JOHN PRINE
LIVE IN ASHEVILLE (1986/2016)
Oh Boy
Records/Noisetrade
* * * * *
The moment I got the email from Noisetrade I knew what my
album of the month would be. It ain't new, but neither is the Mona Lisa and they're both masterpieces.
Thirty years ago John Prine released a live concert album of a show in
Asheville, North Carolina, but it's still fresher than a truck stop waitress.
In my decades of listening to and reviewing music there are
lots of people who have impressed me more, who are more poetic, are superior
musicians, and have induced out-of-body experiences, but there isn't anyone who
has made me smile as much as John Prine. He is the master of phrases that sound
pithy, until you think deeply about them. Can you describe utter boredom better
than this? Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare
me down…and won ("Illegal Smile"). What (non-John Prine) wry comment sums up the gap between
real and ideal better than, Fatherforgive us for what we must do/You forgive us and we'll forgive you? Few
have ever equaled Prine when it comes to grabbing onto small hooks that tell a
bigger story. Here's his take on damaged warriors: There's a hole in daddy's arm where the money goes ("Sam
Stone"). On a lighter note, you instantly begin to sketch a portrait of the
central character of a song that opens with this line: Grandpa wore his suit to dinner/Nearly every day/No particular
reason/He just dressed that way (Grandpa Was a Carpenter").
Live in Asheville
is filled with lots of other time-tested Prine tunes: "Blue Umbrella,"
"Dear Abby," "Donald and Lydia," "GreatCompromise," "My Own Best Friend…." Though it's hard not to miss
Steve Goodman, it's heart-warming to hear Prine sing "Souvenirs," a
song they co-wrote. And if you're not in stitches listening to "Let's Talk
Dirty in Hawaiian," just go away. Prine is known for his humorous and
ironic songs, but among the many things that make him special is that he
captures the plebeian and mundane with such arch precision that his funny songs
are not one-trick/one-time novelties. We laugh each time because, deep down,
we're vicariously projecting our own foibles onto his fictional scenarios. Who
hasn't felt this way? Every side I get up
on is the wrong side of bed/If it weren't so expensive I wish I were dead ("Dear
Abby"). Yet the same guy can
turn it on a dime and write good old-fashioned acoustic country that will tear
out your heart and fling it across the room. If you've never listened to it
closely, check out the fantasy romance between "Donald and Lydia," he
the reluctant (and probably mentally damaged) soldier, and she the obese clerk
in a penny arcade—two yearnings passing like running-lights-off ships in the
night.
This is a contribute-what-you-want download from Noisetrade and I doubt you'll find a better bargain this calendar year. Download it and
we'll overlook your smile, illegal or otherwise. Rob Weir
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