Johnny Cash - The man in black

He had the gift of making anyone feel like the most important person in the world. Johnny Cash is a true American hero

(Kris Kristofferson)

He was a real person and he was extraordinary. When he started singing, all his illness seemed to disappear. And he regained energy. I've often heard things like that, and often it's just bullshit, but this was truly real. As I sat there with him talking, I wondered if he'd be able to sing anything at all. But then when he sat down there was this real force, this force of nature that came out of him. Then two hours later, when I walked out, I thought: damn, what just happened? That was an extraordinary thing. I felt like I had really seen something that was for me immensely comforting, full of inspiration and truly incredible

(Nick Cave)

Love is something incandescent, and it gives life to a burning circle. Driven by an untamable desire, I fell into a ring of fire

(Johnny Cash)

Intro

Small suffering statues and fruit cascading from a bronze bowl. The first skeletal chords of a heart-wrenching dirge. A black guitar in the arms of an old man, thinning white hair, gaze lost in the void, trying to recall something that keeps slipping away. “I strike myself today, to see if I feel something. I focus on the pain, the only real thing there is”.

There's an American flag and a museum closed to the public. A light touch of the keys for a proud decay, belonging to someone who has fought, sweated and burned like a ring of fire. "What have I become, my sweetest friend? Everyone I know eventually goes away."

There's a train and a man with an intense, smiling gaze. Then a broken record. "You could have it all, my empire of dirt." Behind a white house, feelings seem to fade away. An elderly woman, then a young one, stares at the man with a loving gaze, full of devotion. Sitting in his "liar's chair," he washes down an abundant meal with a glass of red wine. Perhaps a way to start over. Miles and miles away. Perhaps a way to close out a journey. A journey of love, of faith. The journey of an American legend.

Hello, I'm Johnny Cash

Little J.R. Cash came into the world on February 26, 1932. He was the third child of sharecropper Ray Cash and his wife, Carrie Rivers. Both of Anglo-Saxon stock, the two couldn't have been more different. She, tall and sociable, wanted to name the newcomer John, while he, sturdy and moody, wanted to name him after himself, Ray. In the end, J.R. seemed like a good compromise in the cramped Cash household in Kingsland, Arkansas.

The early 1930s in the United States were certainly no paradise. The Depression drove down the price of cotton and, with it, the household economy of thousands of farmers.

It was 1935 when Ray Cash and his children moved to Dyess, a resettlement project under President Roosevelt's New Deal. A journey toward more fruitful land, to chase away the worst of the ghosts. After just six years, little J.R. was already out in the fields lending a hand, hauling the water needed to sustain a dream of stability and prosperity.

Still, it was a life planned down to the second. J.R. immediately felt the urge to escape, at least in his mind. Slowly, he began letting music into his life, listening to the big programs broadcast live from Nashville on the radio, or to gospel songs. At twelve, he answered the Christian call and was baptized at the First Baptist Church.

Music and religion suddenly filled his heart, but a small tragedy was just around the corner. That same year, 1944, his beloved older brother Jack Cash died in an accident involving a table saw. His father, devastated, went so far as to blame J.R. for what happened, telling him he should have been the one to die. The event pushed him toward ever deeper introspection, introducing him to the pleasure of writing stories and, above all, of playing guitar.

Young Cash's quiet life was made up of writing, girls, and religious restraint. Until graduation in 1950. Until North Korea invaded South Korea. It was July 7, 1950, when John Ray (as he wrote it) Cash enlisted in the U.S. Air Force. Thus began his journey toward full manhood. He was recruited in Little Rock and then sent for training to Lackland, San Antonio, and finally to Keesler Air Force Base in Mississippi. The young man quickly showed great skill at learning Morse code, earning a spot in the newly formed 12th Radio Squadron Mobile (RSM), based in Landsberg, West Germany.

Before leaving, Cash spent some time with Vivian Liberto, a seventeen-year-old Italian-American girl he'd met at a roller skating rink.

His time in Germany gives soldier John Ray the chance to show what he's made of, but above all, to get his first taste of a lifestyle far more indulgent toward alcohol, smoking and coffee. Not girls. Cash speaks of Vivian with deep devotion and fidelity.

These are the early years in which John Ray gets to grips with a 25-mark acoustic guitar, chasing the reckless dream of Hank Williams alongside a few army barracks buddies. The country star rises to the top of the charts, and then, on New Year's Eve 1953, to the heavens.

Cash falls into a period of deep despair that, nonetheless, soon proves fruitful: he begins writing his first stories (under the pseudonym Johnny Dollar) and, more importantly, his first songs. Soldier John Ray travels a great deal, visiting Paris, Amsterdam, London and Berlin. He enriches his spirit and becomes a man, ready to return to his beloved Vivian, back home.

On July 3, 1954, soldier John Ray Cash is honorably discharged at Camp Kilmer, New Jersey. It's no coincidence that, on that very same day, guitarist Scotty Moore invites a young man named Elvis Aaron Presley to Sam Phillips's Sun Records. Just two days later, he'll record "That's All Right (Mama)". There's a whiff of revolution in the air.

Walking the line

Right after his discharge, the now ex-soldier John Ray Cash returns to Memphis, where he's greeted by his family and, above all, by Vivian Liberto. Among the "welcoming committee" are Marshall Grant and Luther Perkins, mechanics and friends of his brother, as well as aspiring musicians.

The idea is to get together and play, but something far more important awaits John Ray first: on August 7, 1954, he marries his beloved Vivian. And it's no easy feat. He has to act like a man and pay the rent. Cash finds work as a door-to-door washing machine salesman. His dream, of course, lies elsewhere. In the car, he listens to the radio show Red Hot and Blue, which plays an innovative sound called rock and roll nonstop. He decides, then, to try his hand at radio, enrolling at the Keegan's School of Broadcasting to become a skilled announcer.

Before getting married in Texas, without a penny to his name.

A happy husband, Cash bonds with Grant and Perkins, putting together a trio: lead guitar (Perkins), rhythm guitar and vocals (John), and upright bass (Grant). The band has fun playing around churches and restaurants, but John Ray wants more. He wants to make a real record.

In September 1954, Cash meets Elvis Presley for the first time after a concert, but above all, he meets Presley's guitarist Scotty Moore, who advises him to call Sun Records boss Sam Phillips. He doesn't need to be told twice. The three of them perform at the Sun studios, sparking Phillips's keen interest, especially in the potential of one of the very first songs Cash wrote, "Hey! Porter".

And so we arrive at May-June 1955. First Rosanne is born, the firstborn of the Cash-Liberto household, and then "Hey! Porter"/"Cry, Cry, Cry", the debut single of Johnny Cash and the Tennessee Two.

Sam Phillips says that Johnny is far more rebellious than John. Within a month, radio stations across the South are calling the single something fantastic. Johnny Cash is already billing himself as "the most promising young artist Memphis, Tennessee has ever produced". The trio sets off on a run of small shows across Arkansas and Tennessee, sharing stages with Webb Pierce, Sonny James, and, above all, Elvis Presley.

It's August 5, 1955: on the stage of the Overton Park Shell, Johnny Cash and the Tennessee Two make their debut in the world of music that truly matters. It's also the fulfillment of a dream: right after, the three of them set off on a West Texas tour with Elvis himself and Jean Shepard.

Life goes on like this, between live shows and door-to-door appliance sales. Cash, in fact, still spends his time scraping together a few extra dollars, despite the excellent sales of his single "Cry, Cry, Cry" (which eventually sells a hundred thousand copies). Vivian doesn't look kindly at all on her husband's touring trips, frightened above all by the mass of girls swooning over Elvis's hips. Almost in response, Johnny writes a song about "toeing the line". It's called "I Walk The Line". It's Carl Perkins who helps him with the title, a favor Cash repays by naming a song after him: "Blue Suede Shoes". In February 1956, his new single "Folsom Prison Blues"/"So Doggone Lonesome" is about to climb to major positions on the country charts. Shortly before that, Cash makes his first appearance on the Louisiana Hayride, the live radio show broadcast by KWKH every Saturday night from the Municipal Auditorium in Shreveport, Louisiana. This is, perhaps, young Johnny's first real taste of genuine fame. A tempting fame that will pull him away from door-to-door sales and, above all, from "toeing the line".

The songs that made him famous

By the start of 1956, the United States is, by now, ready for the great rock and roll revolution. Elvis Presley declares himself the undisputed king of the new era, starting with two watershed singles: "Heartbreak Hotel" and "Blue Suede Shoes". Carried along by this new sonic wave, Johnny Cash breaks out of the narrow confines of Southern country with "I Walk The Line", his first single to enter the pop charts. Cash, however, stays true to his rural soul, fulfilling one of his greatest dreams: taking the stage at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, the flagship show for country music lovers. It's July 7, and backstage at the show, Johnny locks eyes for the first time with June Carter, the beauty of the Carter Family, Virginia's legendary country-gospel outfit.

His popularity grows month after month. To make the most of the success of "I Walk The Line", Cash's manager, Bob Neal, organizes a short California tour for February 1957. Next comes a trip to Canada, his first time outside the stars and stripes. The icing on the cake: a contract for ten appearances on the Jackie Gleason Show.

Life on the road, however, is extremely hard and exhausting. Johnny and his musicians have to endure endless journeys, moving from one show to the next. "Fortunately" there's a way out, generous and seductive: the little white pill, amphetamine. Cash starts taking ever-growing quantities of the drug, pushing his wife aside, writing songs almost non-stop. On stage he becomes a true force of nature, talkative beyond all measure and brash in his poses as a guitar-slinging troubadour.

Second half of 1957. In April, new recording sessions begin with Sun, alongside Jack Clement, the young sound engineer brought in by Sam Phillips for his label. It's partly thanks to him that Cash finally manages to finish his first album. It's the first LP released by Sun Records, one that, however, no longer seems to satisfy the artistic cravings of the prodigal son Johnny.

In August, Cash meets English producer Don Law at a party, who pushes him to sign a far more lucrative contract with Columbia Records. Johnny is, of course, drawn by the money, but above all he's tired of the commercial way Phillips is handling his music. The Sun boss, in fact, doesn't look kindly on Cash's passion for gospel, nor on his love of ballads. He wants action, like that of his other protégé Jerry Lee Lewis, on the rise with "Great Balls Of Fire".

The deal is practically already done, in great secrecy. Meanwhile, all Johnny has to do is enjoy the fruits of three years of intense musical activity.

Johnny Cash With His Hot And Blue Guitar (Sun Records, 1957) is the hard-earned goal of a boy from the South, a born storyteller, the bittersweet voice of those who work, love and pray. It's like the first time on a train, riding the hillbilly acceleration of "Rock Island Line", a warm cover of an old Leadbelly ode. The pursuit of a myth - the dissolute one of Hank Williams - that turns into the dramatic tone of "(I Heard That) Lonesome Whistle", a Southern ballad for a warm voice. These are, of course, other people's songs that Cash makes his own, right up to "Country Boy", his first album writing credit, complete with sparkling guitar phrasing. Johnny immediately shows he has a knack for rhyme, crafting the sweetness-to-drama swing of "Cry, Cry, Cry" and the nursery-rhyme feel of "Wreck Of The Old 97".

It's the dark, upright-bass-driven stories that take hold starting with "So Doggone Lonesome" through to the ballistic masterpiece "Folsom Prison Blues". The viewpoint of a man stripped of his freedom, who smells the cigars on the trains running parallel to his broken life. All of it over a guitar rhythm that turns into the solemn gallop of "I Walk The Line", the supreme example of his irresistible sonic boom-chicka-boom.

A country record, a blues record, a gospel record. Simply put, the dark and tender debut of an already-immortal troubadour.

It's the summer of 1958. Johnny Cash already has a deal with Columbia. Sam Phillips forces his former prodigy to honor his old contractual obligations, having him record more than twenty tracks between May and July. Many of these are Hank Williams songs. In August, Columbia itself convinces its new ace to move out to glittering California, effectively causing his split from Luther Perkins and Marshall Grant.

The Cash family thus arrives in Encino, California, where a future of fame and success awaits him, especially in the new Eden of commercial TV. Meanwhile, Sun tries to make the best of the wrong done to it, releasing a new record made up almost entirely of unreleased material.

Contrary to what its title claims, Johnny Cash Sings The Songs That Made Him Famous (Sun Records, 1958) is not a parade of songs to tell your grandchildren about. In one sense. Sam Phillips can't swallow the prodigal son's flight into Columbia's arms, so he starts emptying the drawers, releasing enough material for a whole album. Like "I Can't Help It (If I'm Still In Love With You)", lifted straight from the songbook of the doomed legend Hank Williams. Johnny shows off his most melodic tone ("There You Go"), confirming his intense back-and-forth between the drama of "Don't Make Me Go" and the sweetness of "The Ways Of A Woman In Love".

Apparently a record filled out rather than truly felt. Such as drawing on certain doo-wop harmonies for barrelhouse numbers like "Guess Things Happen That Way" and "You're The Nearest Thing To Heaven". Then, the masterstroke. A handful of songs that seem to have stepped straight out of a film of lived experience. Starting with "Ballad Of A Teenage Queen", a country ditty, through to "Big River", a trail of tears from St. Paul to St. Louis awaiting an inevitable sense of death.

Johnny is the balladeer of unhappy adolescence (the solemn "Home Of The Blues"), the weaver of the dark rhythms of "Next In Line", a shadowy master of the country-blues gallop. And here "Train Of Love" takes the stage, a song that really could "make famous" a simple boy from the South.

The Johnny Cash Show

Produced by Al Quaglieri and Don Law, The Fabulous Johnny Cash (Columbia, 1959) is the record that tries to crown, once and for all, a country talent. And it succeeds, even though there was really no need to. For his first album with Columbia, Johnny Cash splits himself in two, showing off as many sonic directions. On one side, a handful of choral harmonies, shared with The Jordanaires, a vocal group steeped in doo-wop. Hence the western feel of "Run Softly, Blue River" and numbers like "One More Ride" and "The Troubadour", a Cindy Walker cover.

Cash's aching voice ("That's All Over") fits perfectly with old stories like "Frankie And Johnny", the antechamber to the record's other soul. A dramatic atmosphere hangs over "I Still Miss Someone", and Johnny's delivery becomes masterful on "Don't Take Your Guns To Town", when his voice alone fills the emptiness of the arrangement. Then there are sweet country ballads like "That's Enough", "I'd Rather Die Young" and "Sheperd Of My Heart". A romantic, traditional side that is nonetheless upended by Cash's spoken delivery, a real force in the closing "Suppertime". Ladies and gentlemen, the "fabulous Johnny Cash".

Columbia thus gets to enjoy its new acquisition, a prized asset in constant polish, a captivating country singer with a memorable voice. Almost as if launching a full-blown release war, the betrayed Sun decides to counterattack, digging once more through the drawers of those recordings made starting in 1955. The little treasure is called Greatest! (Sun Records, 1959) and it's full of songs that sound both old-fashioned and modern at the same time. It opens, in fact, with "Goodbye Little Darling, Goodbye", an aching gospel for nostalgic hearts, and continues with the country gallop of "You Tell Me", good enough for the charts of the moment. It's Sam Phillips's hand that tightens the notes of "Katy Too" and lets through the boogie-woogie of "Luther Played The Boogie". Cash probably doesn't agree, but his warm, full voice keeps pace with Elvis's gem, "I Forgot To Remember To Forget". It's clear, however, that the album was padded out rather unnaturally: "You Win Again" opens a triptych - along with "Hey Good Lookin'" and "I Could Never Be Ashamed Of You" - in memory of the legend Hank Williams.

And yet, this is exactly where Johnny's strength lies. Embroidering the past of a beloved, traditional genre with a fresh, innovative idea. "Get Rhythm" is the small, immense gem that shines through the light of country and that of the newborn rock and roll. It's precisely here that we glimpse the worth of a dark, emotional, sincere songwriter.

In January 1959, Johnny Cash began working on his second album for Columbia. It was the fulfillment of an old dream, long opposed by Sam Phillips: recording an album made up entirely of gospel songs. Don Law was a benevolent father figure.

Described as "a collection that beautifully combines religious feeling with music," Hymns By Johnny Cash (Columbia, 1959) is a pursuit of the promised land, an American vision of the purest relationship with the divine. It's no coincidence that Cash draws on musicians like Stuart Hamblen (on "These Things Shall Pass"), a Christian cowboy and radio singer. It's a decidedly backward-looking journey, aimed at recovering the original spirit of deep, liturgical music. "Lead Me Father" echoes the old spirituals, traditional messages of brotherhood like "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot". His dark voice finds a dimension of light, adapting to certain choral, gospel-group atmospheres ("It Was Jesus"). It's almost a blend of country gallop and the sentimentality of "Lead Me Gently Home".

