John Prine

The world lost another beautiful human: On Tuesday, April 7, 2020, John Prine died in Nashville of complications from COVID-19. He was 73.

Prine has been described as a “country folk singer-songwriter,” but his style crosses many categories. The Chicago Tribune calls him a “blue-collar songwriting craftsman.”

Though Prine had been performing since the early 1970s and he’s loved by millions, he was never really a household name, not in the way Bob Dylan and Hank Williams and Johnny Cash are. Still, many agree that he may be the greatest singer-songwriter of all time.

John Prine songs range from the sentimental to the hilarious to the heartbreaking. He could spin a good yarn and make you laugh and cry and peek into every nook and cranny of the human heart…sometimes all in one song. Many, many musicians credit Prine as being a major influence on them.

Listen to more John Prine in Mike’s playlist.

His death has hit me hard. It’s just one more loss, one more light in the world that feels like it’s been extinguished.

Except it hasn’t, not really. We still have the gift of his spirit in his songs and lyrics. We still have John Prine in the way that we still have Mike.

Mike and John

Mike and John Prine go way back — Prine was Mike’s all-time favorite musician. He’d teach himself Prine songs on his guitar, he’d go see every show that came to town. He took me to see Prine at the Warfield in SF, and we saw him play under the October sun in Golden Gate Park for the famous (and free) Hardly Strictly Bluegrass festival.

Knowing how much Mike loved John Prine made it that much more painful when Mike announced, early in his illness, that he could no longer bear listening to music. Any kind of music. Even John Prine.

From June 2018 till the following spring, we avoided playing music. When we’d start the Focus and the bluetooth powered up, it would automatically start playing a song from his iPhone and he’d scramble to find the button to make it stop.

The long drives to SoCal and back up north, the forays through L.A. traffic to Cedars and back to the Inland Empire, were quiet except for our conversations. I missed music, but I missed listening with him, riding shotgun in the Falcon or the Focus while he played DJ. He told me to go ahead and play what I wanted, but there’s no way I could have forced him to listen to music knowing it would cause him such pain.

Before, I never could have imagined a long drive without music. But I found that it was nice just being together, even when we were only watching the road ahead in silence as the world cruised by. Everything, even boring drives and the desolate landscape surrounding the long stretch of I-5, takes on significant meaning when you know someone you love is going to die soon.

There was the occasional exception. Like the day in November when we wheeled Mike down the halls of Cedars-Sinai, full of hope for the first stem cell transplantation in the clinical trial. As we passed the Quiet Please sign and rolled through the double doors into the oncology ward, Johnny Mathis began to croon “Chances Are” down the hallway.

It was coming from Mike’s iPhone, sitting in his lap. He had queued it up so he could play it at this moment.

The months went by, and the only music in the apartment came from cell phone rings and TV commercials.

Then, in spring 2019, in a small exam room at Cedars, Mike asked me to play something on his phone as I helped him curl himself into the fetal position for his final lumbar puncture of the clinical trial. Lumbar punctures are never fun, but generally one hopes it’s at least going to do some good. For Mike and everyone in the clinical trial, this procedure does nothing for the patient — it’s only to extract cerebrospinal fluid for later study.

Mike was the bravest person I’ve ever known when it comes to pain, but the lidocaine shot into his lumbar spine was always brutal and he needed a distraction. I put on a chill Tycho album at his request and reached for his hand through the hospital bed bars.

As the neurologist prepared the glinting torture instruments, Carolyn, the trial coordinator, talked to Mike about music. “Tycho is cool. What else do you like? Who’s your favorite band?”

“I like all kinds of music, but my favorite has to be John Prine,” he told her from his position facing the wall. “Do you know him?”

She didn’t, metal was her main thing, but she said she liked all kinds of music too, so Mike and I started listing Prine songs she should check out: “Illegal Smile,” “In Spite of Ourselves,” “Crazy as a Loon,” “Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven Anymore.”

I wonder if she ever listened? We never saw her again.

One day soon after, we were on our way to the VA in the van. Mike was in his wheelchair locked into place in the front passenger side. Before we’d pulled out of our apartment complex, as always, I set him up with his iPhone in his lap. I didn’t think anything of it when he had me connect his phone to the speakers. Then, as I maneuvered onto the 10 heading east toward Loma Linda, I heard…music. Air Supply, to be exact. I was stunned. I smiled and blinked back tears, afraid to make a big deal of it, break the spell.

The floodgates had opened. Soon he was playing the Replacements, Warren Zevon, Chemical Brothers, John Prine. I remember us driving back home, exiting the 10 at Etiwanda Avenue and driving north, straight toward Mt. Baldy, bigger than life, with John Prine singing Fish & Whistle.

To this day, whenever I hear this song, I see mountains through tears, feel the steering wheel in my hand and Mike beside me.

I been thinking lately about the people I meet
The carwash on the corner and the hole in the streest
The way my ankles hurt with shoes on my feet
I wonder if I’m gonna see tomorrow.

Father forgive us for what we must do.
You forgive us, we’ll forgive you
We’ll forgive each other till we both turn blue.
And we’ll whistle and go fishing in the heavens.

Priceless Prine

After Mike could no longer travel and had to bow out of the final few appointments of the clinical trial, he discovered this extended interview with John Prine on CBS Sunday Morning.

I think we watched this 90-minute interview on YouTube at least six times. I’d queue up the video on my laptop, prop it up on the bed so he could see it from his position on his side and I could see it from my chair beside him. It became a thing for him, a source of comfort.

Mike wanted to share the interview with everyone. He watched it with Sheila at least a couple of times. When we started home health, though it was an adjustment for him, having strangers come into his home and help him with very personal things, our two main caregivers, Cynthia and Marla, quickly became close friends and Mike forged strong bonds with both of them.

They’d sit bedside with Mike and feed him lunch or just hold his hand while Prine talked about his life, his family, his songwriting. His bouts with cancer. Prine’s voice always sounded so soothing, and he’s so unassuming but you can sense the depth of emotion underneath his lilting words. I understand why Mike loved him. And it made Mike happy to share him with others he cared about.

Maybe…

Like Prine, Mike had so much life in him, an unmatched gift of music and goofy humor and warmth that touched so many people. Their spirits really were two of a kind.

I can’t help but think, what if Mike were still here, witnessing this unreal year? Quarantines, no visitors, constant fear of COVID infection? ALS research coming to a standstill? No baseball?

And now, John Prine gone?

I haven’t been much of a “believer” in my adulthood, but I find myself feeling more open now. I’ve had signs that I want so much to believe are from Mike. Sheila and Jean and Renee have all had signs.

I want to believe he’s really there, nearby but in a much more beautiful place, that he’s healthy and happy and whole. I want to think that he and John Prine are hanging out together, cracking jokes and playing guitar on the porch.

God Only Knows – John Prine