influences here are not those that infused, say, Aretha Franklin’s grandiose soul with the burning fire of communal passion, as it’s restraint and detached class that seem to be the goals. This makes the majority of the songs rather unexciting, but the standard “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” with its doo-wop-styled backing vocals and the strutting rhythm is particularly pleasant after all. Cash’s originals are usually more country-indebted (excepting “Lead Me Father”): “The Old Account,” for instance, is just straightforward country dealing with spiritual matter, while also “I Call Him” and “He’ll Be a Friend” (recounting the exciting stories of Noah and Samson) smell like Nashville (even though Cash had moved to California after he signed to Columbia). Anyway, even if it ain’t your thing, there’s no reason to panic just yet: with the longest song only taking up 2:30 of your time and an ideal total of 27 minutes, this album beats visiting your standard mass. On top of that, you’ll hear a man who’s obviously having fun doing exactly what he wants to do. Hymns sounds pretty dated and goody-goody today, but otherwise it’s worth checking out, even if you’re a Buddhist hillbilly.

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Songs of Our Soil (1959)

7.5

Drink to Me / Five Feet High and Rising / The Man on the Hill / Hank and Joe and Me / Clementine / The Great Speckle Bird / I Want to Go Home / The Caretaker / Old Apache Squaw / Don’t Step on Mother’s Roses / My Grandfather’s Clock / It Could be You (Instead of Him)// I Got Stripes / You Dreamer You

His first attempt at a loosely connected conceptual album (at a time when the music industry was still a thoroughly 45RPM-oriented business), Songs of Our Soil gathers a bunch of songs that for the most part are about the beauty and uncontrollable power of the American nature, the down-to-earth-philosophy of the common man, and other related subject matter. Many of these songs are obviously influenced by Cash’s own experiences, as he’d grown up in one of the homesteads in Arkansas that were created by the federal government to help the farmers’ find a way out of sour times. These New Deal-initiatives not only taught Cash one and another about cotton production and the blues and country music that stems from the same cotton fields, but also the plain cruelty of an untamed nature. “Five Feet High and Rising” (no, I don’t know whether De La Soul’s debut album’s title is a pun on this song), for instance, a tale about the Mississippi flood in 1937, came from Cash’s actual experiences. Despite the downbeat theme, the song’s pretty uplifting, as the increasingly hopeless situation – going from “two feet” up to “five feet and rising” – is accompanied by an increasingly ascending melody and a humorous attempt to deal with it all (“Looks like we’ll be blessed with a little more rain … four feet high and rising”).

The sharecropping theme is continued in the ode to humbleness “The Man on the Hill,” but the remainder deals with less autobiographical stuff. “Clementine” is a clever re-write of the classic “Oh My Darling Clementine,” with the groom facing the wrong opponent on the eve of his wedding day, leaving his bride-to-be with a superfluous wedding dress the day after. “Hank and Joe and Me” is about three guys suffering the desert heat to get the gold, but unavoidably, Hank and Joe get killed by the scorching heat, but those repeated backing vocals “Cause I’m dyin’ – DYIN’, DYIN’ – for water” are – purposely or not – damn hilarious. These songs, like his cover of the classic “The Great Speckle Bird” and the uplifting “Drink to Me” are enchanting exercises that mix folk themes and approaches with country. The music is still on a strict diet of acoustic strumming, bass, electric twang and, occasionally, barrelhouse piano and rhythmic drumming, but there’s more variation than before, as the musical frames are sometimes adapted to the specific theme of the songs … with varying results. “Old Apache Squaw,” a song dealing with the misery the Native Americans had to endure, and often considered Cash’s first protest song, gets quite silly with that mock tribal percussion (anyway, if I were an Indian, I would’ve appreciated the gesture, but not the execution – as a matter fact, that’s also how I feel about it right now), and anyway, he’d turn in a more thought-over album about Native Americans with Bitter Tears a few years later. The hushed percussion and galloping guitar accents during “I Want to Go Home,” on the other hand, work much better. A folk classic (incorrectly attributed to Cash in the credits section), previously recorded by The Kinston Trio, it would become more famous as the song The Beach Boys would record as “Sloop John B.” Finally, the second half of the album also contains a few songs that, all in their own way, offer different perspectives on man’s mortality. In “The Caretaker,” we see things through the eyes of the ultimate bystander, a cemetery worker (“Their bury their dead and all go away, but through the grief, I still can see, their hate and greed and jealousy”), wondering who’s going to mourn him when he dies, while “Don’t Step on Mother’s Roses” and “My Grandfather’s Clock” lead to reminiscences about the death of family members and fond memories about them. An extra bonus comes in the way the tick-tock of the clock is mimicked by something which sounds like coconut halves. Like Hymns by Johnny Cash, Songs of Our Soil sounds quite old-fashioned and homely by now, but the best songs on this album are charming miniatures that go to show again Cash rarely needed more than a few strokes to paint a vivid picture. On top if that, the fact that he recorded 12 of these 14 songs on the same day, barely three months after the Hymns-sessions is, well, respectable. Right?