The album, however, can't quite shake off a whiff of incense that feels distant from the "human, all too human" poetics of his early work. Cash charms with the spoken word of "Are All The Children In", but seems slightly bogged down in a genre he loved dearly, yet one not entirely consistent with a lyrical life spent aboard freight trains, amid tears, amphetamines and blues from the Folsom prison.

In California, Johnny Cash struck up a friendship with young singer Johnny Western, often inviting him to play alongside Gordon Terry. This marked the start of a live tour through the Midwest that effectively became what would be known as the "Johnny Cash Show". The tours were punishing and, above all, endless. Johnny never had time to go home to his wife and daughters, drawn instead to the glamour of the stage, the drugs, the forward girls in the front row. Vivian hated all of it. And she was right to worry: her Cash was irresistibly drawn to sixteen-year-old Lorrie Collins, guitarist of the duo Collins Kids. Johnny's torment carried him away, far off. At the end of the tour he decided not to go home to Encino, choosing instead to stay in Shreveport with Johnny Horton and his wife, the alluring Billie Jean.

Songs Of Our Soil (Columbia, 1959) is an album steeped in an inescapable sense of death, a testament to an ever-deepening amphetamine dependency. Cash is visibly worn down by an endless life on the road, far from the family warmth he seemed to long for not long before. His aching voice accompanies dark stories of rural famine ("The Man On The Hill"), gold prospectors dying of thirst (the call-and-response of chorus and guitar in "Hank And Joe And Me") and clocks that suddenly stop ticking ("My Grandfather's Clock").

Small tales of loneliness and suffering, set loose over galloping country rhythms like those of "Clementine" and "Five Feet High And Rising". There's little room left, then, for old-fashioned romance, which survives only in the doo-wop of "Drink To Me" and the married couple of "Don't Step On Mother's Roses". Everything else waits for the divine judgment of "The Great Speckled Bird", in the skeletal darkness of "The Caretaker". Right up to the closing "It Could Be You (Instead Of Him)", a small, simple meditation on the hope for heavenly grace.

Songs Of Our Soil proves that Johnny is not merely a spirited interpreter of country music, but an increasingly mature, solitary, tormented, dark-hearted songwriter.

The dawn of the 1960s. Johnny Cash appears on the big screen for the first time, playing — of all things — a drugged-up killer in the noir film "Five Minutes To Live". The situation spirals further, wounded by the silence with Vivian and the death of his friend Johnny Horton. Things are further complicated by an ambiguous relationship between Cash and Billie Jean, a seductive singer and practically a fresh widow.

Johnny Cash Sings Hank Williams (Sun Records, 1960) is an album caught somewhere between a commercial scam and a modest collection of gems for die-hard fans. It's no coincidence that it comes from Sam Phillips's Sun, still trying to ride the success of his old protégé in parallel. A commercial scam because, contrary to what the title proclaims, only the first four tracks are actually reworkings from Williams's doomed repertoire. And, from "You Win Again" to "Hey, Good Looking", these are songs already released previously. Where the album can claim some artistic value is in a handful of fine songs, hand-crafted by a Cash hungry to reach fame. It opens with the rockabilly of "Straight A's In Love", a sonic testament to a danceable edge grafted onto country, also visible in "Come In Stranger". From there develops the well-known boom-chicka-boom in the style of "Folsom Prison": "Mean Eyed Cat" is a fine example.

Cash is a versatile artist, romantic on "Give My Love To Rose" and choral on "I Love You Because", doo-wop for barrelhouse piano. Gems, indeed, that rescue an album put together more to sell records than to show the world a musician's talent.

Cash is a more than prolific artist, tormented by his own amphetamine-fueled ideas. This is how his poetics of the journey took shape, of simplicity in the common man, of everyday martyrdom.

Ride This Train (Columbia, 1960) is the natural evolution of this approach, an album dominated by lyrics that depict the simplest and most tragic American microcosm. A concept album ahead of its time, a musical journey aboard a clattering train, perhaps without so much as a ticket. An experience of steam and rails introducing the story of the coal miner in "Loading Coal", almost an Appalachian dance. The songs stretch out in length because Cash has things to say, tragically human stories to tell. The country ballad becomes, then, merely a pretext for recounting the deeds of the multiple murderer John Wesley Hardin or those of a simple lumberjack. A journey through the folklore of an entire nation, following the smoke from the rails and the voice — never so measured — of a wandering storyteller. Here is the unhappy love of "Dorraine Of Ponchartrain" and the sweat spent building river levees (the rockabilly of "Going To Memphis"). In "Papa Played The Dobro", the blues manages to save a parent's soul better than the doctor in "Old Doc Brown", recited over a fiddle with a whiff of bluegrass.

The journey ends and the train pulls into town. Johnny Cash steps down from his lonely carriage, ready to continue on his way, to tell other small, great American stories.

The amphetamine blues set off first

After the lyrical binge of Ride This Train, Columbia decides to release a transitional record, trying to exorcise Johnny's moment of discomfort. Now, There Was A Song (Columbia, 1960) is, however, a substantially pointless album, stuffed with covers that add nothing to the artistic path Cash had embarked on. Like the by-now-familiar boom-chicka-boom of "Transfusion Blues". On top of that, it's a fundamentally monotonous record that drifts along without any real changes of gear. Dominating the album is the country ballad format, padded out with bluegrass arrangements on tracks like "Season Of My Heart", "I'd Just Be Fool Enough (To Fall)" and "I Will Miss You When You Go". Things work better, perhaps, when that same bluegrass flavor pairs with more rockabilly rhythms (as on "I Feel Better All Over" and "Time Changes Everything") or with barrelhouse numbers like "My Shoes Keep Walking Back To You".

Overall, a record poor in spirit, once again tied to the myth of Hank Williams and his "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry".

April 1961. For the United States, it's a time of great change. John Fitzgerald Kennedy has been in the White House for barely six months. On a smaller scale, there are changes afoot for the Tennessee Two as well, who, with the addition of drummer W.S. "Fluke" Holland, become the Tennessee Three. With the new arrival, recording sessions begin for a second, imminent gospel album. Cash, however, knows his current spiritual state all too well, inwardly grasping the full hypocrisy of singing praises to the Lord with eyes glazed over from drugs. It falls to Tara - the fourth child of the Liberto/Cash couple - to give him at least a glimmer of a smile. Not Sun Records, which insists on releasing records with a commemorative flavor.

Now Here's Johnny Cash (Sun Records, 1961) is, however, a lively album, built around fresh, original material. "Sugartime" veers toward doo-wop choral territory, while "Down The Street To 301" (written by Jack Clement) and "The Story Of A Broken Heart" have a barrelhouse feel.

Aside from the acoustic fragment "My Treasure", the album is danceable, riding the rockabilly of "Oh Lonesome Me" and the western gallop of "Life Goes On". Then, of course, there's a string of already-familiar hits, padded out with the absolute gem "Hey Porter", one of the first singles Cash ever wrote, a superb example of his boom-sound blend of country and rock and roll. A less commercial record than it might seem, and an interesting retrospective look at the birth of a star in the American firmament.

The ideas flow fairly freely, but you can tell with the naked ear that something isn't quite clicking. The Lure Of The Grand Canyon (Columbia, 1961) is a second "concept album", a half-hearted attempt to merge country music, classical atmospheres and sounds of nature. The entire structure of the pieces is modeled on the five movements of the "Grand Canyon Suite", the orchestral work by composer Ferde Grofé, conducted by Andre Kostelanetz. It's a journey through the Arizona desert, from the dawn of "Sunrise" to the poetic sunset of "Sunset". Cash accompanies it all with his baritone voice, filling the record with spoken commentary, especially in the never-ending finale of "A Day In The Grand Canyon". A confused work, bold in its premise but uncertain in its execution, with far too much thrown on the fire of the desert.

It's a genuinely tough period for J.R. Cash. In November 1961 he's arrested for the first time in Nashville, guilty of breaking down the door of a club in town. He's released a few hours later on bail, and the Nashville Banner runs the headline: "Johnny Cash Arrested In City For Drunk And Disorderly Conduct". By the end of the year, the inept manager Stew Carnall is replaced by Johnny himself with Saul Holiff, formerly a promoter for the Everly Brothers and Bill Haley. The new manager isn't a fan of country music, but he decides to push Cash's name to an ever-wider audience, billing him as "the greatest storyteller in America". For this reason, major concerts are arranged in celebrated venues like the Hollywood Bowl and Carnegie Hall in New York. Places not particularly associated with run-of-the-mill country artists, but with the brightest stars in the American musical firmament.

On May 10, 1962, the "storyteller" Johnny Cash makes his debut at the prestigious Carnegie Hall, but the concert turns out to be an almost total flop. His voice gives out due to a staggering intake of amphetamines. Columbia - which wants to turn the performance into a live album - doesn't even switch on a tape recorder. The mental chaos keeps mounting: after the birth of Tara Cash, Johnny decides to move north of Ventura, to a ranch practically cut off from the rest of the world. Here he tries to reconnect with his faith, through his friendship with the Texan preacher Floyd Gressett, who urges him to return to the straight and narrow, praying and singing praises to the Lord. And Johnny gives it a try - on record, at least.

Hymns From The Heart (Columbia, 1962) is like a rosary of religious songs, hymns of praise to the Lord in the fullest rural tradition. Hymns like "My God Is Real" and "These Hands" are small tributes to the divine, the fruit of a lifetime spent listening to his mother Carrie Cash sing.

Johnny gives it his all, singing in his usual deep, introspective tone, allowing himself an unusually polished, even saccharine style. And so songs like "He'll Understand And Say Well Done" rise up to heaven, melodic, psalm-like country. It's the ancient power of gospel that comes through in full force, dominating the mood of the whole record, from "I Got Shoes" (the only track written entirely by Cash) to "When He Reached Down His Hand For Me". There's just one small problem with all this praising: Johnny doesn't practice any of the divine teachings whatsoever. He's an "outlaw" in life, drunk, disorderly, strung out on drugs. He's the balladeer of losers, of those who break their backs every day to provide for their families. As close to the "Home Of The Blues" as he is far from the one in Paradise. Call it inconsistency, or rather, a different kind of destiny.

The effort is, nonetheless, admirable. Cash tries to walk the endless paths of righteousness, but drugs prove an insurmountable obstacle. It's the tunnel of a man steeped in amphetamines that mark out every moment of his day. Johnny lives an almost schizophrenic existence, torn between the kindness that has always defined him and a drugged, sick, anti-social restlessness.

In February 1962, the Carter Sisters and Mother Maybelle permanently join the great country caravan of the Johnny Cash Show. And, naturally, the guitarist is extraordinarily drawn to the beautiful, sweet June Carter. This time, however, it isn't just any old fling, some stage-star urge. Valerie June Carter - born in Scott County, Virginia in 1929 - is the divine hand that settles on the sinner, ready to lift him out of the mud, cleanse him, and deliver him unto grace.

Like manna from heaven, along comes The Sound Of Johnny Cash (Columbia, 1962), which lifts the artistic spirits of a man devastated by amphetamine-flavored doubts. His famous "guitar shuffle" is almost reborn here, starting with tracks like "In The Jailhouse Now" (written by Jimmie Rodgers), "You Won't Have Far To Go" and "I'm Free From The Chain Gang Now".

Cash's voice returns to the depth of "Mr. Lonesome", moving on the ballad "Let Me Down Easy" and in the romanticism of "Accidentally On Purpose". "Lost On The Desert" and "You Remembered Me" lean on classic country and doo-wop harmonies, but the album's high point lies in a small, understated trilogy. "In Them Old Cottonfields Back Home" nods to Leadbelly with a splendid, rhythmic spiritual that immediately echoes into "Delia's Gone".

For the finale, there's the lovesick torment of "Sing It Pretty, Sue", a melody dedicated to the elusive Billie Jean, a fleeting and ambiguous relationship of Cash's before the great emotional annunciation named June Carter.

Driven by an untamable desire

June Carter is the earthly being sent by providence to save Johnny the addict. She's a friend, an ally, endowed with infinite patience. Of course the relationship between Cash and June is a dangerous one, because they're both married. She's married to Edwin "Rip" Nix, a car-body repairman from Madison, Tennessee, but the marriage is already in crisis by the time of their 1957 honeymoon. June is literally torn apart, consumed by a growing love for Johnny. For him she writes a song called "Love's Burning Ring Of Fire". "Love is like a burning ring of fire."

By the middle of 1963, country star Johnny Cash is suffering a noticeable drop in chart pressure. Neither the latest Sun release - All Aboard The Blue Train (Sun Records, 1962) - nor his brand-new Columbia album does much to help. Blood, Sweat And Tears (Columbia, 1963) carries on the same project as Ride This Train, capturing America in song along with its stories, as humble as they are extraordinary. The central theme of this second chapter is work - the sweat that drips, the blood that flows from hands, the tears that line a face. Crucial, then, is the long opener "The Legend Of John Henry's Hammer", a traditional arranged by Cash together with June Carter. The laborer John Henry sacrifices his own life fighting against the rising power of machines, using his magical hammer to exalt the dignity of homo faber. The sound effects of labor blend with spoken parts and gospel choruses, accompanied by Cash's deep voice, for a kind of miniature country opera in nine minutes.

The workingman's blues tells of death in "Tell Him I'm Gone", and the a cappella spiritual "Another Man Done Gone" (with Anita Carter) is almost terrifying in its aura of desperate, inescapable fate. These are the best tracks on an album that then slides toward bluegrass arrangements ("Nine Pound Hammer" and "Chain Gang") and gospel-tinged banjo atmospheres ("Casey Jones" and "Roughneck"). "Busted" veers toward country, while "Waiting For A Train" (written by Jimmie Rodgers) is nothing more than an ordinary barrelhouse number.

Still, it's the idea behind it all that captivates, yet another proof of an absolute lyrical talent, bleak in its dark way of telling the story of the United States and its characters, full of blood, sweat and tears.

The record, despite its admirable concept, fails to crack the top eighty on the charts, generating a negative aura of discontent and commercial distrust around Cash. His producer, Don Law, runs into serious trouble convincing Columbia to renew a contract due to expire that year. What's needed is a stroke of genius, a big hit.

In March 1963, Johnny Cash phones his trusted Jack Clement, telling him to come to Nashville to record a song by June Carter and Merle Kilgore. He talks about a dream he'd recently had, in which the song is introduced by trumpets. But a trumpet had never been heard in country music before. In May, Johnny Cash's "Ring Of Fire" climbs the singles charts, letting out a huge sigh of relief at his record label.

Ring Of Fire: The Best Of Johnny Cash (Columbia, 1963) is the record that allows a great storyteller to return to the spotlight, confirming his talent and versatility.

The Mexican trumpets and passion of "Ring Of Fire" renew a spirit of innovation, beyond the simple stereotypes of country music. As does, for instance, "What Do I Care", a rhythmic blend of rural tones and rockabilly tension. Despite its title, the album isn't really a "best of" - it only collects previously unreleased tracks recorded at various points in Johnny's career. There's the choral romanticism of "Forty Shades Of Green" and the military march of "Remember The Alamo". Cash veers once more toward gospel leanings, confirmed again in deep traditionals like "Where You There When They Crucified My Lord" and "Peace In The Valley". Then there's an undying passion for country, turned inside out on "Tennessee Flat Top Box" and given a steady beat on the rebellious "Johnny Yuma". Between one groove and the next, the banjo of "The Big Battle" and the western theme tune of "Bonanza".

Aside from "Ring Of Fire", though, these aren't masterful songs - but there's certainly enough material to relaunch a career increasingly ravaged by drugs and romantic doubts. During Christmas 1963, Vivian Liberto is a devastated wife, while June Carter divorces her partner. "Love is something incandescent."

The Christmas Spirit (Columbia, 1963) is an exquisitely commercial record, like the panettone you eat for the company's sake rather than for any particular pleasure. Cash warms up his deep voice, hovering over liturgical recitations like the title track, "Here Was A Man" and "Ballad Of The Harp Weaver". A warm, hearth-and-home atmosphere dominates: "I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day" and "The Gifts They Gave" are two almost blinding examples. Then comes a thoroughly banal string of traditional Christmas sounds that slowly build to the climax of "Silent Night". Luckily, Cash doesn't entirely lose the spirit of his art (and so, of the much-vaunted Christmas spirit), delivering an intense version of "The Little Drummer Boy", somewhere between military march and poignant acoustic textures.

Between 1963 and 1964, country music seems to shed its skin entirely. The force of rock and roll changes the character of a genre historically tied to traditional instruments like the fiddle. New sonic protagonists from a more urban genre are added: drums, electric guitar, and barrelhouse piano. Rural roots transform into a more metropolitan context, capable of rebelling against false bourgeois stereotypes and becoming a vehicle for great ideals against dehumanized chaos. Folk experiences a second youth, brought to the forefront by the voice of Joan Baez, but above all by an album called "The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan".

