11. Johnny Cash -- At Folsom PrisonJohnny Cash is the Country Crossover King, the Miles Davis of the Genre. People who run from Country like it bore Bubonic AIDS still dig Johnny Cash. Kids who wouldn't know Hank Williams from Willie Nelson still think he's the bees knees. Part of this is no doubt due to the fact that he got his start as part of the Sun Records rockabilly revue in the mid-50's; Cash never lost that boom-chika-boom R&B that highlights his early records, that cross between the plain rural folk of Country and a more percussive urban music.
The other part is packaging. Cash always knew when to shift his image, from Rockabilly Bopcat to Man in Black to Elder Statesman of Darkness. But none of these shifts was a total makeover, each of them reflected an evolution in Cash's understanding of himself. Every new iteration absorbed all the old ones, so his new fans never cost him old ones.
I the pop myth, Cash 1968 Folsom Prison Concert was his post-rehab comeback, his return to eminence. In point of fact, Cash's 1960's drug problems had done his career little damage. His real commercial decline began in the mid-1970's and did not really end until his started his American Recordings albums in the 1990's. The best that could be said for the years in between -- which included a relapse into prescription drug addiction in the early 1980's -- was that he survived them. Taken in that context, At Folsom Prison is less his comeback and more his peak.
But between truth and legend, etc. The album remains a favorite, even a landmark, because of the disparate elements woven together. Rock and Country, Rebellion and Redemption, Fame and Despair, all of these are the elements of an explosion. From the first "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash" to the final applause, performer and audience are entirely in each other's understanding. Even disagreements, such as when Cash must admonish the crowd during "Dark as the Dungeon," reflect the ease with which Cash establishes a rapport with imprisoned men. They eat out of the palm of his hand, hooting loud both for the get-rythmn hits and the "slower, ballad-type songs." He even works in some (albeit dark) humor. No better parody of country music cliche's than "Flushed from the Bathroom of Your Heart" has ever issued from the voice of a country artist.
The charm of live albums is supposed to reflect the uniqueness of musical performance, of artist and audience creating a moment. Oft-times, the listener -- a third party to these proceedings, although usually one in the mind of the artist -- is so busy catching the differences between the live and studio versions of songs that they barely bother noticing this interaction, and too often the resultant record focuses on this, and reduces the live audience to an applause track. It takes an album like this to remind one why people go to concerts in the first place.
Ever seeking good controversy, many a critic (Pauline Kael comes to mind) have accused Cash of exploiting this very interaction, and the position of the prisoners themselves, for his own profit and artistic image. This view depends on the very narrow definition of exploitation, common to academia, as any relations between two persons of unequal power. One would like to say no more to this than a quick "Shut up, honky," but let's deal with it on its own terms.
It never ceases to surprise me how people who hold that all values are relative insist on reducing all relations to a single determinant, dollars. A prisoner at Folsom cannot be expected to see the world the same way as a pop star. What he values is not going to be the same. He'd give a million dollars just to walk out of the prison gates and breathe free air, which costs the pop star nothing, and which he rarely values (judging by the speed with which they dope themselves to experience something else). Can we not let the prisoners speak for themselves? Listen to At Folsom Prison, and hear them have a moment of light in a realm of darkness. And then have one for yourself.
Grade: DI
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