Note: the 2002-reissue adds two singles: the funny “I Got Stripes” that has the spunk some of the album tracks are lacking, as well as the poppier “You Dreamer You,” which clocks this album in at, again, an ideal 29 minutes (including bonuses).

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Ride This Train (1960)

6

Loading Coal / Slow Rider / Lumberjack / Dorraine of Ponchartrain / Going to Memphis / When Papa Played the Dobro / Boss Jack / Old Doc Brown // The Fable of William Brown / Second Honeymoon / The Ballad of the Harpweaver / Smiling Bill McCall

Johnny Cash had always been a diligent writer and interpreter of train songs. Hence, it was no surprise that one of his earliest hits, “Hey Porter,” was a train song, while several others followed soon, like “Wreck of the Old ‘97” and his version of Hank Williams’ “I Hear That Lonesome Whistle Blow.” He’d continue this trend not only throughout the ‘60’s (“Orange Blossom Special”), but up ‘til his American-years, with “Down There by the Train” (on American Recordings) and “The L&N Don’t Stop Here Anymore” (on Unearthed). It’s not surprising either then, that in 1960 his first deliberately conceptual album was tied together by the train-motive. Contrary to what you might think, these songs are not about trains, as the original subtitle (deleted when the album was reissued) A Stirring Travelogue of America in Song and Story already suggested. Basically, Ride This Train is a trip through an America of days gone by, when trains were the only means of transportation and a symbol of innovation, employment and liberty. The album paints a picture of mostly working men and woman, trying to make the best out of their misery or enjoying what was God-given, but the catch of it all is not that Cash describes the tales from a contemporary perspective, but by choosing to narrate through the respective protagonists.