Thus begins a relationship of mutual respect between the young troubadour from Duluth and the dark man from Arkansas. Cash likes Dylan because he draws on the same heroes as him (Hank Williams and Leadbelly) and because he has something to say, with emotion and intensity. Dylan likes Cash because, to him, he's a master, ever since he heard him on the radio back in the 1950s.

The 1950s. And that's exactly what Sun Records offers once again. The Original Sun Sound Of Johnny Cash (Sun Records, 1964) revives the "half compilation, half unreleased" formula, thereby justifying yet another celebratory release. The record, however, is an excellent testament to a sound unique of its kind, somewhere between the polish of country and the frantic pace of rock and roll.

While tracks like "Goodnight Irene", "Born To Lose" and "Two Timin' Woman" veer toward barrelhouse-style smoothness, a handful of songs rise up to cement a legend. Like the rockabilly of "Wide Open Road", built on a distinctive galloping guitar-and-upright-bass pattern equally evident on "Belshazzar". Cash's steady, tragic voice does the rest, telling border stories like that of "New Mexico". This time, the title really is fitting: this is the true "original sound of Johnny Cash".

Right afterwards, almost tit for tat, Columbia decides to release another anthology, poaching from Sam Phillips historic Cash tracks like "I Walk The Line", "Hey Porter" and "Folsom Prison Blues". I Walk The Line (Columbia, 1964) also contains the unreleased "Bad News" and "Understand Your Man", two small gems straddling country and blues on the back of dobro guitar. The album closes with "Troublesome Waters", a heartfelt prayer written by Mother Maybelle Carter.

The two collections almost seem to draw a line under things. Bob Dylan and the musical activists of the Newport Festival usher in a new era defined by protest folk music. Johnny himself is about to enter a new creative season.

From Nashville to Greenwich Village

At the start of 1964, in the wake of JFK's assassination and the arrival of Beatlemania in the United States, Johnny Cash becomes passionately interested in the songs of Peter La Farge, a folk artist who performed at the Gaslight in New York. La Farge writes acoustic pieces bordering on spoken word, devoting all his lyrics to the anguished struggles of Native Americans. The country star is deeply drawn to the depth of folk music in general, well aware that he has no intention of remaining forever tied to a single genre.

That's why, in March, he records "The Ballad Of Ira Hayes", a La Farge song already released by Columbia two years earlier. It's the moving story of the Native American Ira Hamilton Hayes who, once the celebrations following the Battle of Iwo Jima had died down, was forgotten by his own country and left to die in poverty. The country world around Nashville is nearly scandalized. The "King", Johnny, is bending toward the radical left, toward protest folk, toward New York intellectualism. Conservative DJs refuse to play the song. So Cash pays for a full-page ad in "Billboard" magazine, published on August 22nd, that opens with: "Where's your guts?". The DJs and record dealers may not have any, but Cash does. And so the folk scene gets to enjoy a near-masterpiece, intense and deeply moving.

Hailed by some as "one of the finest LPs to emerge from the folk movement of the Sixties", Bitter Tears: Ballads Of The American Indian (Columbia, 1964) widens the compositional horizons of an artist growing ever more complete and mature. The album completes a trilogy begun with Ride This Train and continued by Blood, Sweat And Tears, a small American epic built from stories of pain and suffering. Here it describes the "bitter tears" of Native Americans, treated as strangers, crushed by a ruthless, barbaric capitalism devoid of human scruples. It's a true "Vanishing Race", sung by Cash over the sonic carpet of a tribal hymn. The rhythm becomes skeletal, driven by the relentless beats of "Apache Tears" and by spoken passages over acoustic guitar and choruses (La Farge's favored style, as in "As Long As The Grass Shall Grow" and "The Talking Leaves"). The old hillbilly sound meets folk for greater lyrical depth, evident in tracks like "Custer" and the romantic "White Girl".

The blues march of "Drums" aims to upend a conservative genre, transforming it into the brilliant folk rhythm of "Ballad Of Ira Hayes", the bone of contention and the moving story of the marine of Native American descent left to a fate of loneliness and death.

A watershed record that will help turn the "King of Country" into a quintessential American artist.

After the release of "Bitter Tears", Johnny Cash's music suddenly veers toward the more bohemian shores of New York's Greenwich Village, greatly disappointing the more conservative expectations of the Nashville scene. In July 1964 these new sympathies are more than confirmed. Cash performs at the Newport Folk Festival and sends over seventy thousand people into raptures with his classics, but above all with the new ode to Ira Hayes and a cover of "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right". It is in fact at Newport that Johnny meets for the first time a young folk singer named Bobby Dylan. The country man thus begins a brilliant relationship with one of the most influential voices of the new music. Starting from the beginning of 1965.

With Orange Blossom Special (Columbia, 1965) Johnny Cash continues his artistic journey through the strings of the new American folk. At the album's core is a trilogy of songs borrowed from the pen of Bob Dylan, the new prophet of a generation. It starts with the rhythm of "It Ain't Me Babe" and moves on to "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" and "Mama You've Been On My Mind", filtered more properly through a distinctive, almost galloping sound. Cash weaves Charlie McCoy's harmonica into the record's sonic fabric to bring to life bluegrass marches like the title track and protest rhymes like "All Of God's Children Ain't Free" and "Wildwood Flower". Country music thus takes a back seat, driven by percussion on the ballad "Long Black Veil" and on "The Wall". What stands out instead are delicate acoustic phrasings ("You Wild Colorado" and "When It's Springtime in Alaska") and old traditionals like the Irish "Danny Boy". A fuller, richer sound, then, crowned by the choral finale of "Amen", somewhere between church gospel and barrelhouse piano.

Despite her husband's obvious bond with June, Vivian continues to refuse a divorce, turning Cash into a kind of stranger in his own home. Johnny suffers enormously from this situation, spending endless hours on solitary trips into the desert to "join the ghosts of the cowboys". This is how an intense passion for the cosmogony of the Old West is born, centered on outlaws like John Wesley Hardin. Cash studies interviews, magazines and books, but above all faces his inner pain by living like a real cowboy, gun at his hip and pen in hand.

In Nashville he is rescued after crashing June's car into a lamppost. He's out of his mind on alcohol and amphetamines. His shows increasingly feature announcements like: "Ladies and gentlemen, Johnny Cash is not here tonight". He's thrown out of the Grand Ole Opry after smashing the mic stand and microphone because the lights were too bright. The only consolation seems to be the silent desert, where he spends entire weeks on half-abandoned ranches. His condition, however, is truly disastrous. In June, the heat from his camper, stuck in the sand, sets fire to over two hundred hectares of the Los Padres National Forest. The federal government sues him and forces him to pay nearly one hundred thousand dollars. Meanwhile autumn arrives, and finally, so does his new record on the mythology of the Old West. And it's another small miracle.

Johnny Cash Sings The Ballads Of The True West (Columbia, 1965) is an epic set to music, born of solitary journeys, inner meditations, and studies of a world that almost no longer exists. It's the cursed spirit of John Wesley Hardin running through the skeletal chords of "Hardin Wouldn't Run". The outlaw doesn't flee, but lives through the hardships of a harsh reality, pushed to the edge, caught up in a "Hiawatha's Vision", an ancestral spoken piece over desolate acoustic guitar.

These are, of course, the visions of an artist devastated by doubt, tormented in both faith and fidelity, pushing further and further until reaching the amphetamine-fueled delirium of the stark "Sam Hall". Cash no longer knows how to control himself, lost in his own urge to create, forever on the road in the tradition of American music. Deep inside, all the way into the heart of traditionals like "I Ride An Old Paint", "Streets Of Laredo" and "Green Grow The Lilacs". What emerges is a massive work somewhere between encyclopedia, legend and gut-wrenching emotion, accompanied by the choral orchestration of the two-part "Shifting Whispering Sands". A double album that's more than conceptual, a kind of novel told through country and western songs. Like the banjo of "The Road To Kaintuck" and "Bury Me Not On The Lone Praire". Like the marching rhythms of Carl Perkins's "Ballad Of Boot Hill" and the harmonica of "Johnny Reb". Cash recounts the harshest stories of the desert, staining with bluegrass the assassination of President James Garfield (Ramblin Jack Elliott's "Mr. Garfield") and once again following the example of Peter La Farge on "Stampede". A borderline world of cowboys and outcasts counting down over the country-blues rhythm of "25 Minutes To Go", who even end up weeping by the lonely closing notes of "Reflections". More than a record, the novel of a true American author.

The Amphetamine Blues, Part Two

October 1965. After a concert in Dallas, Johnny Cash arrives in Juarez, Mexico, to meet a local drug dealer. He buys over 1000 pills and hides them inside a guitar. In El Paso, Texas, he's arrested by federal customs agents who had previously put the Mexican dealer under surveillance. He spends a night in jail before being publicly charged with "bringing drugs into the country and concealing them." Johnny leaves the courthouse behind dark sunglasses and is photographed by some Casitas Springs photographers. He will plead guilty, but that's not all. In the newspaper photos — in which Cash is accompanied by his wife — Vivian Liberto's rather dark complexion is visible. The Ku Klux Klan starts handing out flyers accusing Johnny of being with a "negro woman," urging people to boycott his concerts. Cash is furious and instantly decides to sue the KKK for twenty-five million dollars. The fanatical organization realizes its mistake and drops everything, but it's not over yet; not quite. Peter La Farge is found dead in a New York hotel room, apparently from an overdose.

The weight seems to really be too much. Cash is suddenly scared and stops taking pills. He locks himself in the studio to record, so as not to think about any of it.

Everybody Loves A Nut (Columbia, 1966) is, in fact, a lighthearted record, sharply at odds with the dark epic of "True West". Cash tries to give himself a clean image, free of amphetamines, indulging with trusty Jack Clement in some breezy barrelhouse numbers, from the title track to "The One On The Right Is On The Left" and "The Singing Star's Queen". He sings just for the sake of singing, playing with Ramblin Jack Elliott's yodel on "Cup Of Coffee" or with some classic doo-wop harmonies ("The Bug That Tried To Crawl Around The World"). The quality of the songs suffers as a result, exposing a growing banality in country-folk marches like "Austin Prison" and "Please Don't Play Red River Valley".

What's left, then, are bluegrass numbers like "Take Me Home" and burp-fuelled nursery rhymes like "Boa Constrictor". Not much, after the grand narrative of the Old West.

In May 1966, Johnny Cash lands in London to kick off a tour across England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. His run of concerts coincides with that of his friend Bob Dylan, who has just released the absolute masterpiece "Blonde On Blonde". There is, however, something darker linking the two American artists. Drugs. Johnny's period of abstinence, in fact, lasts very little, very little indeed. Sealing the return of his old habit, Cash fails to show up at Heathrow Airport for a flight to Paris, where an exclusive concert at the Olympia had been arranged.

Back in the United States, the guitarist immediately sets off on tour again, abandoning his wife and daughters for the umpteenth time. It's the last straw for Vivian Liberto. At the end of June, she officially files for divorce, publicly accusing her husband of inflicting on her "unjust psychological suffering and anguish". In August, Cash fails to appear in court for the proceedings, but will eventually give in, granting Vivian custody of the girls and ownership of Casitas Springs.

Meanwhile, on the 29th, a group called Beatles plays its last concert in San Francisco.

Johnny moves to Madison, Tennessee, into a "bachelor pad" with Waylon Jennings, before deciding to buy a strange, eccentric house on a lake where he could relax and write music in peace. It's twenty miles from Nashville, on Old Hickory Lake in Hendersonville. Johnny is wild about the new house, and wants to use the divorce as a chance to start a new life. With the help of June and Dr. Nat Winston, he desperately tries to get clean.

Cash truly hits rock bottom. One day he walks into a labyrinth of dark caves, firmly determined to lie down inside one of them and die. And he does. "It seemed to me I had reached the end of the road. I wanted to get away from myself. And if that meant dying, then fine, I was ready." Then, an inner light, like an epiphany, saves him, bringing him back to the will to live. It arrives like a sudden, intense happiness. On record, too.

Happiness Is You (Columbia, 1966) is, however, a weak record, forcedly cheerful and lighthearted. "For Lovin Me" and "No One Will Ever Know" are bland melodic numbers, enriched by Maybelle Carter's harp. Cash again echoes Peter La Farge's style on "She Came From The Mountains", an acoustic-guitar tale, before giving in to the usual bluegrass of "Wabash Cannonball". The sonic ingredients are already well-worn, from the barrelhouse of "You Comb Her Hair" to the church organ of the title track. Only "Happy To Be With You" truly manages to convey a sense of freshness, with its unusual beat rhythm for a little organ. For the rest, it's a predictable record that shows just how distant, how elusive, Johnny Cash's happiness really is.

Perhaps to make amends, Columbia Records decides to churn out another greatest-hits album, titled Greatest Hits Vol.1 (Columbia, 1967). The collection opens with the only new track, "Jackson", sung by Cash together with June Carter, the first public musical testimony to their unbreakable bond. The single is a huge hit, pulling the whole album to the top of the country charts. Capitalizing on the moment, in August an album made entirely of duets between Johnny and the woman who would become his future life companion is released.

Carryin' On With Johnny Cash And June Carter (Columbia, 1967) is the inevitable, passionate musical meeting of two artists, storytellers, lovers. It's the spark created by an almost secret relationship, far from the spotlight yet at the center of all of country music's attention. In the rockabilly of "Long Legged Guitar Pickin' Man", the bond between Johnny Cash's deep, warm voice and June Carter's tart countrygirl fire slips in. This is the thread running through the whole record, which shines in effervescent, rhythmic moments like "Jackson" and the almost ethnic "Fast Boat To Sydney", but is less memorable when the two play with some intriguing soul-blues toys. Here, in particular, two covers from Ray Charles's repertoire — "I Got A Woman" and "What'd I Say" — fail to shine, simply because Cash and Carter are not artists cut from Charles's cloth. They're decidedly more at ease, in fact, with the bluegrass banjo of "Pack Up Your Sorrows". The album then veers toward melodic territory already well explored, from the baroque "You'll Be All Right" to the nursery-rhyme "No No No". What's fascinating here is simply a great love about to explode.

Cash's problems, as usual, come knocking again, as punctual as the taxman. On November 2, 1967, he's arrested in Lafayette, Georgia, after wandering the neighborhoods like a drifter, strung out and with pockets full of pills. The sheriff decides to spare him, allowing his musician friend Richard McGibony to pay his bail. On the 5th, in Hendersonville, June Carter drags Johnny to the First Baptist Church to awaken something inside him that could save him from certain death: faith in God. And Johnny Cash truly feels it — God.

At Folsom Prison

“I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when”

At the dawn of 1968, Johnny Cash is once again ready to turn the page. On January 3, the divorce between the guitarist and Vivian Liberto is officially finalized; a few days later, she marries Dick Dustin, a Ventura police officer she met at a concert organized by Johnny himself. That same month, Cash returns to his solo dimension, releasing a new concept album, for the last time with producer Don Law. The structure of From Sea To Shining Sea (Columbia, 1968) is the same as his previous concept albums, packed with spoken-word pieces set to music.

Cash, however, abandons the epic of the West and any discussion of American folklore to drift off into the placid waves of the sea. Not exactly an original idea, and one that, in fact, struggles to take flight right from the patriotic chorus of the title track. Standout tracks include "Cisco Clifton's Filling Station", where the music is merely an open backdrop for Johnny's narrating voice. It's an acoustic record that shines on "The Walls Of A Prison", but then carries on with bluegrass arrangements on "The Whirl And The Suck" and "Another Song To Sing". Things improve when Cash picks up the pace, as with the rockabilly harmonica of "Shrimpin Sailin'". Essentially a pointless effort, adding nothing to the parallel run of concept albums begun with Ride This Train.

"The first time I played in a prison, I thought that was the only place to record a live album: I'd never heard a reaction like that to my songs. They weren't ashamed to show how much they loved them." Ever since 1963 — the year he performed at San Quentin, California — Johnny Cash had desperately wanted to release an album recorded live within the cold walls of a prison. Columbia, however, had never shown much enthusiasm for such a project. Until June 1967, that is. Don Law decided to retire, handing the reins to the younger, bolder Bob Johnston. Cash's new producer was perfect for the job. He had worked with Simon & Garfunkel, but above all with his electric majesty Bob Dylan. Johnston didn't hold back in calling Columbia's output up to that point "garbage", and placed his full trust in Cash's own instincts.

For Johnny's performance, Folsom State Prison was chosen, in Represa, California, best known for housing 3,500 of some of the worst inmates in the United States. On the morning of January 13, 1968, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, the Carter Family, the Tennessee Three and the Statler Brothers made their way into an overcrowded dining hall, under the heat of lights that, of course, couldn't be switched off. "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash."

