Sept. 14, 2013. It was hot and muggy during the day, and somehow even muggier at night. Perhaps it was similar to a late summer night on Lake Marie, which was the name of my favorite John Prine song at the time.
To this day, I think of Prine as the ideal road trip artist. Prine sang of a Mexican home where it was so hot that a “coo-coo clock has died of shock,” with “a storm all wet and warm not 10 miles away.” His lyrics explored many aspects of human existence — Prine is widely considered the “Mark Twain of songwriting” — but in my opinion, he was especially good at capturing the joy and exhaustion of summer.
Seeing Prine perform live 10 years ago, in the air-conditioned Paramount Theatre, newly renovated after the flood of 2008, was a privilege I can safely say I took for granted. My friend, Jesse, was most excited to see John Prine, as an incredible singer-songwriter himself, and I’m afraid some of us sullied the experience for him by having a few too many shots in Czech Village bars before the show. I loved John Prine’s soul and music, but not like Jesse did. I like to say I do now, though.
I remember him walking onto the stage wearing mostly black, with a blue, maybe somewhat-purple lighting around him. He barely moved his neck and stood almost painfully straight — an effect of the squamous-cell cancer he battled in the late ’90s, which left his voice more gravelly. That same year, 2013, he underwent surgery for lung cancer. Despite it all, he endured and entertained, making timeless Americana tunes and leading Chicago’s folk music revival. I don’t remember his setlist (thankfully, Prine superfan Reeda Buresh recorded it on her blog), but I do know he sang some of my favorites.
Six more summers would pass after that Cedar Rapids show; as Prine sang, “years just flow by like a broken down dam.” The spring of 2020 eventually reared its ugly head, and in early April, Prine contracted COVID-19 while he was recovering from a hip injury. The time had come for him to “kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl.” On April 8, 2020 news broke that Prine bought the farm. The void we were already experiencing in our daily musical lives became a deeper chasm.
His song “Illegal Smile” was my “key to escape reality” in those early days of COVID, capturing what many of us were going through. I remember telling Jesse, a short time after Prine’s death, that the pasture was starting to get too goddamned full. Prine’s “I Remember Everything” was his last recorded song, and a hauntingly perfect end to a singular career.
Ten years ago, he was here in Eastern Iowa. Don’t wait to see your heroes — and don’t forget to remember everything.
This article was originally published in Little Village’s September 2023 issue.
