Cash Remembered
On Friday morning, I was shocked to hear that John Ritter had passed away. But I was truly saddened when I heard that Johnny Cash had also died. It was not a surprise as he had been plagued by complications from diabetes for years. But it was a true loss nonetheless. Though he called himself, “the biggest sinner of them all,” and had spent years carousing and drinking, addicted to amphetamines, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone say anything disparaging about him or the amazing body of work he left behind.
So that night, I went out with some friends for an outdoor concert, which was pleasant but left me restless. Driving home alone, feeling a compulsion driven by reverence, or, more likely, the near-bottle of wine drunk at the concert, I stopped by the local bowling alley, which also houses a bar that features karaoke. Jason, the karaoke D.J. greeted me as I filled out a song request slip. I am a semi-regular here who normally sings ironic 70s ballads, but tonight I was paying tribute to a legend.
At first, I was wondering if this would be the right crowd. Most of the time, the bar is filled with a mix of blue-collar regulars and the growing neighborhood hipster crowd, both of whom would appreciate a song for Johnny. But that night, it was filled with young co-eds from the local college who were singing Brittney Spears-like songs, none of which I recognized, all of which sounded the same. Still, I thumbed through the song catalog and considered the meager four Johnny Cash songs they had. “A Boy Named Sue” was right out as it was a novelty song Johnny was never that fond of. The fact that I didn’t know it at all also was a factor. “Ring of Fire” is good but it never really moved me like “I Walk the Line,” an all-time favorite. But with that one, it’s very hard to sing the last verse, which dips so deep in tone it abuts the lower range of human hearing. That left “Folsom Prison Blues.” It’s singable, it’s one of his signature songs – how could I go wrong?
And in the party atmosphere of the karaoke bar, I didn’t go wrong. I did my best to replicate Johnny’s throaty timbre, and people danced and applauded in remembrance. As I stepped off the stage, a square-shouldered Latino man with a thick gold choker around his thick neck stopped me and said, “That was fantastic, man. It was like Johnny was up there. You were channeling him.” I said my thanks, but the man continued gushing – obviously he was a little drunk to compare me, a lumpy Chinese guy in an orange plaid button-down from Target with the Man in Black. Still, who was I to stop him? This was Ralph. His shorter, quieter friend, Robert, was also appreciative, insisting that I shake his hand. Ralph spoke to me more saying, “Man, you should have sung ‘I Walk the Line’ or ‘Ring of Fire.’ Those are my favorite.” I explained that I had added ‘Ring of Fire’ in the cue and would be singing it later. But he added, “I mean, your song was great. You know me and Robert were in Folsom Prison. Johnny is like my idol!” I was both slightly alarmed and flattered at the same time. For me to impress Johnny Cash’s core audience was a feat. Yet, I couldn’t help imagining what crimes these two might have committed to get them into Folsom State Prison and how long they had been out and what they were capable of doing to me. Robert asserted repeatedly that I had to sing “Ring of Fire.” With his muscled arm around my shoulder, I suddenly felt performance anxiety. What if I sang it badly? What if I messed up the words? I mean, I can just read them off the screen, but maybe there’s a key change I don’t know about.
At this time, Robert leaned back into our conversation saying to Ralph, “You tell him we were in Folsom?” Robert nodded and told him I was going to sing again. They both insisted that they buy me a beer. I politely declined, but they were adamant. They shoved money in my hand. So, I compromised. I bought a Budweiser and gave it to Jason, the D.J. I explained to him that it was courtesy of the two Johnny Cash fans who had been in Folsom Prison. Jason’s eyes widened and he tried to turn it down, but I just left it at his console.
At this point, I would have loved to leave, but I had to sing “Ring of Fire.” There was no getting around it; my audience demanded it. As I waited, sitting in between Ralph and Robert, they told me how this was there first time there and was it always this jumping and which nights did I go there. At long last, I was the last song of the night, before Jason sang his closing song. I stepped gingerly towards the stage and took the warm microphone, squinting at the lyrics as they lit up on the T.V. screen. But when the opening trumpets of “Ring of Fire” played, I shed all worries and sang for Johnny. I sang as low as my vocal cords could take me and got lost in the song. “It burns, burns, burns. That ring of fire. Ring of fire.” There might have been a couple slip-ups in tempo and I may have been a little off key, but it didn’t matter. Ralph and Robert congratulated me as I left the stage. They looked as if I had just given a heart wrenching eulogy for their mother; I was their new best friend. Still, I wanted to make a quick exit. I shook both their hands again and said my good nights.
I felt that in my own semi-drunk, extremely hokey karaoke way, I had done something honorable. I was happy that I could pay tribute to a musical hero and that there were others who were as appreciative as I was of his music. As I walked out the door feeling sad for Johnny’s passing, yet glad for his legacy, Jason paid tribute to another lost legend in the final song of the night. He sang a headbanging version of the “Three’s Company” theme song.