At Folsom Prison (Columbia, 1968) is the sheer immensity of an artist on stage, the incandescent result of a passion ablaze, never so scorching on record. Johnny sheds the guise of the drugged-up, temperamental star and picks up a number, as if branding it onto his chest. A number to become one of the prisoners of Folsom, singing his lungs out to reclaim a lost freedom. Johnny introduces himself this way, with a simple "Hello", as if to say "I'm one of you", "I understand you", but at the same time "follow me, don't do anything stupid, and I'll give you passion through my songs". He sets off at the restless gallop of "Folsom Prison Blues", recounting the pain of someone who no longer remembers what dawn looks like. And in the dining hall, the crowd claps and roars over the electric guitars of Luther and Carl Perkins.

Cash has no time for grand speeches, nor for catchy, easy songs. He wants to speak only through his songs, the most tragic ones like "Dark As A Dungeon" and "The Long Black Veil".

It's the love missing from the lives of the men behind bars, exorcised in "I Still Miss Someone" and "Give My Love To Rose". The romanticism never once gives way to the saccharine, proof of a mature sensibility, from "Dirty Old Egg-Suckin' Dog" to "Flushed From The Bathroom Of Your Heart". The Folsom inmates shout and howl, swept up by Cash's warm, compelling voice, almost a fellow sufferer in "Jackson" (with June Carter on stage). No "Ring Of Fire" or "Hey, Porter!" here. This is about drugs that help a man bear the weight of his soul ("Cocaine Blues") and existential countdowns ("25 Minutes To Go"). This is the countrybilly of the definitive American author, a mephistophelian wanderer of a nation's spirit, a vagabond armed with an acoustic guitar and a baritone voice. Only in this light can one grasp the quiet greatness of the legends of "John Henry" and "Joe Bean".

Cash crowns himself the greatest of outlaws, a captivating figure teetering on life's dark river. His two prison performances will go down in the history of American culture because they capture in music everything that afflicts the human soul, encapsulated perhaps in the stratospheric finale of "Greystone Chapel", amid vibrant guitars, country rhythms, gospel choruses and blues vocal inflections.

At Folsom Prison is, more than a double album, a liturgy sung for the lonely man.

Just as Johnston had predicted, At Folsom Prison proves to be a shot in the arm for Cash's fortunes. The album, in fact, sells six million copies, reaching number thirteen on the US pop charts. It's a happy moment for the troubled outlaw Johnny: on February 22, on stage in London, Ontario, he finally asks his beloved June to marry him. The answer is a foregone conclusion, and the two become husband and wife in Franklin, Kentucky. After a tour of Britain, the newlyweds head off to Israel for a honeymoon tracing the footsteps of Jesus Christ.

Meanwhile, Columbia is quick to cash in on the fame gained from the Folsom live album. Old Golden Throat (Columbia, 1968) is a decidedly odd compilation, made up of singles that had gone unreleased between the late Fifties and much of the Sixties. The record revolves, unsurprisingly, around a handful of songs Cash performed at the Folsom shows. It opens with the melodic country of "I Got Stripes", then moves on to the drama of "Dark As A Dungeon" and the romanticism of "Send A Picture Of Mother". Around this core sits a series of solid tracks, gems from the already vast catalogue of a hugely prolific artist. Worth noting are a couple of barrelhouse numbers ("A Certain Kinda Hurtin'" and "Still In Town") and "The Sons Of Katie Helder", a western tale set to horns.

"All Over Again" and "Smiling Bill McCall" bring back the galloping rhythm that made him famous, while "Red Velvet" and "The Wind Changes" return to the old bluegrass sound of rural America. Certainly a minor record after the triumph of Folsom, but an interesting glimpse of Johnny Cash's lesser-known side.

After the huge success of At Folsom Prison, Johnny Cash enjoys the moment, letting a young director, Robert Elfstrom, into his life to make a film/documentary about his incredible story. While the director prepares for the shoot, another compilation is released, this time considerably less enticing. Heart Of Cash (Columbia, 1968) offers the usual parade of greatest hits plus two unreleased tracks: the acoustic "Locomotive Man" and the doo-wop rhythm of "Girl In Saskatoon".

The first session Elfstrom is allowed into is the one with Bob Johnston in July, when another concept album is recorded, this time based on Cash's recent honeymoon trip.

The Holy Land (Columbia, 1969) is, in fact, a sort of sonic postcard from Israel, tracing the path and passion of Christ. Johnny the man tries to reconnect with a faith he never entirely abandoned, yet one always teetering on the thin edge of drug addiction. This celestial vision turns into the artistic work of Johnny the musician, caught up in Christian visions of the "promised land". Here, the orchestral "Land Of Israel" stands as proof of a kind of blend between country music and liturgical pomp.

The record doesn't convince, too anchored in ill-fitting spoken interludes like "Mother's Love" and "Town Of Cana" and superfluous audio-guide moments, including "Mount Tabor" and "My Wife June At The Sea Of Galilee".

The music decidedly takes a back seat, left to the billy rhythm of "Nazarene" or to country ditties like "The Ten Commandaments" and "Daddy Sang Bass". Religious intent and traditional sounds come together half-heartedly, somewhere between the rockabilly of "The Fourth Man" and the gospel of "He Turned Water Into Wine". Cash, in fact, seemed far more heartfelt and intense when he was letting the inmates of Folsom drink from the well of country-blues. Now, playing the part of a visiting preacher, he can't muster anything scorching, deep or passionate.

At San Quentin, Still in Prison

A few months later, Elfstrom films a second session with Cash for his documentary. He records "The Devil To Play" by a young man from Brownsville, Texas, named Kris Kristofferson. Kris writes songs between odd jobs and sees Johnny as the musician and man to look up to: "We all wanted to be like him. He had integrity. He went his own way with pride. He was an outlaw and we loved that about him. He went his own direction and no one could tell him what to do".

Cash takes a liking to Kristofferson's lyrics, recording his "To Beat The Devil" and even going so far as to want him on stage with him at the Newport Folk Festival.

The third session filmed by Elfstrom for the movie turns out to be a magical, unexpected meeting between two true American artists. Bob Dylan, after the monumental, drug-hazed "Blonde On Blonde", decides to explore the country sounds of Nashville and heads into town to the Columbia Studios to work once again with Bob Johnston. It's February 18, 1969, and the producer has a wild idea: get Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash playing together. The two seem to relish the idea and launch into a fearless jam session lasting nearly twenty songs. The duet version of "Girl From The North Country" will open the Duluth man's "Nashville Skyline".

During 1969, a commercial TV network in London - Granada Television - starts seriously considering the idea of filming a second Cash concert at Folsom Prison. Johnny's answer is firm: he has no intention of going back to the same place. There is, however, an opening for the network's plans - filming a show to be held at San Quentin State Prison.

San Quentin is bigger and more dangerous than Folsom, and sits on San Francisco Bay. Cash has already played there once, on New Year's Eve 1959, with Merle Haggard among the inmates in the crowd. The director assigned to the film, Michael Darlow, asks Johnny to write a song specifically for the concert, dedicated of course to the prison, just as he did with "Folsom Prison Blues". Johnny obliges, gearing up for a concert even tougher than the previous one, on February 24, 1969.

At San Quentin (Columbia, 1969) is the second chapter of the prison saga, another live journey among lost souls set to the galloping rhythm of the guitar. Cash is welcomed like a true friend, an outlaw among convicts, a troubadour of human passion. When "I Walk The Line" kicks in, Johnny jokes with the prisoners, admitting he's been pressured by the English TV crew over the setlist. But Cash plays only for them, and is willing to grant only the requests of those who "haven't seen the dawn in too long". It's the starkest expression of the romanticism of the best of outlaws, captured in the ode "San Quentin". And only the best can afford the luxury of playing the same song twice in a row, met with the crowd's untamed enthusiasm both times.

The show oozes emotion and tension, with the guards tensed up keeping watch over murderers and thieves, treated by Cash as brothers, beyond any conventional morality. In fact, he tells them about the time he spent a day in jail after picking flowers from a public flowerbed ("Starkville City Jail"), dedicating the song to Luther Perkins, who had died tragically the year before. Johnny talks about his recent meeting with Bob Dylan, offering a version of "Wanted Man" before the irresistible nursery-rhyme romp of "A Boy Named Sue". It's one of the songs Cash performs for the first time at San Quentin, along with "Darlin Companion", written by John Sebastian.

It's a riot of shouting and sweat, doused by the water Johnny asks for as if to celebrate a collective rite of freedom. Set to the unleashed rhythm of "The Old Account Was Settled Long Ago", between gospel and rockabilly, and the great classics "Folsom Prison Blues" and "Ring Of Fire", with the Statler Brothers and the ever-present June Carter. Perhaps less rich in pathos than the Folsom shows, but the San Quentin concert is another event that the history of popular music will remember for a long time.

The documentary of the San Quentin concert is broadcast by Granada in April 1969, but only in Britain. US networks, on the other hand, decide to boycott it due to its overly colorful language and an image of the prisoners deemed too sympathetic. The film pushes the album to the top of the charts in June, confirming the commercial strength of an undertaking even more grandiose than the Folsom one. Meanwhile, ABC offers Cash a starring role at the Hollywood Palace for a series of fifteen shows throughout the summer. The artist agrees on the condition that it all be filmed at the Ryman Auditorium. It's his idea to duet with artists of the caliber of Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Ramblin Jack Elliott and Linda Ronstadt. This is the Johnny Cash Show. There's talk of love, murder, outlaws, all set to music that rarely made it onto mainstream American TV. The shows are a resounding success, boosted by the live album, leading ABC to renew Cash for all of 1970, for a total of 17 episodes.

Meanwhile, Columbia keeps squeezing its golden-hit-making cash cow, releasing the second installment of the collection More Of Old Golden Throat (Columbia, 1969). The album follows the same "b-side" format as its predecessor, bringing together tracks recorded over the years, good fodder for collectors and Cash devotees. It ranges from the country of "Bottom Of The Mountain" and "Time And Time Again" to the rockabilly of "Bandana" and the barrelhouse of "Lorena". In between, a series of numbers spanning a variety of styles and inspirations, from a Folsom-style blues ("Blues For Two", written by the late Luther Perkins) to the mariachi horns of "You Beat All I Ever Saw". It's all decent, but hardly a feast.

Far more striking, on the other hand, is the album Hello, I'm Johnny Cash (Columbia, 1970), which offers moments worthy of its title. Looking at the record as a whole, it's a handful of steady western numbers, from the opening "Southwind" and "Devil To Pay" to the cover of the esteemed Kris Kristofferson's "To Beat The Devil". "See Ruby Fall" is co-written with Roy Orbison, barrelhouse piano before galloping off with the rhythm of "Route N 1, Box 144". This is Cash at his grittiest, softened only by the sentiment of "Cause I Love You" and the usual presence of June Carter on the mystical cover of Tim Hardin's "If I Were A Carpenter". The ballad "Jesus Was A Carpenter" closes things out, on a record that rightly fits into the artist's resurgence starting from Folsom.

The Voice of America

At the start of 1970, Cash keeps enjoying his small-screen popularity, filling the "Johnny Cash Show" with great live classics and exceptional guests. The artist revisits the saga of the Wild West with the "Ride This Train" segment, in which, dressed in period costume, he performs lyrics and songs like "Loading Coal". The only compromise concerns his appearance, which has to be neater and softer, suited to a mainstream audience. From here, his greeting "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash" becomes a kind of trademark in technicolor. This is how the "Man In Black" turns into a true guardian of American faith and tradition. The clearest, most captivating embodiment of the hardworking man who thinks of his family, the Lord and his country. In short, the voice of America. Not exactly a conservative voice, though, since Cash opposes the military intervention in Vietnam and understands the voices of protest coming from the new generation. And yet, a voice loved for its loyalty to the nation, to the soldiers caught up in the tragic conflict. "Until a bit of light comes back, I'll be the Man in Black".

In May, Columbia releases another compilation, The World Of Johnny Cash (Columbia, 1970), spreading across the record 19 less striking tracks, such as "In Them Old Cottonfields Back Home" and the Hank Williams cover, "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry".

Thankfully, breaking the monotony of the best-of is The Johnny Cash Show (Columbia, 1970), which brings to record some of the hottest moments from Cash's small-screen performances. A true collector's gem is "Sunday Morning Coming Down", an intense western ballad that launches – thanks precisely to Cash's version – the career of Kris Kristofferson. There are, then, two medleys built around the train journey as a metaphor for life itself. Both titled "Come Along And Ride This Train", they stand as the sonic testimony to what is perhaps the segment most beloved by viewers, who identify with the rebellious storyteller recounting American traditions and folklore. With excerpts from the galloping "Detroit City" and "Mississippi Delta Land". Minor episodes, on the other hand, are the doo-wop harmonies of "These Hands" and the gospel ones of "I'm Gonna Try To Be That Way". This is, in fact, the more psalm-like Cash who's starting to take hold, belting out lavish praise to the Lord as in "Here Was A Man".

The success of the "Johnny Cash Show" continues unabated, leading ABC to commission a third season starting in September for a total of 26 episodes. Johnny is increasingly caught up in his love affair with the Christian faith, speaking on TV about Jesus, Moses and John the Baptist.

Two months later, I Walk The Line (Columbia, 1970) is released, the soundtrack to the Gregory Peck film of the same name. The record sinks into a magma of orchestral country, made even syrupier for the big screen. The version of "Amazing Grace" is the clearest proof of this. Standing out, however, is the ballad "Flesh And Blood", repeated in an instrumental version too. For the rest, it's a thoroughly minor work, somewhere between the bluegrass beat of "This Town" and the nursery-rhyme feel of "This Side Of The Law".

As time goes by, Cash's TV appearances lose their bite, cluttered with biblical sermons and songs that are starting to feel too dated. Ratings drop noticeably, and even the beloved "Ride This Train" segment no longer wins people over.

The second soundtrack in his discography, Little Fauss And Big Halsy (Columbia, 1971) accompanies the key moments of the Robert Redford film, but, rather than a genuine Cash record, it feels more like a joint project with Carl Perkins. The title track, in fact, is his, a kind of countrybilly number that holds the album together. "706 Union" follows in the same vein, before the romanticism of "True Love Is Greater Than Friendship". Johnny's own songwriting is sparse here, limited to the western rhythm of "Rolling Free" and "Little Man". Mere filler.

May 1971. Two pieces of news from the life of J.R. Cash, one good and one bad. The good one is that the album Man In Black (Columbia, 1971) is released in May, decisively relaunching his aura as a protest storyteller and outlaw in the service of the Lord.

"The Preacher Said Jesus Said" is, in fact, a religious ditty complete with Bible verses recited by Reverend Billy Graham, while "I Talk To Jesus Every Day" is a declaration of faith in gospel form. The album is thus circular, beginning and ending with the divine. In between, however, there's something "pagan" that does justice to a difficult, rebellious artist. While "Orphan Of The Road" and "If Not For Love" veer toward the country-ballad format,

"Man In Black" rises to the anthemic status of a manifesto-song for an entire lyrical vision. The man in black, riding hard in defense of the oppressed, the unlucky. Folk takes hold across the record's grooves, between the protest of "Singin' Vietnam Talking Blues" and the wild legend of "Ned Kelly". This is the bloodiest, most visceral Cash, singing straight from the heart. Without a doubt.

The bad news, on the other hand, is that he's told while in Australia that the "Johnny Cash Show" has been cancelled by ABC after 58 episodes over two years. Cash is surprised, but, deep down, relieved: his artistic goals have shifted. "Television steals your soul," he will later say.

What changes Johnny's outlook in this period is a deep bond with Reverend Billy Graham, who pushes him even further into the depths of faith. After the birth of his first child with June, John Carter Cash, the man in black seems reborn, light years away from the tunnel of drugs.

He will later call it the "peak of my career", but in truth, it's only the beginning of the most intense and spiritual period of his life.

***

“I wear black for the poor and the beaten down, living on the mean streets of hungry, hopeless towns. I wear black for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime, but who is there because he's a victim of the times… Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day and tell the world that everything's fine, but I'll try to carry that darkness on my back, till things are brighter, I'm the Man in Black"

Johnny Cash

"I've always been drawn to what's jagged and extreme. Johnny Cash was always an outlaw, a figure who didn't fit the mold. They considered him a country artist, but I don't think country folk ever truly accepted him. He was an outsider, and I think that's what drew me to him more than anything else"

Rick Rubin

Reach out and touch faith

In the spring of 1971, Johnny Cash is a reborn man, far removed from the amphetamines, the wrecked hotel rooms and the desert flights to escape a marriage that had come too close to the cold prison walls he had visited and brought joy to with his music. It's true that ratings for the Johnny Cash Show have suddenly plummeted, leading Abc to cancel a once-successful program, but the Man in Black is by now a genuine American star. June Carter makes him happy every passing day, having also given him the long-awaited son. The year before he had made a film with Kirk Douglas ("A Gunfight"), and he has even forgiven his long-neglected father. Cash is a new man, ready to embark on his most spiritual journey yet, an act of faith meant to redeem his once-ungodly soul. It's during this period that Johnny begins regularly attending the Assembly Of God, a Pentecostal-rooted church founded in Hot Springs, Arkansas in 1914. Here the sermons of Jimmy Snow rage on, a former drug-addicted singer reborn on the path of the Lord against the demonic temptations of rock and roll. It's Snow who convinces Cash to publicly declare his repentance, kneeling before the entire congregation. And there's more.