As a result, Ride This Train offers a sprawling diversity of lives, voices and perspectives, the most remarkable aspect of it being that each song is introduced by a narration that starts with “Ride this train …”. Most of the time, the songs’ singers are the ones who introduce the songs, while others show interesting contrasts. Whereas the opening track (that starts after a rather clumsy introduction about the Indian heritage), “Loading Coal” – a song written especially for this album by Merle Travis -, deals with a coal miner trying to earn an honest living, it’s the legendary John Wesley Hardin who connects it to “Slow Rider.” During “Lumberjack,” the Oregon based protagonist tells us about the life lessons he was taught being a high-climber (“I learned that a man’s gotta be a lot tougher than the timber he’s cuttin’ ”), while “Dorraine of Ponchartrain” tells us of a Nova Scotia Arcadian and his beloved. Actually, despite what you might’ve expected, Ride This Train might very well offer the most diverse batch of songs Cash had recorded yet, also on a musical level. For the most part, the rather stiff rhythm of the Sun recordings is disbanded in favor of a looser, acoustic sound that continues the minimalism, but allows for some more frills (i.e. not just repetitive strumming). Or, during “When Papa Played the Dobro,” “Boss Jack” (a song introduced by the slave owner, but sung by the slave himself!), and “Old Doc Brown,” the music’s playful air of confidence is closer to country swing than the sturdy variation of before (probably because of the richer sound, featuring dobro and fiddle). However, it’s probably “Going to Memphis” (a rerecording of which wound up on Unearthed) that steals the show. Carried on by the rattling of the ball & chains, it’s a song with attitude to spare, from the moans and groans of the prisoners, the piano-led, bluesy strut to Cash’s striking vocal performance and suitable lyrics (“Like a bitter weed, I’m a bad seed”). So, the wide range of locations (it’s one hell of a trip: Kentucky, Oregon, Louisiana, Memphis, Iowa, etc), multitude of voices and great use of acoustic instruments are definitely plusses, but the narration parts just get tedious after a while. The first few times you hear these, you probably won’t mind as you’ll be considering it some sort of educational documentary, but after that you’ll wish he’d get to the damn songs a bit quicker. Plus, subtract those parts, and how many minutes of music are you left with? Twenty, or twenty-five? It’s understandable why Cash himself considered Ride This Train one of his finest achievements of the sixties, but speaking for myself, I can do without the elaborate guidelines that disrupt the rhythm (even though the steam locomotive keeps goin’ on in the background) and flow of the generally fine songs. “Frustrating” is the word.

Note: The reissue of the American Milestones-series adds four bonus tracks (without narration): the conventional country-singles “Second Honeymoon” and “Smiling Bill McCall,” plus “The Fable of Willie Brown” and the previously unreleased “The Ballad of the Harpweaver.”

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Bitter Tears – Ballads of the American Indian (1964)

7.5

As Long as the Grass Shall Grow / Apache Tears / Custer / The Talking Leaves / The Ballad of Ira Hayes / Drums / White Girl / The Vanishing Race

While Cash’s private life increasingly evolved into a succession of crises, mainly because of his excessive substance abuse, his music career fared pretty well in the early and mid-sixties: Columbia producers Don Law (who’d signed him in 1958) and Frank Jones kept on supporting the various thematic albums, and the chilli-flavored “Ring of Fire” (penned by June Carter and Merle Kilgore) secured him another smash hit in 1963. That song, with its mariachi trumpets (released when Herb Alpert’s started exploring the same territory with the Tijuana Brass) was another example of his persistence to ignore genre boundaries. Since the folk revival of the early ‘60’s and the emergence of a young talent called Robby Zimmerman, Cash had also become enamoured by this new wave of folk music (The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan would stay one of his all-time favorite albums) and appeared at the 1964 Newport Folk Festival, undoubtedly to the dismay of several of his hardcore fans. While he’d always been an artist concerned about the well being of the common man and, even more, the maltreated minorities (people he’d often sing about), the progressive ideas championed by this new generation of musicians certainly accelerated that evolution. Specifically for this album, a meeting with Native American writer Pete LaFarge was crucial.

Although LaFarge was a Hopi Indian, he was an educated intellectual (in Cash’s words), raised by a father who’d written a Pulitzer-prize winning novel. As a poet and songwriter in his own right, LaFarge convinced Cash to record his “Ballad of Ira Hayes.” Hayes, a Pima Indian from Arizona, had served in World War II and was one of the soldiers who raised the Stars & Stripes after the victory at Iwo Jima (pictures of it would soon become famous), but he’d never felt comfortable with his hero-status (he thought too many of his colleagues had died, without getting any credit), descended into alcoholism and is remembered as “a hero to everyone but himself.” Stories like Hayes’ made Cash start an intense research:

The final result was an album of protest ballads, the “Indian’s side of the story,” as the liner notes have it. These songs don’t have that much in common with traditional country anymore, as the muted foundation of acoustic guitar, bass and drums (and occasionally backing vocals and flute) mainly serve to support Cash’s charges, delivered in a spoken/sung style. Not unlike previous efforts, one of the album’s main goals – besides a cry for justice, or at least a call for awareness or remorse – seems to be didactic (while avoiding to become overly scholastic). Contrary to the earlier efforts, however, this particular initiative was a challenging and brave achievement, as Cash doesn’t refrain from accusing the governmental institution and the feigned ignorance of the white men (“the invader”). This doesn’t sound very spectacular these days (and please take my simplification into account as well), but it must’ve made quite an impression way back in 1964, when numerous people most likely considered it communist propaganda (and the list of radio stations refusing to play Cash’s new music was long). The fact that the album started off with a six-minute “As Long as the Grass Shall Grow” probably didn’t help matters, either. On top of that, the album’s focus on lyrics and its critical message imply the melodies and expectations concerning traditional verse/chorus-structures aren’t always met (the fact that five of these songs were written by someone who was primarily a poet also adds to it). “Custer” is a swift country tune that might give you the idea nothing much has changed, but it’s surrounded by “Apache Tears” and “The Talking Leaves,” gracious but angry songs that progress with the pace of a funeral march. Whether telling the sad story of Hayes or focalising through a Native American descending into alcoholism after being stood up by a white girl (“She thanked me for my offer and I wished that I was dead”), these songs are filled with anger, sadness and hurt pride, perhaps expressed most clearly in the mournful closing track “The Vanishing Race.” Because of its peculiar nature and approach, it’s hard to consider Bitter Tears just another music album, rather than an accusatory or awareness-arousing statement. When regarding this album strictly on a musical level, it’s not very captivating or exciting, in fact, it’s quite monotonous; but to this day the passion, indignation and outrage that fired Cash at the time are still very much present. On top of that, the theme never lost its relevance: once in a while, people need to be reminded of certain things. Whereas the listening pleasure is regularly ‘obstructed’ (if that’s the word) by its limitations, Bitter Tears deserves a very high rating in the importance-department.

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Orange Blossom Special (1965)

7

Orange Blossom Special / The Long Black Veil / It Ain’t Me Babe / The Wall / Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright / You Wild Colorado / Mama, You’ve Been on My Mind / When It’s Springtime in Alaska (It’s Forty Below) / All of God’s Children Ain’t Free / Danny Boy / Wildwood Flower / Amen // Engine 143 / (I’m Proud) The Baby Is Mine / Mama, You’ve Been on My Mind

With Orange Blossom Special, the second of his albums that upset the Southern country community (nearly sounds like a cult), Cash embraced the folk community even more enthusiastically than before, and not by replacing his simple rhythms by the gentle acoustic strumming and the poetic and/or indignant lyrics of the folk tradition (like Bitter Tears did, in a way), but by tackling their new hero’s material. Cash had been an adamant follower of Dylan’s from The Freewheelin’ onwards and decided to include three of the young master’s songs on his album: “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” (from Freewheelin’, here spelled as “Alright”), “It Ain’t Me Babe” (from Another Side) and the lesser-known “Mama, You’ve Been on My Mind,” a non-album track later included on Dylan’s first Bootleg-compilation. Bob would return the favor by inviting Cash during the recording of the countrified Nashville Skyline a few years later, giving music segregationists the final blow. Anyway, it’s not only because of those three songs that Orange Blossom Special could be considered one of Cash’s most eclectic albums, as he also incorporates a traditional Irish story, a prison song, a ‘song of our soil’ and two spirituals. You can hardly call it rock ‘n’ roll, but at this point, few people were ignoring genre barriers like Cash did, certainly in the country world.

