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I& #39;m going to tell you my John Prine story, now. It starts, though, with my grandfather, long before a carpenter friend of mine introduced me to Prine& #39;s music while we were trying to fix up an old Lexington, GA farmhouse that probably equally deserved the attentions of a bulldozer
Upon reflection, in the long run we would have all been better off, including that old house.
My grandfather was a huge part of my young life, and though he was assuredly as imperfect as all men, to me he was the absolute rock that every part of my life would rest upon, and the patriarch against which all of my own efforts would eventually be measured.
My grandfather was a postman by trade, just like John Prine, actually, before all That Stuff happened. He was also a cracking brick mason and a fine carpenter. There& #39;s a thing carpenters often say when someone is being a little too fussy about 1/16 of an inch:
"David, you& #39;re not building a piano, here." My grandfather was ALWAYS building a piano.
So, it was with this in mind that I stopped John Prine as he was walking by and said "Uh, Mr. Prine, I just wanted to tell you that my grandpa was a carpenter, too."
But I& #39;m getting ahead of myself.
But I& #39;m getting ahead of myself.
I found myself backstage at a John Prine show because the best soundman I& #39;ve ever known was formerly Prine& #39;s FOH engineer and he invited my sweet wife and me to accompany his family to see the show at Chastain Park many, many years ago.
I have been told that the only ironclad provision of John Prine& #39;s contract rider was that there be a hot fudge sundae waiting for him in the dressing room when he walked offstage. And so my wife and I,
along with 100 or so of John Prine& #39;s closest friends, found ourselves in a large, uncomfortably well-lit room after yet another stellar, gracious, and perfect show, drinking all the free beer and waiting for John Prine to finish his ice cream.
I joke about 100s of Prine& #39;s closest friends, but there were assuredly MANY people there who knew the man better than I could ever claim to, so Lisa and I sipped our drinks and watched as people jockeyed for his attention. And to be fair, who wouldn& #39;t?
At some point, nearly everybody hears a line in a John Prine song that makes them think "How did he know THAT about ME?"
But at some point, he was making his way from one side of the room to the other, and I eased up beside him and said what I said, about my grandfather and all, and Prine stopped, smiled, pulled a chair out for each of us, motioned for me to sit and said
"Well, tell me all about your grandfather."
If you don& #39;t know the song "Grandpa Was a Carpenter," you should give it a spin. It& #39;s full of all sorts of little details that Mr. Prine relayed to me as if maybe I had never heard the song, like how his grandfather always wore a suit to supper, and smoked Camel cigarettes, etc.
And after he asked me what I called my grandfather, he would ask questions like "How did your Papa meet your grandmother?"
And we sat there talking about our grandfathers for about half an hour, until a slightly worried-looking tour manager sidled up and said "John, the bus is leaving and if you& #39;re not on it when we get to Charleston, it& #39;s going to be awkward for both of us."
John stood up, shook my hand, said goodnight to Lisa, threw his arm around his tour manager and together they walked off into the night.
I& #39;ve told this story probably a couple of dozen times, and the only people who are ever surprised by it are people who have never met the man.