Johnny is more determined than ever to offer his most heartfelt repentance to religion, personally putting up a $750,000 budget to make a film about the life of Jesus Christ, to be entrusted to Robert Elfstrom, already director of "Johnny Cash: The Man, His World, His Music".

In November, a crew travels to Palestine to begin filming a project still in its early stages, with June Carter in the role of Mary Magdalene and Elfstrom himself playing Jesus. Here, Jimmy Snow baptizes Cash in the Jordan River. Columbia, awaiting an artist drifting ever further from the music business, releases two compilations: Greatest Hits Vol. 2 (Columbia, 1971) and Sunday Morning Coming Down (Columbia, 1972).

At the start of 1972, Cash begins working with producer Larry Butler to create what should become the soundtrack for the new Christian film. Meanwhile, A Thing Called Love (Columbia, 1972) is released, a rather bland record with few songs that really matter. Cash shows off his more romantic, sentimental side, with tracks like "I Promise You" and the choral title track. A reconciliation emerges with his long-contested father figure ("Daddy" and "Papa Was A Good Man"), and only when the Folsom-era style resurfaces ("Kate") does something truly vital come through. One senses the Man in Black has other projects on his mind.

The sessions for both the film and the record, in fact, continue at the brand-new House Of Cash studios in Hendersonville. Working actively alongside Johnny are Kris Kristofferson and aspiring singer Larry Gatlin. In June, the three take part in Explo '72, organized by the Campus Crusade For Christ and billed as "the religious Woodstock." The eighty thousand attendees are all there for the born-again Christian Johnny Cash.

That same month sees the release of the album America: A 200-Years Salute in Story And Song (Columbia, 1972), continuing the run of works devoted to American folklore and history. Here, however, Cash's pen focuses mainly on events central to the nation, mixing numerous spoken segments with songs carrying a strong political flavor. It opens with the rockabilly tale of "Paul Revere" before sliding straight into the battle lines of New Orleans and the Alamo. "The Battle Of New Orleans" dates back to 1815, first turned into song by Jimmie Driftwood and delivered by Johnny in a folk key, as is the case with the cover of "Remember The Alamo." "The Gettysburg Address" weaves spare chords around a reading of Abraham Lincoln's speech, followed by the country ballad "Big Foot." "The Big Battle" breathes a bluegrass air, and the declaration of love in "These Are My People" comes across as thoroughly convincing.

The record, despite nearly two years of work and Cash's own wish to send it to the Moon aboard the Apollo 14 mission, doesn't measure up to his previous "American" works, and bears witness to an attention decidedly turned toward the concerns of a faith that is calling the artist to a new life.

During the second half of 1972, Jimmy Snow creates a sort of gospel version of the Grand Ole Opry to be held at the Ryman Auditorium, with Johnny Cash, naturally, in attendance. The new preacher of country music is, by now, everywhere the word of God is celebrated. In Las Vegas, a series of seven concerts is organized that draws more than a little criticism: word gets around that Cash is proselytizing on stage, inviting audience members to accept the so-called "altar call."

The accusations do nothing to diminish his charismatic aura, which grows stronger still after a one-hour performance at the White House at President Nixon's request. Cash turns down Nixon's request to play "Welfare Cadillac" (not one of his own songs) and instead brings up the subject of Vietnam, defending Nixon's record to the strains of "Peace In The Valley."

On the eve of Christmas, his second holiday album is released, The Johnny Cash Family Christmas (Columbia, 1972). There are even fewer Cash-written songs than on "The Christmas Spirit," with tracks like Carl Perkins' "When You're Twenty-One" and Harold Reid's "King Of Love" instead. It's a group effort alongside the Carter Family, stuffed with run-of-the-mill Christmas carols like "Silent Night" and "Jingle Bells." Artistically irrelevant.

Richer, on the other hand, is the double album International Superstar (Columbia, 1972), which gathers already-familiar material like "Jackson" and "Mr. Garfield." The album also includes previously unreleased songs that, while adding nothing new to what's already been heard, at least offer a breath of fresh air from the overly Christmas-and-liturgical mood. "No Need To Worry" spins along in rockabilly fashion, followed by the white-gospel chorus of "Song To Mama" and the lament of "Cotton Pickin' Hands." "Rosanna's Going Wild" becomes a major hit as a single, a sort of western-flavored "Ring Of Fire." Closing things out is a handful of bluegrass numbers like "Pick A Bale Of Cotton" (from Leadbelly), "You And Tennessee" and "Hammer And Nails."

Later that year, Gardner-Webb, a Baptist college, awards Cash an honorary doctorate in letters. "He is a prince of American country music, and we confer this doctorate on him for his humanitarian work on behalf of the humble and the poor, the victims of drugs and alcohol, and the thousands of people behind prison bars." Prisons, once again.

Pa Osteraker (Columbia, 1973) documents a live concert Cash gave at the Swedish prison in October 1973. What immediately stands out is a substantial (if not downright vast) difference compared to the Folsom and San Quentin shows. The jailhouse pathos is reduced to almost nothing, with just the occasional shout here and there. Johnny seems to run on autopilot, rattling off songs that feel more like they came from a studio album than a major stage performance. The songs, however, are worthy of his name, shining like the western bluegrass of "Orleans Parish Prison" and the prison folk of "Jacob Green." Cash recites a poem ("The Invertebraes") and dedicates songs to his father ("That Silver Haired Daddy Of Mine"), picking up the pace on "City Jail" and "Looking Back in Anger." There are also two songs by the esteemed Kris Kristofferson, "Me And Bobby McGee" and "Help Me Make It Through The Night."

The Great American

By 1973, Johnny Cash was already regarded as a national icon, a good man who spared no effort when it came to helping the marginalized, the ultimate symbol of a proud patriotism steeped in Christianity. The artist managed to unite the most disparate listeners, from the hopeless inmates of San Quentin to rebellious youth, from country and rock and roll fans to the staunchest conservatives. This blend of styles and influences is showcased on the album Any Old Wind That Blows (Columbia, 1973), which opens with the orchestral bluegrass of the title track, drawn from Dick Feller's catalogue. Cash's ever-growing romanticism emerges on "Kentucky Straight" and the ode "The Good Earth". "Oney", on the other hand, tells another working-class story, later softened by the warm grooves of "The Ballad Of Annie Palmer" and the hillbilly feel of "If I Had An Hammer", penned by Pete Seeger. More questionable are a few charmless nursery-rhyme numbers like "Best Friend" and "Country Trash", dark corners of a prolificacy too abundant to yield a convincing album every single time.

Meanwhile, his manager Saul Holiff decided to resign and return to Canada to earn a degree in English literature. He was replaced by Lou Robin, an economics expert who had already promoted concerts for the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. His task, however, was anything but easy: Cash may well have been a "great American", but his career was starting to take a few hits under the weight of passing time. The first commercial flop, in fact, was The Gospel Road (Columbia, 1973), a double album recounting the life and works of Jesus Christ, serving as the soundtrack to the film of the same name directed by Robert Elfstrom. The four sides are muddled, crammed with spoken introductions and odes of praise to the Lord: the music suffers as a result, caught between tracks recorded for the occasion and old familiar songs.

The mini-opera "Gospel Road" is a poorly cohesive mix of words, country rhythms and western cadences. Even harder to stomach is the syrupy orchestral arrangement of "Follow Me", with June Carter weeping before the bearded redeemer. Worth salvaging, among others, are "Jesus Was A Carpenter" and "Last Supper", on a record that really goes nowhere except toward the rediscovered faith of a man.

Cash's recording vitality seems to be flagging, crushed under the sheer weight of his relentless output. Johnny Cash And His Woman (Columbia, 1973) is another superfluous album, a collection of duets with his wife June Carter. These are standard-issue country numbers, from "The Color Of Love" to "Allegheny", sung with taste but lacking any real spark. Better are the aching blues of "Saturday Night In Hickman County" or folk numbers like "City Of New Orleans" and "The Pine Tree".

By the middle of 1974 the US government was not doing well at all, undermined at its very foundations by the illegal activities of the Nixon presidency, pinned down by Watergate journalists and forced into a disastrous collapse in August. The patriotic Johnny Cash had actually performed for Nixon, and even before his resignation as president, decided to have his say once again, through music.

On Ragged Old Flag (Columbia, 1974), the artist points the listener toward a star-spangled banner, worn out by tears and holes. It's the finger of patriotism, loudly invoked at a difficult moment for the nation and its democracy. The keystone is the title track, a spoken-word piece for the new generations set to a multi-instrumental backdrop of banjo, piano and harmonica. Cash highlights environmental concerns on the choral "Don't Go Near The Water", before moving steadily on to styles dear to him, including the rockabilly of "All I Do Is Drive" and "Lonesome To The Bone".

The record suddenly loses its political edge, drifting into a series of western ballads such as "King Of The Hill", "Pie In The Sky" and "Good Morning, Friend". Fortunately these are solid tracks, inspired by bluegrass airs ("Southern Comfort") and co-written by June Carter ("I'm A Worried Man"). At least it's the most genuine Cash doing the talking.

Junkie And The Juicehead Minus Me (Columbia, 1974) is another decent album, despite featuring many songs drawn from other people's repertoires. By this point Cash was smitten with the music of Kris Kristofferson, honored here by the breezy title track and by "Broken Freedom Song", sung by Roseanne Cash. "I Do Believe" veers toward typical country fare, making room for the choral "Keep On The Sunny Side" with the entire Carter family on board. Also intense is a duet with Rosey Nix on a cover of Cat Stevens's "Father And Daughter (Father And Son)". The folk soul that Cash discovered years earlier thanks to Dylan resurfaces on the delicate "Christal Chandeliers And Burgundy" as well.

In early 1975 the Cash family was struck by a grievous loss: on January 22, June's father, Ezra "Eck" Carter, died. The two withdrew into a reverent silence, broken only by the tender album The Johnny Cash Children's Album (Columbia, 1975). Despite its well-meaning, hearth-and-home intentions, the record comes across as thoroughly saccharine, stuffed with nursery rhymes like "I Got A Boy (And His Name Is John)" and "Miss Tara". These are feel-good songs with no artistic pretensions whatsoever, little country portraits like "Nasty Dan" and "One And One Makes Two" or brief stomps like "Call Of The Wild". "Dinosaur Song" tries to teach through fun, but numbers like "Little Magic Glasses" sink into a syrupy sea that's hard to endure.

This rough patch also took its toll on the commercial fortunes of Cash's records, absent from the pop charts since 1972. Columbia seemed rather rattled by the overall drop in sales, deciding to intervene more decisively in choosing which songs to record.

On Precious Memories (Columbia, 1975), there are thus a few must-haves for an easy, crowd-pleasing listen: the honeyed orchestral arrangement of "Amazing Grace", the Christmas carol "Rock Of Ages" and the pop treacle of "The Old Rugged Cross". Cash's original idea was to put together another gospel-flavored record, in the vein of "Hymns From The Heart". "Softly And Tenderly" and "In The Sweet By And By" are indeed choral pieces that bear witness to a liturgical, introspective streak. Columbia's hand, however, pours on the sugar by the spoonful, rendering the album as bland as so many others and burying among its grooves two intimate folk gems like "Just As I Am" and "Father Along".

In September 1975, Cash set off on a European tour, followed by a run of concerts in Japan. Columbia kept churning out albums, chasing a commercial success that now seemed like a faded memory. Not even Look At Them Beans (Columbia, 1975) managed to revive the fortunes of an artist beloved like few others, yet in decline like so many in the wake of the radical changes fermenting in the musical underground. The classic country flourishes of "Texas, 1947" or yet another barrelhouse number like "Beer Drinking Song" now felt too anachronistic. Nor did the soul horns of the title track or the storyteller spirit of "All Around Cowboy" leave much of a mark, unable to give any clear direction to either the record or Cash's career.

Confirming this artistic decline is the live album Strawberry Cake (Columbia, 1976), recorded live during a concert at the Palladium in London. The artist firmly embraces his glorious past, telling the British audience the backstory of songs mostly drawn from his Sun period. Greeted by thunderous applause, Cash sparks a small revival, starting with "Big River" and continuing with "Doin' My Time" and "I Still Miss Someone". It's an intimate dimension, that of a seasoned storyteller, graced by touching ballads like "The Church In the Wildwood" and "Strawberry Cake". The brisk pace of "Rock Island Line" is as engaging as ever, softened only by the country rhythms of "Navajo" and "Destination Victoria Station". A successful show, if viewed as a postcard from times gone by.

House of Cash

1976 was a major year for the United States, marking the bicentennial of the nation's founding with the Declaration of Independence ratified on July 4th. Johnny Cash was in huge demand and kicked off his celebratory activities with an NBC TV special marking two hundred years of the American circus. He then gave a benefit concert for the Bicentennial Freedom Train, culminating on July 4th when he served as grand marshal of the parade in Washington. Fueling the wave of national pride, a single titled "Sold Out Of Flagpoles" was released, trying to stir up an enthusiasm that had largely evaporated after the Watergate scandal. It was, however, a second track, "One Piece At A Time", that finally climbed the charts, with its improbable tale of a factory worker building a brand-new car out of parts stolen from an assembly line.

The success of these two singles doesn't add up to a record worth caring about: One Piece At A Time (Columbia, 1976) is, in fact, just a pile of songs without any particular spark. "Let There Be Country" drifts along on its choral groove, leading up the aisle to the title track, a treat for more nostalgic palates with its western gallop. Cut from the same cloth is "Michigan City Howdy Do", which pairs nicely with the carefree rhythms of "Sold Out Of Flagpoles". Cash, prolific as few others in music history, seems not to care: "Committed To Parkview" and "Go On Blues" are simple divertissements, and maybe, at this point, that's really enough.

Johnny Cash finally seems like a happy man, satisfied with what he's achieved after such great struggle. His life now flows along peacefully, increasingly relaxed, especially at Cinnamon Hill Great House, the eighteenth-century colonial villa in Montego Bay, Jamaica.

Acoustic proof of this inner contentment is The Last Gunfighter Ballad (Columbia, 1977), enriched with mellow, tranquil songs built on catchy melodies like those of the title track and "Ballad Of Barbara". Cash returns, especially on "I Will Dance With You" and "You're So Close To Me", to the country refrain, made even softer by the orchestral setting of "Far Side Banks Of Jordan" with June Carter. Better still, though, is the acoustic country of "Ridin' On The Cotton Belt" or the choral "That Silver Haired Daddy Of Mine", recorded together with his younger brother Tommy.

In May, Bill Hamon, dean of the International Christian School of Theology, awards Johnny Cash a bachelor's degree in Nashville, during a ceremony at the House Of Cash. He is ordained as a minister, now able to perform baptisms and officiate the weddings of some close friends. Many artists who once treated him as a genuine legend now call him a "sellout to religion", far preferring the drugged-up, alcoholic outlaw to the servant of the Lord. Johnny feels the weight of this double soul, in need of balance as a public figure, unable to please both sides of the moral and spiritual divide at once. And his records certainly don't help: The Rambler (Columbia, 1977) is another effort that fails to shed any light on the career of an artist increasingly weighed down by the passing of time. Yet the idea behind the album isn't without a certain charm: Cash plays the true man of the road, hunched over the wheel racking up miles on the highway, ready to pick up all kinds of humanity along the way, from the fisherman to the cowgirl. Here, the narrative sense of the dialogue woven between tracks stands out, from the opening piano blues of "Hit The Road And Go" to the solemn marches of "No Earthly Good" and "My Cowboy's Last Ride". These are the best moments of an album that is otherwise as flat as others, despite its clever narrative structure.

Between late 1977 and early 1978, Johnny Cash goes through a period of emotional and spiritual hardship for the first time since embracing his faith. While in England the sonic fury of punk and street riots rages on, the Great American stops attending Evangel Temple, unable to reconcile his own fame with his desire for religious sobriety. His plan to build a congregation at the House Of Cash has to contend with the crowds of fans who show up to see the country star rather than the minister. Johnny thus finds himself increasingly tempted by an old acquaintance: drugs. He starts bumming pills off the musicians he works with, and before long finds himself with a dependency perhaps even stronger than the one he had in the Sixties. Except now he's not thinking about casual sex or endless concerts chasing fame and glory, but about the apostle Paul and his wisdom. Meanwhile, on August 16th, Elvis Presley passes away after a fatal cocktail of eleven different drugs. Cash, who shared stages, managers and a producer with the King, doesn't seem particularly shaken by the news. Perhaps because drugs have once again made him distant, unpredictable and selfish. "I lost touch with God," he states in 1978.