Of the Dylan covers, “It Ain’t Me Babe” is probably the most memorable, and not only because of June Carter’s added vocals (which have the capacity to be an acquired taste), but also the presence of mariachi trumpets in the arrangement! You read that correctly. It worked pretty well with “Ring of Fire,” and Johnny must’ve decided to try that again, and I gotta admit, it works just fine, while his snarling “No, no, no” tops it off. “Don’t Think Twice” is turned into a rhythmic country song by Cash and the Tennessee Two, whereas the sound-alike “Mama, You’ve Been on My Mind” gets some extra Dylan-ish harmonica. Of these, “Don’t Twink Twice” is the best, but fortunately the reissue of the album adds three bonus cuts, one of which is “Mama” with again those Mexicali trumpets added, and that’s my preferred version. Even though the Dylan songs are what sets this album apart, its most popular song is probably the cover of Ervin Rouse’s train song “Orange Blossom Special,” here played at an appropriately fast pace, with Charlie McCoy mimicking the whistle with an harmonica and an unexpected sax solo further lightening things up. A final classic comes in the way of “Long Black Veil,” which has become something of a classic in the country/folk canon. What sets this version apart is Cash’s commanding baritone and his slow and clear (nearly exaggerated) articulation. Of course, a song about a falsely accused guy, too stubborn to use his alibi – he was having an affair with his best friend’s wife – might appeal to lots of people. Even though the album is regarded as something of a minor classic in Cash’s insanely large output, I don’t consider any of the songs (apart from the ones mentioned above) as indispensable, even though some of them are enjoyable. “The Wall” is a gentle prison song that sounds as if it was recorded during the Bitter Tears-sessions, “Wildwood Flower” (an A.P. Carter song) proves he also pays his dues to his roots, while “All of God’s Children” and “Amen” find him doing gospel – especially the second one is a lot of fun. Less successful are “When It’s Springtime in Alaska,” which somehow relies too much on the vocals (with too much reverb), while the lengthy narration that introduces the sappy “Danny Boy,” nor the song itself, offer anything new. Orange Blossom Special is certainly not a mind-blowing experience (which you shouldn’t have expected anyway, keeping in mind the prolific pace at which he released albums), but it has its share of strong songs (especially on the first album half). Recommended if you’d like to hear more than just the prison albums and a compilation covering the Sun years.

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Carryin’ On with Johnny Cash & June Carter (1967)

8

Long-Legged Guitar Pickin’ Man / Shantytown / It Ain’t Me, Babe / Fast Boat to Sydney / Pack up Your Sorrows / I Got a Woman / Jackson / Oh, What a Good Thing We Had / You’ll Be All Right / No, No, No / What I’d Say // The Wind Changes / From Sea to Shining Sea

Carryin’ On is a pivotal album in Cash’s discography. While he’d been using drugs for some years, his dependence and behaviour reached an all-time low in the mid-‘60’s. He was busted in 1965, his wife filed for divorce a year later, and his health was deteriorating: “… I couldn’t sing because my throat was too dried out from the pills. My weight was down to 155 pounds [just check out how skinny he looks on the album cover!] on a six-foot, one-and-a-half-inch frame. I was in and out of jails, hospitals, car wrecks. I was a walking vision of death, and that’s exactly how I felt. I was scraping the filthy bottom of the barrel of life.” Enter June Carter, whom Cash had already met in the ‘50’s and allegedly promised he’d marry her once (even though both were already married at the time). She’d provided him with the co-written “Ring of Fire,” the great piece of mariachi-country that became one of his most popular songs. Several years later, she’d admit the song was inspired about what she felt for Cash, in many ways her darker opposite, but somebody whom she considered a soul-mate. They performed more and more together, and in 1965 shared lead vocals in a version of Dylan’s “It Ain’t Me Babe” (also included here). Two years later, they joined each other for this album, ones of Cash’s most enjoyable studio albums in the ‘60’s and obviously infested with the emotional turmoil of the time.

