I had a shoot in Nashville. I think it was Reba McEntire or Patty Loveless but I’m not here to talk about that. You’re probably wondering why for the first time in this here photo memoir, there’s no photo at the top. Scroll away, my friends, you’ll find none at the bottom either. In this age of ubiquitous and capable cell phone cameras in every pocket, it’s kind of hard to conceive of an event taking place without it being photographed. And yet, that’s exactly what I’m about to tell you about.
First, a brief note about cameras, professional and otherwise. Among the many wonders contained in the world of the iPhone is the fact that such a tiny rugged package (tough enough for you to have with you always) is basically a professional level digital camera. Back in the days we’re talking about here, there were big giant heavy unwieldy “professional” cameras on one end of the spectrum. They generally lived in some watertight case somewhere, required assembly, and appeared as the very antipathy to spontaneity. Then there were “snapshot” cameras. Much smaller and lighter, though still not pocket sized, they could be kept in a briefcase or purse. Available for perhaps not quite immediate use, but close. I knew people who carried a camera with them everywhere. I was not one of those people. After a long hard day of shooting about the last thing I wanted to think about was equipment or photography. And so I didn’t. If I happened to find myself somewhere in front of some amazing performance, well, huh, I probably should have carried a camera with me everywhere, who’d a thunk it?
While in Nashville, we had been assigned a publicist or handler from the record company. This was good as I didn’t really know Nashville very well and could use a guide. She was perfectly friendly and generally helpful. I was really into BBQ, something that wasn’t readily available in NYC. So I conveyed my enthusiasm to our publicist/handler lady and she promised to work on it. The bar for BBQ on photo shoots was set impossibly high by REM taking us to Walter’s down in Athens when I photographed them for SPIN. I mean, who could match that? Certainly not some publicist that either was a vegan or had moved from LA two weeks prior to our shoot. She proceeded to take us to the worst meal I’ve ever had. Well no, actually, not as bad as that time at Now and Zen. And at an empty restaurant, no less. What kind of BBQ joint in the south is anything but mobbed all the time? Exactly. It was so lame, it just put me off the whole thing. I just wanted to go back to the hotel, grab some shut eye, hang out in the parking lot waiting for the van. I was mad at the restaurant, the publicist, myself (for being such a terrible NYC snob), everything was irritating to me at that juncture.
So much so that I didn’t really pay much heed when she invited us to a “Celebration of Johnny Cash.” I went to these industry shindigs all the time, and they were uniformly awful. “Celebration of…” usually meant the artist’s new record was playing and an open bar tried to get bored journalists hammered enough to praise it in print. I had done an entire magazine cover shoot that afternoon, let’s not forget. And then had to put up with terrible BBQ. Ugh, of course I should have been home in bed. But something, a tiny voice Dr. Pepper years later would dub “leave the house,” told me to throw caution (and bedtime) to the winds, and accept her offer. Which is how Patty and I ended up at Johnny Cash’s birthday/recovery party at his private lakeside club. I will admit to being somewhat hazy on the details but I do believe Johnny had been ill, was back in good health and was actually going to be present.
John Prine has a line, “...out by the forest preserve. Nearly everyone was there.” I drove, Patty in the back, our publicist (whose name I honestly don’t recall, so lame, I probably have it in a notebook somewhere) in shotgun calling out directions. The rental was some ridiculous canary yellow Mustang that Hertz #1 Club had thought looked good on me. I could barely see over the dash, the women disappeared completely beneath it. Thoughts of Deliverance danced in our heads (Ned Beatty anyone? Yes? Traumatized? Sorry.) as we hied farther and farther out into the countryside. And then with a sharp turn between two stone columns onto a rutted dirt road we were there.
“There” being Cash’s “club.” Funny, it was a dead ringer for the hunting club I joined some decades later. Peeling vinyl siding, ill fitting (like salvaged from another job) storm windows, a pretty decrepit and down-scale air. I suspect that when I’d heard we were going to “Johnny Cash’s Club” the only thing that came to mind was a country club, and that didn’t really seem to be on offer. It was a lake house, though in the darkness you couldn’t see out the windows to know it. Clearly once a perhaps rather shabby house, it had been converted into a kind of shabby club. The biggest change was the addition of a room with enough space for a stage at one end. Upon which a succession of performers, all Cash adjacent, were plying their trade.
Memory fails (heh, understatement) but I believe I remember Johnny was coming back from some illness or health scare or something. It might have been a birthday party, his sixtieth. It was a terrific party. Which is why I maybe don’t recall it with the razor sharp eye you’ve grown accustomed to in these memoirs.
Roseanne Cash, Carlene Carter, and others (I told you it was a good party!) played short sets. We’d worked with Roseanne a couple times by that point so cooly chatted her up when we got the chance. We were whisked by Johnny’s table at one point so I did get to meet him, shake his hand and mutter something about glad to be there.
Later in the evening, we gathered for a rousing Happy Birthday sung with gusto right to Johnny Cash. And he heeded the growing calls to take the stage. Never let it be said the Man in Black is not a showman. What song do you want to hear Johnny, June Carter, Rosanne, Carlene, the entire Cash clan sing? That’s right. A song about redemption and continuity and life and death. Come on, sing with me now, start slowly.
I was standing, by the window, on a cold and cloudy day.
When I saw that hearse come rolling, come to take my mother away.
I’m not crying, you’re crying. Actually I am crying, just thinking about it. It was so overwhelming, such a glittering moment witnessing an American artist in his absolute prime, performing a signature song of loss and redemption with and to his family. I’m a happy guy, hate suspense, live for the happy ending. So how come so much important and compelling art lies suspended in the tragic? Such a poignant moment for ever memorialized on Instagram.
Of course it wasn’t. Someone must have had a camera there, but not me. Perhaps one of the most crucial and compelling performances I ever witnessed does not rate even a single photo to accompany it. If that show were to occur today of course every soul present would have a high quality video recording instantly shareable with the world in real time.
In Peter Mathiesson’s influential and beautifully rendered book the Snow Leopard, the protagonist never actually does see a Snow Leopard. This tiny, moving, intimate concert by Johnny Cash and family serves a similar purpose in my psyche to Mathiesson’s Leopard. It’s ok that I don’t have pictures I’m telling you the story instead. And I wonder if not having pictures makes it better somehow? Best party ever. Who wants a bunch of snapshots to belabor the point.
Will the circle, be unbroken, bye and bye Lord, bye and bye.
There’s a better home a waiting, in the sky Lord in the sky.
Yes, I’m crying, join me now, won’t you? It’s poignant, but you don’t even know tears until the last verse. People know the refrain, but man, when they had Johnny take the first and last verses, others one by one, everyone together on the chorus. Man, no dry eye in the house, serious. The Man in Black exudes pain and tragedy with every note. We were all so lucky to be there, not least Johnny. He would go on to live and record for decades more but at the time it seemed he’d dodged a bullet. Hearing him sing about it was better than living it.
I went back home Lord, that home was lonesome,
Since my mother, she was gone.
Break time’s over, let’s get back to work, but bless yourself a little tear for lonely sons and daughters everywhere, won’t you?
What a pure, beautiful experience to be fully able to witness. No cameras. No video. Just shared spirituality.