Without the divine touch, however, Johnny comes out with one of his best records in years: I Would Like To See You Again (Columbia, 1978). Much of the credit goes to Waylon Jennings, another outlaw of country music, who dusts off the stylistic tics Cash had repeated ad nauseam up to that point, giving his chords fresh vital energy. Alongside Jennings, the man in black rediscovers the acoustic depth of "I Wish I Was Crazy Again", before picking up speed with the sublime country-rock of "There Ain't No Good Chain Gang". This artistic partnership has a beneficial effect on the whole record, starting with the title track, an aching ballad, through to the choral anthem of "I'm Alright Now".

In between, Johnny rediscovers himself as a wise storyteller, once again recounting outlaw legends on "Who's Gene Autry?" with a narrative flair worthy of the best Bob Dylan ("Abner Brown").

Fresh forces were needed, and they arrived.

Summer 1978. A glorious chapter of American country music comes to an abrupt close: Mother Maybelle and Sara Carter pass away, the last surviving members of the original Carter Family lineup. Cash loses two colleagues, but above all, two friends. Columbia responds by releasing the third installment of Greatest Hits, Vol. 3 (Columbia, 1978), drawing mostly from Johnny's most recent albums.

After the success of the record made alongside Jennings, Johnny manages an unexpected encore, releasing Gone Girl (Columbia, 1978). The record is indeed a retread of the styles that made him a legend, but at the same time it offers a small set of songs worth hearing more than once. The title track is written by Jack Clement and pairs with the melody of "The Diplomat", a prelude to a sound that gains strength as the record spins on. Cash steps on the gas with the breezy, nostalgic rockabilly of "I Will Rock And Roll With You" and the feverish cover of "No Expectations", from the Rolling Stones masterpiece "Beggar's Banquet". "It Comes And Goes" swerves back into barrelhouse territory, accompanied by the brassy "Cajun Born". More intimate, meanwhile, is the acoustic "The Gambler" and the pianistic ode "Song For The Life", released shortly before on Rodney Crowell's debut album.

The cocaine blues

Bear Family Records is an independent label based in Germany, specializing in releasing previously unreleased material, mostly dating from the Fifties onward, spanning country and rock and roll. In 1978, just as Johnny Cash slides back into a drugged, solitary existence, the first of three albums is released looking back at an already almost distant past, to the days of a brash, cocky young man plucked from Sun by his first great record label mother. The Unissued Johnny Cash (Bear Family Records, 1978) first of all presents a handful of gems taken from the sessions for "Fabolous Johnny Cash", the first album recorded with Columbia. These are the early days of the country gallop of "Mama's Baby" and "Cold Shoulder", tinged with blues ("Fool's Hall Of Fame") in the gorgeous acoustic phrasing of "Walkin' The Blues". This is the first great Cash, romantic on "So Do I" and "I'll Be All Smiles Tonight", a born storyteller, lost among the grooves of "The Fable Of Willie Brown". A record that is a precious journey back in time, rediscovering one of American music's most crystalline talents.

The second installment of the retrospective trilogy, Johnny & June (Bear Family, 1978), gathers in particular some previously unreleased duets with his wife June Carter. The country of "How Did You Get Away From Me" thus blends with the exotic rhythms of "Adios Aloha" and the drive of "Cotton Pickin' Hands". The best moments, however, are those featuring Cash alone with his guitar, between a romantic barrelhouse number ("The Baby Is Mine") and the orchestral western sound of "Thunderball", written as a James Bond theme. The cover of Bob Dylan's "One Too Many Mornings" shines, followed by the boom-chika-boom that made him a legend, with "Smiling Bill McCall" bordering on country-rockabilly sainthood.

Closing out the trio is Tall Man (Bear Family, 1979), which, however, fails to deliver songs on par with the previous two. The title track is a cheerful, unpretentious doo-wop, closely followed by the almost brass-band "Besser So Jenny Jo". Only the bluesy piano of "The Sound Of Laughter" and the lonesome country of "Engine 143" manage to convince. A sign, perhaps, that the German label had run out of its stock of little sonic gems.

In 1979, Columbia Records decides to celebrate Johnny Cash's twenty-fifth year in the business, placing him in the hands of Canadian producer Brian Ahern, who had already worked with Emmylou Harris. In truth, it's been twenty-four years (counting from his first single for Sun), and it's fairly clear that Columbia's move is a marketing operation aimed at putting a fading artist back on the shelves, one still too tied to a sound that had indeed made him a legend, but years and years earlier.

On Silver (Columbia, 1979), the classic boom-chicka-boom is accordingly toned down, in favor of a cleaner, more meticulously arranged sound. "The L & N Don't Stop Here Anymore," for instance, is a traditional western ballad, only shinier, embellished with an almost Celtic-sounding violin. The producer's hand is felt most in how it unclogs Cash's voice, which in the stomp of "Bull Rider" seems to regain a clear, narrative verve. It's a strange record, certainly polished up, but full of above-average songs, worthy of the best of the outlaws. "(Ghost) Riders In The Sky" reaches for the epic, flanked by the steady march of "West Canterbury Subdivision Blues." "Muddy Waters" recovers the sour tang of certain venomous frontier blues, while "I'm Gonna Sit On The Porch And Pick My Old Guitar" is a kind of evening folk tune, best played for a few close friends, if not for oneself alone.

"Silver" ultimately achieves its goal, cracking the Top 30 albums chart and even reaching number two on the singles chart with "Ghost Riders In The Sky." What's more: the album is the last to feature Marshall Grant on bass, fired in early 1980 over "artistic differences" with Johnny. And that's partly true, given the resolve with which Cash set about altering his classic galloping sound, which had grown too dated at the dawn of a decade that would upend plenty of things in music. Grant is old-school, old-fashioned, but above all he wants to rationally control Johnny's life, believing himself, along with June, to be the only one able to save him from drugs. A de facto manager, in practice, who ends up receiving several dismissal letters, which he describes as "very rude."

Grant's firing, then, is part of a broader attempt at artistic renewal, one that Columbia welcomed with relief when records like Silver came out. The problem arises, however, when Cash informs the label of his intention to release an entire double album of gospel material. A Believer Sings The Truth (Columbia, 1979) is initially rejected by Columbia, and entrusted to the editorial care of Cachet, owned by Cash himself. It's a grandiose double album, split into four sides and packed with praise to the Lord in country-gospel form. A step back from the bitter ballads of Silver, and seemingly a contradiction in the biography of an artist who had fallen back into the hands of Satan and his abundant hard drugs. Cash seems intent on once again pushing his image as a "Born-Again Christian," reeling off prayerful little rhymes like "Wings In The Morning" and "Oh Come Angel Band." His mission is to compose new rhythms for Jesus ("Gospel Boogie" and "Old Chunk Of Coal"), while indulging in acoustic intimacy on tracks like "Children Go Where I Send Thee."

The choral atmosphere of certain songs, above all "When He Comes" and "Lay Me Down In Dixie," is made all the better by the participation of June Carter, Cindy Cash and Roseanne Cash, as they try to find not only the path to God, but also the lost road of the great family of American religious country music.

In October 1980, Johnny Cash is forty-four years old and becomes the youngest person ever to be inducted into the prestigious Country Music Hall Of Fame, telling those present that he's ready to keep fighting artistically, hoping to hold his own for a few more years yet.

Rockabilly Blues (Columbia, 1980) is essentially his attempt to reclaim a prestigious slice of American tradition, the rockabilly that had been so successful in the '50s. The gamble, in fact, lies precisely here: bringing back, thirty years later (and after punk), a genre good, at best, for nostalgics. Little help comes from Earl Pool Ball's production, which has Cash working the harmonica ("Cold Lonesome Morning" and "Texas 1955"), always mindful of the country rhythm of "Without Love" (written by Nick Lowe, with Dave Edmunds on guitar) and the melody of "It Ain't Nothing You Babe." Things fare better when a fresher talent is behind the songwriting (Kris Kristofferson's "The Last Time"), but on the whole there's nothing of real substance, certainly not enough to put him back in the game as a true protagonist.

At the dawn of a new decade, the legendary outlaw seems devoid of fresh ideas, forced to fall back, after yet another misstep with a rockabilly record, on one of the most classic of themes: Christmas. Classic Christmas (Columbia, 1980) is an album stuffed with orchestral textures and choirs behind a handful of utterly banal holiday songs, from "Silent Night" to "Joy To The World." This alone says enough about the moment of artistic difficulty Cash was going through.

Man of the Street

In 1981, Johnny Cash tries in vain to return to an artistic spotlight that has by now become almost anachronistic. The Baron (Columbia, 1981) is yet another authored effort, entrusted to the expert hands of producer Billy Sherrill, a Nashville veteran steeped in country-pop sound. The result of his work, however, doesn't satisfy Cash, who would later regret having made such a flat record, starting with the terrible video for the lead single. What comes out is a flat, artificial brand of country (the title track above all), drowned in the melody of "Mobile Bay," and slathered throughout in synthesized sauce ("The Hard Way").

To exorcise this difficult moment in his musical life, Columbia decides to release another compilation, Encore (Columbia, 1981), which, however, covers precisely this latest period. The one standout is the sole unreleased track, "Song Of The Patriot," with its banjo, martial rhythm and Irish atmosphere.

In June, Cash is on tour in Australia, shortly before another piece of bad news: Marshall Grant sues him for 2.6 million dollars, accusing him of breach of contract and defamation. The former bassist claims Johnny promised him a hundred thousand dollars a year for the rest of his career, although the prosecutor will state that the two were never business partners and that Grant was fired for absenteeism and lack of professionalism. The troubles don't end there: by the end of the year, Cash is attacked by an ostrich from his personal zoo at the lake house. The bird, named Waldo, breaks several of his ribs, forcing him into a period of recovery on painkillers. Naturally, Johnny always takes a few extra.

Before leaving for the Australian tour, Cash performs in Stuttgart where, by chance, he runs into two rock and roll veterans, Jerry Lee Lewis and Carl Perkins (also in Germany for a run of shows). The two decide, to everyone's surprise, to join Johnny onstage for an anthology-worthy show. The Survivors Live (Columbia, 1982) is, precisely, the chronicle of this meeting between "survivors" of early American rock, mixing great classics with lesser-known songs. Naturally present are "Get Rhythm," "Whole Lotta Shaking Going On" and "Blue Suede Shoes," the sonic backbones of all three musicians' careers. Around them, the country of "I Saw The Light" (Hank Williams) and the rhythm of "Matchbox" (Carl Perkins), closing with the gospel hymn "Peace In The Valley." The performances show their age, steeped in traditional American conventions, amounting to a nostalgic (but ultimately effective) revival among legends on their way out.

At the end of 1981, the Cash family decides to spend some time at Cinnamon Hill for Christmas. Right as they're about to sit down to eat, the guests are taken hostage for four hours by three armed robbers who ultimately flee with fifty thousand dollars' worth of loot. The bandits are later caught, with Jamaican Prime Minister Edward Seaga personally apologizing to Cash.

Produced by his longtime friend Jack Clement, The Adventures Of Johnny Cash (Columbia, 1982) is another record that attempts to climb back to success, without hitting the mark. The album is too caught up in its own echo, flattening out songs that might otherwise have had some real value. "I Been To Georgia On A Fast Train" has a decent rhythm, saddled with a pointless yodeling intro; "Fair Weather Friends" and "Sing A Song," on the other hand, aim for vocal depth, earning at least a mention. Also good are certain bluegrass numbers like "Good Old American Guest" and "Ain't Gonna Be A Hobo No More," perhaps the best track on the whole album.

By the end of 1983, Johnny Cash is an increasingly less prolific songwriter, having written just five songs across the last five albums released by Columbia. The last of these, Johnny 99 (Columbia, 1983), presents an almost inexplicable paradox: Cash the master finds himself emulating the extraordinary lyrical verve of Bruce Springsteen, inspired by the very recordings Springsteen made for his own new album, "Nebraska." So it's Cash the master covering the stark, crystalline "Johnny 99" and "Highway Patrolman," in his own way, of course. Produced by Brian Ahern — who continues his work of modernizing the sound of the now ex-outlaw — the record ultimately wins you over, at least in intensity. Aside from the folk of the two Springsteen-esque gems, Cash veers into blues with "That's The Truth," followed by the spoken-word piece "God Bless Robert E. Lee." In a few tracks, however, old saccharine tendencies resurface ("Joshua Gone Barbados"), thankfully redeemed by the stirring finale of "I'm Ragged But I'm Right." The underlying problem remains, successful album or not: Johnny's pen keeps growing drier.

And things weren't going much better when it came to his physical and mental health. In November 1983, in Nottingham, he suffered alcohol- and drug-induced hallucinations, convinced that there was a surprise bed on the other side of his hotel room wall. He began pounding on the wall so hard that his hand swelled up and became infected. He would undergo surgery back in Nashville, only to discover he was suffering from internal bleeding and would have to have his duodenum removed, along with parts of his spleen, stomach and intestine. The Cash family stood fully behind him, but they deeply reproached him for the state into which his selfish, drug-addled behavior had thrown everyone he loved.

Johnny finally agreed to check into the Betty Ford Center in Rancho Mirage, California, to embrace the twelve-step philosophy and get clean. He stayed there for almost two months, ready to be reborn once again to a new life.

During Christmas 1984, Cash hosted a television special from Switzerland, with exceptional guests such as Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson and Kris Kristofferson. It was here, in Montreux, that the idea was born to form a country music supergroup, later known as the Highwaymen. From Europe the idea moved to Nashville, where the album Highwayman (Columbia, 1985) was recorded in the studio. The record was met with great fanfare from the public, reaching number one on the country charts, and the stars involved were certainly of the first order. A lot of noise, however, often amounts to nothing, and the four-way collaboration fails to convince, flattened by a production that's pure Eighties cliché. Aside from the epic sweep of the opening title track and certain choral numbers like "The Last Cowboy Song", the album slips by without offering anything truly spectacular, particularly flat on numbers like "Committed To Parkview" (Cash) and "Desperados Waiting For A Train". More enjoyable are the country version of "Big River" and the groove of "Welfare Line". For the rest, it feels like watching four old American legends who simply have nothing better to do with their lives.

The Mercury Years

Between late 1984 and early 1985, Columbia Records no longer seemed interested in the future of Johnny Cash's career. The latest Highwaymen supergroup record had shown that success could only be chased in the company of other old country legends, not through yet more truckloads of solo albums, often padded out with covers. The last straw was the album Rainbow (Columbia, 1985), which went completely unnoticed, both artistically and commercially. Cash kept orbiting around his recent bandmates, performing the melodies of "Here Comes The Rainbow Again" and "Casey's Last Ride", both penned by Kris Kristofferson. "You Beat All I Ever Saw" features Waylon Jennings on vocals, but that's not enough to make a convincing record, especially given the lackluster cover of Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Have You Ever Seen The Rain". The album barely sold twenty thousand copies, convincing the historic label to finally cut loose its old protégé Johnny Cash.

Towards the end of 1985, Cash was busy working on the film "The Last Days of Frank and Jesse James", alongside Kristofferson and Waylon Jennings themselves. On December 23rd, however, an event occurred that shook his life once again: his father, Ray Cash, died at the age of eighty-eight. With the passing of the pater familias, Johnny developed mixed feelings, on one hand marked by resentment toward a strong and violent patriarchal authority, on the other softened over time, bordering almost on respect. After no fewer than three of his daughters went through divorce, Johnny Cash the "father" decided to devote more time to young John Carter, to avoid repeating the same old mistakes.

Meanwhile, freed from Columbia's commercial pressures, the Man in Black decided once again to indulge his religious impulses, releasing yet another gospel album for the Christian label Word. Believe In Him (Word Records, 1986) is, however, yet another religious slog, smothered with endless praise to the Lord and artificial arrangements worthy of the worst of the Eighties. The opening title track is a perfect example, followed by the biblical orchestral sweep of "The Old Rugged Cross". Some tracks opt for acoustic textures ("God Ain't No Stained Glass Window" and "Over There"), but remakes like that of "Belshazzar" don't even deserve a mention.

In March 1986, Cash completed his ambitious narrative work "The Man In White", devoted entirely to the life and deeds of Saint Paul. The book came out at the very moment Columbia officially informed him that his contract would not be renewed, after twenty-eight years of loyal devotion to the label's cause. Rick Blackburn, head of the Nashville record company, reluctantly decided that an artist who had his boom back in the Fifties could no longer appeal to kids, the key demographic of the music market. Cash hadn't placed a record on the pop charts (the most lucrative ones) in ten years, stubbornly continuing to tread paths and sounds that had already been heard decades earlier. The last official album released by Columbia was Heroes (Columbia, 1986), recorded together with Waylon Jennings. Here too there's an attempt to bring back to life the fruitful mix of talents from the Highwaymen project, but what comes out is simply a set of songs arranged in a rather modest fashion. The two lean toward a certain basic melodic approach, starting with "Folks Out On The Road", continuing with the mandolin of "I'm Never Gonna Roam Again" and closing with a bland cover of Bob Dylan's "One Too Many Mornings". In between, two ballads ("Heroes" and "The Ballad Of Forty Dollars") add nothing to the standing of the two performers on stage.