It’s an album with several thoughtful, but even more passionate moments, as Carter and Cash sing about mutual love, cheating and jealousy. While Carter’s vocals are certainly something special (alternating between a calm folk-style and fiery semi-growling during the up-tempo songs), it goes well with Cash’s baritone, making this album a minor classic in the history of duet-albums. For the first time in quite a while, there are quite a lot of up-tempo songs on one of Cash’s records. “Long-Legged Guitar Pickin’ Man” is a marvellous example of energetic countrybilly, with great vocals by the long-legged man and his “big-mouthed woman,” who are trying to work their relation out. Already spirited, the song becomes even better by grace of Carl Perkins’ cool cat guitar work. Other songs are closer to traditional country/folk: both Richard Farina’s classic “Pack Up Your Sorrows” and the title cut are rapid songs to dance to, with “Jackson” being the obvious stand-out (and it did become hit – it even was so popular, they changed the album’s title to Jackson) with lyrics like “We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout, we’ve been talking about Jackson ever since the fire went out.” Quite surprisingly, the album contains two swinging Ray Charles-covers, “I Got a Woman” and “What I’d Say,” which at first seem a bit awkward, but are dang pleasant nonetheless, especially “I Got a Woman.” The second one suffers a bit from Cash’s strained vocals, but with her earthy growl, June Carter makes up for it. While the above highlights are all covers, there are also three songs penned by Cash & Carter: “You’ll Be All Right” is the album’s ‘enjoyable ditty,’ while “Shantytown,” despite its anachronistic ‘50’s-styled backing vocals (this is 1967, maaaaaaan!) and silly lyrics (“I live down in Shantytown, where chicken’s twenty cents a pound”), is a nice addition that would’ve fit nicely on earlier, homely albums such as Hymns or Songs of Our Soil. Cash’s “No, No, No” is basically a re-write of that song. Finally, there’s also the pair of “Oh, What a Good Thing We Had” and “Fast Boat to Sydney,” songs sharing a similar bounciness, playful piano accents and catchy swing that had been missing from several of his albums. Carryin’ On doesn’t offer anything new, but because it’s such a refreshingly enthusiastic album (it rushes by before you even realized it - it’s not even 30 minutes long) with the obvious sparks between the couple, it’s still worth checking out. Even though the Man in Black’s darkest period wasn’t over yet (he tried to commit suicide by descending into a labyrinth cave), things soon turned for the better and his career found its second breath (both commercially and artistically), turning him into a major star.

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Highwayman (1985)

4

Highwayman / The Last Cowboy Song / Jim, I Wore a Tie Today / Big River / Committed to Parkview / Desperados Waiting for a Train / Deportee (Plan Wreck at Los Gatos) / Welfare Line / Against the Wind / The Twentieth Century Is Almost Over

Jesus, where do I start? Ok, here goes: this album sounds like a shit album released in 1985! It WAS released in 1985 and it has that unbearably lifeless mid-'80's sound. The bass is nice and clean, the guitars are nice and clean, the synths are nice and clean and the drum sound is nice, clean and horrible. Based on the merits of the songs themselves, I presume I'd be giving a higher rating, but for the life of me, I can't imagine how satisfying it could've been if it had been recorded a decade later or so. Also: isn't it alarming that these guys, who must've written hundreds and hundreds of songs, didn't record one single new song (two songs were written by Cash, one from the '50's, one from the mid-'70's)? Anyway, at the time of recording, these four eminencies already had more than a century of recording experience, making them a kind of Traveling Wilburys/Texas Tornadoes of country music. I don't know if there were any opportunistic reasons for making this collaborative effort, but I bet few people would claim that the members' careers were doing well at the time (well, I'm not really sure about Jennings and Kristofferson, but I can tell you that both Nelson and Cash weren't exactly at their creative/popularity peak), but it must've seemed a good idea at the time, because the title track did become something of a hit. And it is a kind of special song - is there such as thing as new age country? -, even though it sounds hopelessly outdated. As on the remainder album, each of the members basically sings a verse (or sometimes they alternate after a line), while they often sing the choruses in unison. This time around it's kinda weird: since "Highwayman" is a song about - gasp - reincarnation. Three members introduce themselves, tell how they died, and finally claim they're still alive. Nelson is the highwayman who was hung in '25, Kristofferson the sailor who got killed at sea, Jennings the damn builder who died when he fell on concrete. Appropriately, Cash gets to speak on behalf of the quartet, announcing "I will remain." Very cheesy, but in a way that'll make you reassure John that he'll live on indeed. Other songs I can still deal with are the cover of Cash's classic "Big River" that at least has some bite in the guitar parts, the quite pretty ballad "Jim, I wore a Tie Today" and finally, the album closer which gets by on the strength of lyrics such as

