John prine — a singer who made sense of the world | thearticle

In his song “When I get to Heaven”, John Prine plans out his afterlife. “When I get to heaven I’m gonna shake God’s hand,” he sings. “Thank him for his blessings more than one man can stand.

Then I’m gonna get a guitar and start a rock’n’roll band… ain’t the Afterlife grand?” He’s thought of everything, from the vodka and ginger ale cocktail he’d order to how he’d smoke a

cigarette that’s nine miles long, and kiss a pretty girl. Prine died on 7 April after complications arising from covid-19, aged 73. I hope he has a vodka in his hand right now. He was unwell

and had been facing his own mortality in songs since his twenties, but his death was still a shock and made me feel bruised. Bob Dylan described Prine’s country-folk music as “Midwestern

mind-trips to the n-th degree”. His images stay in your head — they’ve melded with my own memories and I’ve applied his sentiments to my own life. We’ve lost a man who helped so many make

sense of the world. Contrary to all the war language we’ve been hearing about “fighting” coronavirus, Prine didn’t lose a battle with it. He died. And because he had an infectious disease it

was harder for his wife Fiona Whelan-Prine and two sons to say goodbye. I know John Prine’s songs because of my dad. He played Prine’s 1991 album “The Missing Years” on repeat when I was

growing up, singing me songs which told stories (almost like nursery rhymes but with my dad glossing over some of the racier lyrics). When I was older I played Prine’s album of duets, “In

Spite of Ourselves”, on repeat, particularly the title track, sung with Iris Dement, about a couple who against all odds are never gonna let each other go, despite knowing each other’s

failings. I heard it played in a shop just before lockdown and stopped for a second, smiling nostalgically at Prine rasping about how his girlfriend “don’t like her eggs all runny” and

“looks down her nose at money”, and thinking of all the times I’ve played it, on car journeys and in the kitchen, introducing it to new friends who I hope will like it as much as I do. Prine

said he fits into the gap between Johnny Cash and Bob Dylan. He didn’t seek to reinvent music, instead he commented on the world, with songs packed with deft observations, romantic images

and plenty of wit. When I heard Prine had died I put on his song “Please Don’t Bury Me”, which is typical Prine — raw and sometimes dark but presented in a way that makes you grin. Since he

died, his songs have been streamed more than 20 million times and the range of people who have paid tribute to him is testament to his appeal. Roger Waters, Phoebe Bridgers, Bon Iver and the

President of Ireland Michael D Higgins have all spoken of his influence on them. Last weekend Norah Jones and other artists livestreamed a concert in his memory and his wife, Fiona Whelan

Prine is encouraging donations to Nashville Rescue Mission, Room in the Inn and Thistle Farms in his memory. Prine missed out on the swinging sixties. He spent them in the US army, stationed

in Germany and came back to the US in 1967, when rock music had run out its experimental stage and was back in a folk revival. Lots of people will have a John Prine memory or a favourite

lyric. What made me cry was Joan Baez singing a cover of his 1971 song “Hello in There”. “If you’re walking down the street sometimes and spot some hollow ancient eyes. Please don’t pass ’em

by and stare as if you didn’t care, say, ‘Hello in there, hello’.”