At the end of 1985, Cash had returned, for the first time in almost thirty years, to the old Sun Records studios in Memphis, for a nostalgic reunion with old glories of early rock and roll such as Carl Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis and Roy Orbison. Released only in 1986, Class Of '55 (Polygram, 1986) is a depressing album in many ways, starting with the clearly declining physical state of the four legends of American popular music. Cash and co. try their best to honor the memory of Elvis Presley, dedicating to him "We Remember The King" (written for the occasion by all four of them). The songs are, however, weak and tired, unable to bite the way a "Great Balls Of Fire" or a "Big River" once did. What remains is the joy felt by those present in the studio, and a story to tell their grandchildren.

By the mid-Eighties, Cash seemed to have lost all enthusiasm for writing and recording music, certainly not helped by the embarrassing showing of his last single for Columbia, "The Chicken In Black", for which he even dressed up as a superhero in tights for the accompanying video.

As the B-side, "The Battle Of Nashville" was released, a clear attack by the musician on his now former record label. Johnny, however, had no trouble finding another suitor, signing in August 1986 with Polygram Records in Nashville, to release his future albums on the Mercury label. For the occasion, Cash went back to working with his beloved Jack Clement, who introduced him to a trusted sound engineer, David "Fergie" Ferguson.

Johnny Cash Is Coming To Town (Mercury, 1987) was thus the first album of this new chapter, steeped in a desire for redemption and artistic resurrection. The deep tones of "Ballad Of Barbara" and "Let Him Roll" seem to point toward a path of genuine commitment, but these are just a few bright spots, nothing comparable to the great records of the past. It's clear, in practice, that old Cash needed a new country performer (the Elvis Costello of "King Of America") to dust off the style of "The Big Light". And it still takes help from Waylon Jennings to pull off the otherwise excellent "The Night Hank Williams Came To Town". A record not to be forgotten, certainly, with its swinging tones ("Sixteen Tons") and unusual beats ("Heavy Metal"), but one that comes across more or less as yet another exhausting attempt to stay afloat in a world that was no longer quite his own. What remains, by now, seems to be the man, the entertainer, the legend.

Spurred on by the success of the first album, Mercury decided to cash in on Johnny Cash's vast songbook, releasing his first compilation, titled Classic Cash: Hall Of Fame Series (Mercury, 1988). The record is a parade of past hits, merely disfigured with new synthesized arrangements meant to make them more palatable to modern audiences. In other words, the new label wanted to show Cash it could treat him with far more care than Columbia had, but it got everything wrong, completely distorting what had once been masterpieces of country and rockabilly, utterly unsuited to an Eighties makeover.

That same year saw the release of Waters From The Wells Of Home (Mercury, 1988), an album made up entirely of duets. For the occasion, "Ballad Of A Teenage Queen" was dusted off, featuring his daughter Roseanne Cash and the voices of the Everly Brothers. Cash meets the hymn-like vocals of Emmylou Harris (on the country number "As Long As I Live") and those of his wife June (on the ballad "Where Did We Go Right") before picking up the pace with the blues of "The Last Of The Drifters" (with Tom T. Hall) and the grit of "Call Me The Breeze", alongside his son John Carter. The album is, however, short on real highlights, with the exception of the gem co-written with Paul McCartney, "New Moon Over Jamaica".

By the end of the Eighties, Cash began to take more than one hit after a lifetime spent teetering on the edge of self-destruction. In 1987, during a show in Council Bluffs, Iowa, he had to stop after the second song due to a heart problem. He was carried off stage, where doctors diagnosed him with hypertension. In 1988, he was hospitalized in Palm Springs, California, for laryngitis, and then in Nashville, where he was fitted with a bypass. Cash would later recount having smoked a cigarette half an hour before the surgery. Journalists were even asked to start preparing his obituary.

His return to the stage took place at the Embassy Theatre in Fort Wayne, Indiana, ahead of a European tour that took him to Paris, where he played despite doctors' strong advice against it.

Meanwhile, Mercury decides to release Boom Chicka Boom (Mercury, 1990), a stylish return to the old glories of his unmistakable sound. The opening "Backstage Pass" revives the bouncing rhythm of his early days, followed by top-notch country numbers, a cover of "Cat's In The Cradle" and the depth of "Monteagle Mountain". The reworking of "Hidden Shame" from Elvis Costello's catalogue is a real gem, as is the tender melody of "Harley". It's nothing new, but at least it's a shot of energy into the veins of a career scattered across time.

On the road again

"It was an eye-opening experience for me. I never want to go through it again": these are the first words Johnny Cash utters after his difficult health troubles, which led to bypass surgery for a ninety-percent blockage of his coronary arteries. His return to recording work is once again alongside Kristofferson, Nelson and Jennings, to make the second album with the Highwaymen supergroup. Despite severe jaw pain, in March 1990 he appears at the press conference to launch the record, announcing an upcoming US tour. Highwayman 2 (Columbia, 1990) is, however, another album that only partly succeeds, falling well short of the great potential of four country riders reunited. "Silver Stallion" and "Born And Raised In Black And White" are rural ballads like any other, with the tone growing ever softer on "Two Stories Wide" and "We're All In Your Corner", almost dripping with sonic treacle. Better is the western feel of "American Remains", which at least lends the whole album a touch of songwriterly wisdom. For the rest, it seems that Cash, Jennings and company are too wrapped up in themselves to produce a work that truly comes together as a group effort.

In March 1991, Carrie Cash, Johnny's beloved mother, passes away at the age of eighty-six. It's another hard blow for the musician, who bursts into tears at the funeral, remembering the one person who had encouraged him from his very first attempts at music.

As if reacting to a widespread feeling of despair, Cash releases what will turn out to be the last album recorded for Mercury Records. The Mystery Of Life (Mercury, 1991) offers some of the least disappointing moments from the musician's long stretch of creative drought, slightly fresher than the rest in terms of arrangement and performing drive. Cash recaptures the gallop of "The Greatest Cowboy Of Them All" before indulging in rockabilly numbers ("I'm An Easy Rider" and a successful cover of Bob Dylan's "Wanted Man") and bluegrass (the title track and "My Songs Again" with Tom T. Hall).

It is true, however, that Cash still can't shake off a state of compositional barrenness, since here too he resorts to reworking "Hey, Porter" in a modern guise, along with a "Man In Black" barely hidden between the lines of "Angel And The Badman".

The record achieves no commercial success whatsoever, and Johnny himself will admit, in a 1997 autobiography, that Mercury decided to press a paltry 500 copies.

Towards the end of the year, Cash receives the Living Legend award at the Grammy Awards, before being inducted into the prestigious Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame in 1992. These are, however, signs of weariness: Johnny is now a myth of a bygone era, reduced to performing in small clubs around the United States. Things certainly go better when the Highwaymen come into play, filling stadiums across half the world between 1990 and 1992.

Certainly not helping matters is the release of records like Johnny Cash Country Christmas (Delta, 1991), which once again offers up a hodgepodge of completely out-of-step Christmas carols.

The same goes for Return To The Promised Land (Renaissance Records, 1992), which is stuffed with the usual biblical sermons, interspersed with pompous, already-heard gospel numbers.

Cash seems to lose his bearings, investing in Cash Country, a theme park to be built in Branson, Missouri. The project is carried forward by a Californian developer, but neither the planned theatres nor the areas dedicated to American music and customs ever see the light of day.

Disheartened by the developer's declared bankruptcy, Johnny decides to go back to playing live, arriving in a particular European city on a particular day of a particular year. February 8, 1993.

American Recordings: the legend's comeback

February 8, 1993. Johnny Cash arrives in Dublin, Ireland, for another stop on his European tour. He arrives in Dublin as an old relic of country music. After the concert, Bono of U2 invites him to drop by the Windmill Studios, where the band is recording experimental material together with Brian Eno, for an album that will turn out quite different from the typical sound of the four rockers. The track Bono is working on is called "The Preacher" and deals with an inner journey inspired by Ecclesiastes. Cash gives the liturgical verses of "The Preacher" the depth they need, then heads back home, thinking the track will never actually be used by the band. Instead it is, retitled "The Wanderer", and the song becomes the closing track of the album "Zooropa", which tops the charts in English-speaking countries and exposes old Johnny to a whole new audience: the massive fanbase of U2.

February 27, 1993. Back from Dublin, Johnny Cash performs at a small restaurant in Santa Ana, California. After the show, a rather strange character approaches him — long black hair and a bushy beard, looking almost like a down-and-out drunk. "Mr. Cash, I would be very interested in producing you," he says with assured confidence. The Man in Black is taken aback, especially by the man's bizarre appearance, but is deeply intrigued all the same. The odd-looking man who seems like a drunk is named Rick Rubin, and he owns the label Def American Records.

A Long Island native, Rubin is hungry for music, a lover of rock at its most aggressive and hard-edged, from Ac/Dc to Slayer. Together with Russell Simmons, the rap-world mogul, he founded Def Jam, a label that pioneered a new way of blending the most underground rhythms with heavy metal. Rubin is particularly wealthy, having tied his name to hugely successful records like the Red Hot Chili Peppers' "BloodSugarSexMagik". The producer is on the hunt for a truly inspiring venture, in search of an established artist he can bring back into the global spotlight. Johnny Cash strikes him as perfect, since he embodies that damned outsider spirit Rubin loves so much. What's more, Johnny is far from happy with the treatment Mercury is giving him, as if he were some kind of sonic antique to be marketed as such. And in the end, he accepts the crazy proposal.

Rubin immediately explains that his intention is to sit him down on a chair and record a handful of acoustic songs: just Johnny Cash and his guitar. As it happens, this is the very same idea that the country legend has had himself: a batch of stripped-down folk songs, coming straight from the gut and the heart. And so, between May 17 and 20, 1993, Cash shows up in the living room of Rubin's Hollywood home armed with nothing but a black guitar. He records more than thirty songs, a mix of old classics, covers and tracks suggested by the producer himself. What becomes immediately clear is that Johnny has suddenly rediscovered the pleasure of playing what he truly loves. The new musical stream of consciousness works beyond anyone's expectations: by December 7, 1993, Cash has recorded a staggering ninety-four songs. This gives Rubin a new idea: a concert of purely acoustic material to be held at the Viper Room in Hollywood, the trendiest club in the area, owned by actor Johnny Depp. Three shows in a row, putting the old country troubadour in front of an audience too young to remember any of his past glories. Turning him into a total newcomer, to let word spread that Cash is terrific and can put the heart of the people on a single guitar string. The shows are an outright triumph, and they hand Rubin more material to work with for what will become the first album in a series.

That American Recordings (Def American, 1994) is a different kind of record is clear from the cover alone. Cash stands tall in the middle of a wild field, like an old mephistophelian storyteller, flanked by two dogs (one white, one black) that seem to stand for Sin and Redemption. And sin and redemption are indeed what the album is about - not quite a concept record, but close to it. Rubin has the ability to draw out the most aching side of a man weighed down by his years, sitting alone on a stool, baring himself completely in front of his audience. The murder recounted in "Delia's Gone" works almost like a statement of intent, reclaiming a lost intimacy and beginning to tell his own story as if writing a memoir of country and folk. "Let The Train Blow Whistle" slides by full of pain, like an ancient blues of the soul, alongside the acoustic black magic of "Tennessee Stud", recorded live at the Viper Room, the gilded mecca of Hollywood's new jet set, left spellbound by the deafening silence of a man in search of inner light. And from this angle, it's the skeletal structure of "The Beast In Me" - written by Nick Lowe for a Cash seemingly touched by grace - that acts as the magnet for the whole record. A Cash who now seems to have touched some unnamed form of grace, turning Kristofferson's "Why Me Lord?" into a heartfelt prayer to the Lord and, above all, turning Glenn Danzig's "Thirteen" into a masterful ode to the freedom of a man in chains, straight out of the splendor of Folsom Prison. These are the clothes of the seasoned storyteller, gleaming in their austerity, running from "Bury Me Not" to the gorgeous version of Leonard Cohen's "Bird On A Wire".

The album closes in tragedy, on the devastated, weeping notes of a cover of Tom Waits's "Down There By The Train" and, above all, on the new live rendition of "The Man Who Couldn't Cry", a touching melody drawn from the repertoire of Loudon Wainwright. "American Recordings" relaunches the blazing light within Johnny Cash's inner darkness, a man suddenly brought back to artistic life thanks to the hand of a single man, Rick Rubin.

The music press proves enthusiastic about the album, decisively boosting the standing of a genuine American troubadour, especially among younger, more alternative listeners.

The video for "Delia's Gone" features model Kate Moss, paving the way for a series of exclusive concerts in some of the trendiest venues across the States. In June, Johnny Cash performs at the prestigious Glastonbury festival in front of a crowd of fifty thousand young people. British DJ Andy Kershaw introduces him, calling him a giant of American music and a giant of a man. Cash is visibly nervous, but delivers a memorable show, playing fourteen songs and sending Glastonbury into raptures.

In February 1995, American Recordings wins the Grammy for Best Contemporary Folk Album. Meanwhile, the Highwaymen's third official album is released. The Road Goes On Forever (Liberty Records, 1995) is arguably the finest work the four ever produced, opening with the sturdy, Springsteen-esque rock of "The Devil's Right Hand" (written by Steve Earle). The track drives a fairly robust record, one that feels almost modern despite the age of its protagonists: "It Is What It Is" veers toward rock-blues, pushing down on the accelerator. But the classic trademarks of traditional American music are still present. "Live Forever" shines like a small acoustic gem, while "Death And Hell" and the title track embroider variations on the country genre. And there's no shortage of ballads either, like "Everyone Gets Crazy" and "I Do Believe", which for once don't drag, adding further polish to a well-crafted record.

The critical and commercial success that greets American Recordings pushes Rubin to continue his collaboration with Cash. In fact, it has never been clearer that Rubin needs Cash just as much as Johnny needs a producer who turns everything he touches into gold. Looking ahead to a second installment of the "American recordings", Rick Rubin decides to switch things up almost entirely, steering away from repeating the solo acoustic format of the first album. Joining Cash this time are Tom Petty and his Heartbreakers, Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Lindsey Buckingham and Mick Fleetwood of Fleetwood Mac.

Described as a collection of songs as comfortable as a black mourning coat, Unchained (American Recordings, 1996) surgically blends the nostalgic touch of a great old man of country with the daring of an alternative producer like Rubin. Just listen to the version of "Rowboat" - an acoustic gem by young Beck Hansen - transformed by Cash into a deeply personal rhythmic whirl. Or the unimaginable cover of "Rusty Cage", turned from an aggressive grunge outburst made in Soundgarden into a diabolical blues whip lashing between acoustic and electric. Johnny the legend performs songs out of his own time with the grace of a veteran, bending them to his contrarian spirit, as he does with the gospel of Spain's Josh Haden on "Spiritual".

But Unchained isn't just Rubin magnificently forcing Cash into stylistic territory that isn't his own - it's also Cash showing Rubin that he was never artistically dead, even if it means digging up songs as old as a generation. The bouncing cadence of "Sea Of Heartbreak" updates a 1961 hit by Don Gibson, while the furious speed of "Country Boy" goes back to 1957 with a supersonic boogie somewhere between western and folk-punk. The artist, worn down by life, needs to vent his most cherished themes: bonds and liberation, sin and redemption. It's the title track itself, in this case, that represents the pinnacle of a need to be free, right up to the intimate prayer of "Meet Me In Heaven", a last hope for a world yet to come.

Around the liberated heart of the record sit a series of tracks full of bite and freshness, from the boogie-woogie whirl of "Mean Eyed Cat" to the ballad "Southern Accents" (by Tom Petty), from the romantic country of "The One Rose" to the closing rockabilly of "I've Been Everywhere".

Unchained doesn't tear at the heart the way American Recordings does, but it seems better suited to showcasing the versatile greatness of a storyteller from another era.

The lonely man

At the start of 1997, Johnny Cash sets out first on a US tour and then a European one, but soon realizes he's not physically up to facing the stage. In September, before a show at the Ford Theater in Washington D.C., there's a meeting among the musicians where it's officially announced that the great era of touring is over, that shows will grow fewer and fewer until the final cutoff of the year 2000. That's not quite how it goes. During a show in Flint, Michigan, Cash stumbles while trying to pick up a guitar pick and then announces to the audience that he has been diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. It is, in effect, J. R. Cash's last full concert.

The situation takes a turn for the worse: on October 29 he is rushed to hospital with what amounts to a combination of pneumonia, diabetes and nerve problems. He slips into a coma and remains there for twelve days. June Carter is devastated, asking fans around the world to pray for him. Johnny eventually wakes up, but is diagnosed with Shy-Drager syndrome. In other words, he has only a year and a half left to live.