Does anybody recall the Great Depression?
I read all about it in True Confessions
Sorry I was late for the recording sessions
But somebody put me on hold

God bless the team of Steve Goodman and John Prine, who wrote that somewhere in the '70's. Anyway, I'd like to give those songs a thorough makeover, but they're pearls compared to most others, which are… turds. Just listen how the waltzing "The Last Cowboy Song" is ruined by those inexcusable computer cymbals, how the chorus to Guy Clark's "Desperados Waiting for a Train" was made to sound like a stupid soccer chant and how Woody Guthrie's "Deportee" is massacred and given the Nana Mouskouri-treatment. I realize damn well that Bob Seger's "Against the Wind" is a pretty song, but on here it's bad, bad, bad. While most of the atrocities are a result of the production, there are also unintentionally silly moments like the lines "So pass around the bottle boys" in "Welfare Line," where the guys actually sound as if they deserve a recording prohibition. So, I repeat again: from a song-perspective, the album certainly isn't a disaster (though the performances aren't extraordinary), but since this site is about how much I enjoy these albums - and this one sounds as bad as a rhino's fart - I can give it a 4, Cash or no Cash, and admit I'll probably never listen to it again. Unless you give me a reason to, that is.

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Highwayman 2 (1990)

4

Silver Stallion / Born and Raised in Black and White / Two Stories Wide / We're All in Your Corner / American Remains / Anthem '84 / Angels Love Bad Men / Songs That Make a Difference / Living Legend / Texas

Jesus H. Christ, the torture never stops. Five years after their first collaboration, country's finest re-unite to record another album, and IT SOUNDS JUST AS SHITTY AS THE PREVIOUS ONE! Well, maybe the drums aren't that lifeless, but we're still being bombarded by cheesy synths, too much reverb and layers of mystifying echo, as if the band and producer (Chips Moman) wanted to create a country answer to Kate Bush, I don't know. In fact, there's not much "country" about this album and to be honest, I'd have preferred the gut-honest yodelling and hardcore conservatism of the classic country albums out there to this. Instead, you get this "new age country meets bad Huey Lewis / Fleetwood Mac"-stuff that's not even funny. Opening track "Silver Stallion" isn't exactly a bad song (those drums are Mac's "Dreams" sped-up), but then they get spiritual again in the chorus with a repeated "We're gonna ride." Four songs later, when you reach "American Remains," there's again this role-play like in "Highwayman," and what do you think? Yes, indeed, each verse ends with a line like "They'll never get the best of a better man, 'cos I'll ride again." What's all that "riding"-nonsense about, man? It's as if the band wants to use every opportunity they can get to prove they're still in touch with their native-American ancestors or something like that. That's OK with me, but it does get tedious if the same trick's done over and over again. "Born and Raised in Black and White" employs the classic sinner/saint dichotomy (you know, one chooses the Bible, the other one guns), and just LISTEN how each chorus seems to get more intense than the previous one! It's all pretty frustrating, but nothing compared to the barrage of over-produced songs that are crammed in the album's middle part. "We're All in Your Corner" sounds like a collaboration between Nathalie Cole and The Kelly Family, with incredible lyrics like "We're all in your corner, tonight as friends, watching you stumble, the path where we've been" (or something like that). I mean, this really makes my spine tingle. And it goes on and on like that: Kristofferson's "Anthem '84" - certainly not his best song to start with - is completely mutilated by a keyboard player on drugs who must've thought his name was Vangelis, while "Living Legend" offers you a glimpse of the soundtrack of the apocalypse. The album's somehow saved by the rudimentary boom-chicka-boom of Cash's "Songs That Make a Difference" and Nelson's Spanish-tinged "Texas" (if you manage to ignore the horrendous harmonica solo), but the final verdict has to be that Highwayman 2 is as over-produced, purposeless, boring and, yes, redundant as its predecessor, and that's all I have to say about that.

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