An aura of sadness and death now surrounds everything that remains of the great Johnny Cash, who by this point lives almost as a recluse at Old Hickory Lake. In January 1998, his friend Carl Perkins dies, followed by Helen and Anita Carter. Life on the road with the tour bus is over, and the man in black can no longer vent his storytelling nature, sinking into a deep depression. Physically, he's reduced to very little: he's now deaf in his left ear and half-blind following a glaucoma attack. Offering him some comfort are a series of public tributes to his music, such as the one made by Al Gore on the occasion of the Kennedy Center Lifetime Achievement Award. "He has revealed the entire range of human existence: failure and rebirth, chains and escape, weakness and strength, loss and redemption, life and death." In February 1998, Unchained wins the Grammy for Best Country Album.

Toward the summer of that same year, VH1 Storytellers: Johnny Cash & Willie Nelson (American Recordings, 1998) is released, a long musical tale told by two authentic American troubadours. Produced once again by Rick Rubin, the album opens in an intimate dimension, with Cash and Nelson introducing themselves in the same manner, before launching into a hushed, pained "Ghost Riders In The Sky". The two talk to each other, sharing with themselves and the audience anecdotes about a songwriting journey spanning one life, or rather two. First for Cash's "Worried Man" and "Don't Take Your Guns To Town", then for Nelson's "Funny How Time Slip Away". It's a gradual warming of acoustic guitars, enriched by the two musicians' deep voices, united in a way more cohesive than the Highwaymen project ever managed. The version of "Flesh And Blood", in fact, stands out for its intensity, forming a central trinity with "Crazy" (Nelson) and "Unchained" from the last album with Rubin. Also shining is the mournful drift of "Drive On", narrated by Cash's weary voice, almost the opposite of Nelson's bright delivery on his own "Me And Paul". The album closes gently, on the soft notes of "I Still Miss Someone" and a placidly bouncing version of "Folsom Prison Blues".

In the spring of 1999, the music world gathers at the Hammerstein Ballroom in New York to pay tribute to Johnny Cash with an All-Star Tribute Concert. Among others, U2, Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen perform.

By now light years away from a life of concerts around the world, Cash lives holed up at home, finding new inspiration for his music, no longer so focused on classic themes like sin and redemption, but on a fleeting sense of life itself. Still driven by his new mentor Rick Rubin, the man in black records almost like a man condemned to death, with the collaboration of other distinguished friends such as Sheryl Crow, Will Oldham and Tom Petty.

Toward the end of the year, Cash halts recording for yet another hospital stay, which finally brings good news: he is not afflicted with the lethal Shy-Drager syndrome. Johnny shrugs it off, convinced he has lived an intense life, guided by God. As if underscoring a kind of trinity hovering over his existence, in the spring of 2000 a precious three-disc box set is released, titled Love, God, Murder (Columbia, 2000). Writing inside the booklet for the three albums are June Carter Cash ("Love"), Bono ("God") and Quentin Tarantino ("Murder").

In October of that same year, the third installment of the American Recordings series is finally released, titled American III: Solitary Man (American Recordings, 2000). It's a work halfway between the desperate intimacy of the first album with Rubin and the mournful shimmer of "Unchained". Cash continues his journey into the dark depths of his soul, torn between an irrepressible urge to be free and the chains of illness and looming death. It's in this gray zone that the man in black first dons the guise of the solitary man, the desperate troubadour who has nothing left but his own memories. Here we find a series of desolate laments like "Lucky Old Sun" and "I See A Darkness", a touching rendition of the Bonnie "Prince" Billy song. Cash returns to certain skeletal tales like "Nobody", before celebrating apocalyptic emptiness with a cover of "The Mercy Seat" from the repertoire of Nick Cave's Bad Seeds.

What follows is a handful of ballads that shine with their own intimate tragedy, from the country-pop of "I Won't Back Down" (by Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne) to the quiet anguish of U2's "One". Above all, the manifesto of "Solitary Man", transformed from Neil Diamond's original into a reflection on the awareness of standing at the margins of a path already completed and marked by divine grace.

By the end of 2000, Cash knows all too well that he has only a few years left to live. He decides, then, to throw himself headlong into a new album with Rick Rubin. Meanwhile, the old Columbia label decides to empty its vaults, first releasing a double-disc anthology — The Essential Cash (Columbia, 2002) — and then a live document, specifically a concert held at Madison Square Garden in New York in 1969, four months after the historic concert at San Quentin State Prison. On At Madison Square Garden (Columbia, 2002), Cash is accompanied by his friend Carl Perkins and the Carter Family, for a concert that doesn't quite reach the heights of Folsom and San Quentin, but comes close. It's a live orgy of genres dear to the American tradition, a kind of traveling caravan that ranges from the tight rhythms of "Cocaine Blues" to the rockabilly of "Big River". A show as encyclopedic as it is incendiary, carved by the very hands of a legend of American musical tradition.

American IV: The Man Comes Around (American Recordings, 2002) hits stores on November 4, 2002, and will become especially well known as the last album released by Cash during his lifetime. The result is once again titanic in its agonizing pain, starting with the title track, the last acoustic reflection of a man pushed toward the divine, toward the end of earthly life. It's one of the last songs written by Cash, opening another album composed almost entirely of covers, all reworked in Rubin's new style, transformed from their original versions to suit Johnny's magnificently spent voice. Like the desperate tone in the bleeding postcard of pain that is "Hurt", an intravenous anguish penned by Trent Reznor, dripping from the piano and from the years of a legend about to return to dust. Cash seems to take pleasure in making other people's songs sadder, as in the ballad "Bridge Over Troubled Water" (Simon & Garfunkel), in the sweet, melancholy "In My Life" (Lennon) and in the sinuous folk-blues of "Personal Jesus" (Depeche Mode), which becomes almost a song written by Cash himself, sung as it is by Cash with John Frusciante on guitar.

The album features numbers of chilling, striking impact, in the skeletal "I Hung My Head" and "Saw Your Face", but above all in the version of "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry" with Nick Cave. Cash seems almost at peace when, years later, he sings "Give My Love To Rose" again, as if a hard-won maturity, achieved at the very last moment of existence, were pouring from his lips. The traditionals "Streets Of Laredo" and "Danny Boy" turn him into something like a crooner of the abyss, a bard of a life rushing by quickly that sooner or later comes to collect its due. Moral, physical, artistic.

Redemption Songs

After the release of The Man Comes Around, John and June retreat to their home at Cinnamon Hill, savoring in isolation the album's enormous success with both critics and audiences. The video for "Hurt" touches the hearts of thousands of fans, named by Rolling Stone one of the most intense and emotional music videos of all time. The album surprisingly goes on to sell a million copies, the first platinum record of his vast career. In Jamaica, Cash's health problems return, forcing him into further hospital stays and eventually a wheelchair. The doctor orders him not to leave the house. June Carter devotes herself body and soul to her husband's desperate situation, draining every last bit of energy from her own body. On April 28, 2003, she is hospitalized and falls into a coma. Her fate is now sealed: in May, June Carter Cash passes away, leaving Johnny in a state of grief that is difficult to put into words.

Unable to react emotionally in any way, Cash decides to throw himself headlong into the second love of his life, music. Unfortunately, he is no longer able to sing, nor to read sheet music or memorize lyrics. Remarkably, he manages to play seven songs at the Carter Family Fold in Virginia, moving over 1,600 people with a heartbreaking admission: "The pain is so great there is no way to describe it." Standing before June Carter's headstone, Johnny tells her: "I'm coming, darling."

On August 21, 2003, he records his last song in the studio, "Engine 143", which ends with the words "closer to Thee, my Lord". Cash begins coughing up blood on the evening of September 11, and is immediately hospitalized, as he had been dozens of times before. But this time there is no turning back: his journey to the afterlife begins at two in the morning on Friday, September 12, 2003. On his headstone, next to June's, is inscribed verse 14 of Psalm 19: "Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength, and my redeemer."

The international press is unanimous in portraying Johnny Cash as a great American man, an immense artist who shaped generations of musicians to come.

Just two months after Cash's death, Rick Rubin decides to empty out much of his sonic archive, erecting a monument in music to the life, art and burning passion of the man in black. Describing in detail everything contained in the five-disc box set Unearthed (American Recordings, 2003) would be a rather risky undertaking, since its more than four hours of music amount to something like the creative summa of the solitary man from Arkansas. Five albums to tell the story of an artistic and human journey, between fall and redemption, love and isolation. Five albums for the story of a man who never let go of his music or his soul, beyond the legend, the TV shows, the tours and the drugs. The first disc — "Who's Gonna Cry" — represents the genesis of grief, that bitter taste of pain that Cash managed to describe in such vivid detail. Johnny, the balladeer of the outcast, of men who sin and then repent, of flesh that spits blood. These are eighteen acoustic songs, made in the same skeletal manner as the first installment of "American Recordings": Cash's deep, weary voice, seated alone on a stool. "Long Black Veil" and "Flesh And Blood" are stripped bare, pared down until they seem like fossilized tears. These are folk and country laments, mixed in with age-old blues like "I'm Going To Memphis". Above all, the return of the funereal "Dark As A Dungeon", stripped of the rebellious fire of Folsom Prison and enriched instead by the despair of a man who is about to die.

The second disc – “Trouble In Mind” – picks up a path of light, electrified by the instrumental backing of Tom Petty's Heartbreakers and of Flea/Frusciante from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Striking immediately for their clarity are the gorgeous gems from Neil Young's catalogue, namely “Pocahontas” and “Heart Of Gold”. Cash veers into electric territory, the fruit of a decade's experience in the world of blues and harder-edged country. From there come Dolly Parton's “I'm A Drifter” and the rockabilly of Chuck Berry's “Brown Eyed Handsome Man”, with Carl Perkins on guitar.

The third disc – “Redemption Songs” – partly returns to the acoustic format of the first, telling, across another fifteen tracks, a story made of patches of darkness and broad flashes of light. Cash presents himself as a “Singer Of Songs”, accompanying himself on his strings through a slow journey set to the rhythm of blues, folk and country music. “The L & N Don't Stop Here Anymore” plays like a travel diary with a western feel, just as the cover of “Father And Son” (with Fiona Apple) is an intimate testament of affection from a man reborn many times over the course of his life. Rubin has fun cosseting his charge with a series of songs that glide by like the divertissement of an entire lifetime, from the banjo of “Chattanooga Sugar Babe” to the nursery rhyme of “Cindy” (with Nick Cave), from the bluegrass refrain of “Salty Dog” to the touching version of “You're My Sunshine”. Above them all stands the duet with Joe Strummer, a heartfelt cover of Bob Marley's “Redemption Song”, and “Big Iron”, a sweeping border ballad with real country breadth.

The fourth disc – “My Mother's Hymnbook” – returns to the solo acoustic dimension, recalling with voice and guitar the old gospel hymns a very young Johnny was sung by his mother. Cash returns to an intimate, whispered, never intrusive register, proving far more at ease here than on the modernist covers put forward by Rick Rubin. Songs like “Where We'll Never Grow Old” and “When The Road Is Called Up Yonder” play like liturgical nursery rhymes, sung in the tone of a prayer. “Do Lord” and “I'm A Pilgrim” bear witness to Cash's spiritual turn, after years of excess and inner devastation, rediscovered in faith along the path of gospel and Christian-rooted music. Within the scope of a grandiose set documenting every facet of the artist and the man, this is a small but necessary collection, because Cash was indeed a worthy outlaw, but also a shepherd of country music.

To close, the fifth disc – “Best Of American” – is a compilation of extracts from the previous records with Rubin, a series of gems poised between sorrow and passion, from the funeral march of “Delia's Gone” to the dripping blood of “Hurt”.

So ends, after more than four hours, one of the most fascinating journeys in American popular music, through the grooves of a seminal, towering artist with an immense musical aura.

Gone for two years now, Cash is slowly entering the firmament of rock legends, helped in no small part by the long musical testament of Unearthed, hailed by critics as a masterpiece. In 2005 another great box set arrived, this time with no unreleased material. The Legend (Columbia, 2005) covers almost the whole of Cash's career, from his earliest countrybilly cries through to the depth of The Wanderer in the Nineties.

In 2006, Columbia decided to empty its drawers even further, releasing a double album running over two hours, comprising around 50 previously unreleased tracks recorded at Cash's own studio at the House Of Cash between 1973 and 1982. Personal File (Columbia/Legacy, 2006) offers a wide selection of intimate songs, created mostly from the classic pairing of acoustic guitar and aching voice. It's yet another precious sonic testament to the long career of the Man in Black, built around small fragments of traditional folk and gospel hymns. Cash revisits the artists who shaped his artistic life, from Rodney Crowell's “Wildwood In The Pines” to the beloved numbers of the Carter Family, from the sweetness of “The Winding Stream” to the honeyed tones of “It Takes One To Know Me”. Fifty songs to tell his own story in the most personal way, as if sitting by a warm, familiar fire, shedding light on a little-known corner of Johnny Cash's creative spirit.

At the start of July 2006, Rick Rubin decided to release the final chapter of the American Recordings series. American V: A Hundred Highways (American Recordings/Lost Highway Records, 2006) marks, for Cash, a return to the intimately spectral dimensions of the first instalment, twelve years earlier. “Help Me” (by Larry Gatlin) and “If You Could Read My Mind” (Gordon Lightfoot) drip with anguished chords, poised between dark chamber folk and raw emotion on guitar strings. Unlike the most recent instalments of the series with Rubin, Cash forgoes guest stars and famous covers to focus more on the songs themselves, as in the masterful apocalyptic stomp of “God's Gonna Cut You Down” or the velvety, jazzy version of “Like The 309”. The Bruce Springsteen revisited on “Further On Up The Road” is not the grandiose Springsteen of “The Rising”, but the closed-in one of “Nebraska” and “The Ghost Of Tom Joad”.

There's also room for more relaxed, gentle numbers, such as the tender country ballad “Rose Of My Heart” and the strummed “Four Strong Winds”, written by Canadian Ian Tyson. While “On The Evening Train” once again recalls the artistic memory of Hank Williams, the new acoustic version of “I'm Free From The Chain Gang Now” proves deeply moving, the last touching act of a long and unforgettable life lived amid amphetamine-fuelled notes and untameable passions.

At peace. Aware. Ready. This is the portrait of Johnny Cash that emerges from the sixth and, presumably, final album of the American Recordings series, American VI: Ain't No Grave (2010), released to coincide with what would have been the American songwriter's seventy-eighth birthday. Every song seems chosen to capture a thought tied to Cash's final years, as he looks death in the face. The feeling that arises from hearing these words sung in a voice no longer as forceful as it once was, but broken by the aches of a lifetime, pushes into the background the fact that the songs on “American VI” are not the best things the artist released under Rick Rubin's stewardship.

Although it cannot stand comparison with other works, this album still offers pieces of absolute worth: the heavy folk-blues tolling of “Ain't No Grave”, the discreet yet effective orchestration of the splendid “Redemption Day” (written by Sheryl Crow), the delicate romanticism of Kris Kristofferson's “For The Good Times”, the renewed beauty of the pure country of “I Don't Hurt Anymore”, or the shy warmth of “Can't Help But Wonder Where I'm Bound” — these are moments that still show us a great Cash.

Ultimately, if Mr. Rubin (who doesn't really seem the type) spares us any further posthumous exploitation, American VI: Ain't No Grave will stand as the final song of an extraordinary artist, a farewell as touching as ever, built with that honesty and interpretive simplicity that made Johnny Cash one of the most beautiful and sincere things in music in recent years.

The End

God's Gonna Cut You Down

There's a video where a bearded man flashes his teeth behind dark sunglasses. He's explaining to whoever's watching that Johnny Cash always wore black to feel closer to the poor, to the outcasts. Like an echo from the Folsom prison, a dry, tribal sound, a Luciferian stomp. You can run for a long, long time. Kris Kristofferson is playing his acoustic guitar out in the countryside. There's a crucifix, and a word that became crucial precisely in the last years of an outlaw legend's life: redemption. Sooner or later the divine hand will cut us down from this life. It has to be told to everyone, carried by a warm, trembling voice, roughened by too many cigarettes and too many amphetamines. A blonde moves sinuously, while the damned cowboy of prisons and country music goes down on his knees to speak with the man of Galilee. Was it the man of Galilee who asked Johnny Cash to announce the inevitable apocalypse to humanity? Sinners, as we know, are the most celebrated saints. Like Bono and Saint Augustine. Only God will bring to light what is done in the shadows. Like Brian Wilson's immense body of work. Two men stand in cowboy hats. There's a cliff over the sea and a clear sky. A bunch of flowers is thrown into the air. So that its petals scatter on the wind, one for every feeling Cash told of in his long, burning existence.

To Johnny (and sorry for the five)

Ride the wave of great music

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This article is an English translation of the original Italian text, published on OndaRock.it. It was translated with the help of artificial intelligence, under the editorial responsibility of OndaRock's editor-in-chief, Claudio Fabretti.

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