In this month’s issue of Uncut , we bring you the inside story on the House Of Johny Cash. We spoke to his family, friends and collaborators to tell the definitive story of the Man In Black. Over the next few weeks on www.uncut.co.uk, we’ll be printing the complete transcripts of these interviews.

And here’s the second one: Rodney Crowell

Houston, Texas born country singer songwriter, and one-time husband of Rosanna Cash, a nervous Crowell asked Cash to sing on 2001’s “I Walk The Line Revisited”. “It was like getting Da Vinci to paint a moustache on the Mona Lisa,” he recalled.

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UNCUT: When did you first meet Cash?

CROWELL: At the Beverley Hills Hotel when I was dating his daughter. Went to dinner in the Bungalow, just me and her and John and June. You can imagine – I was 27 years old. It was just a delightful dinner. And they treated me like royalty. They were just so charming. John and June were world-class charming human beings. I was a couple of feet off the ground. The next time, Rosanne and I were living together. John didn’t smile on that. He thought that was not right. So we received a summons – airline tickets to their sugar plantation down there [in Jamaica]. So I got drunk all the way. I drank bloody Marys to Miami and then switched to rum going down to Montego Bay, and then when we got there I was really way up in my cups. There was a confrontation between John and Rosanne about sleeping arrangements, so I with drunken bravura I cut into the conversation. I said, you know I’d be a hypocrite if I changed my lifestyle – trying to be a puffed-up man and hold my own with [chuckle] one of the world class icons – and he kind of looked at me, and he said: “Son. I don’t know you well enough to miss you if you were gone.” He dismissed me in a heartbeat. Which instantly sobered me. And from that point on… he made a friend for life with me, because he just showed me what real strength is.

It must have been intimidating – these presumably are your musical heroes.

Certainly the second meeting was extremely intimidating. The first one was more a dream sequence. Just a really delightful dinner for four. A fireside dinner at the Bev Hills Hotel,. And for me, just getting my legs under me in the music business, it was huge.

Is JC somebody that, when you were bumming around with Townes Van Zandt and Guy Clark, was up in the pantheon for you?

Yeah. Going way back. In Nashville in that day when Guy and Townes were two steps above the street, and the rest of us were still scrapping on the street, John with his compound out on the lake was the top of the ladder. I remember, Guy had a small house across the lake and his next door neighbour had a boat, and we’d be out there on a full moon night in the boat, putting by over the cove where John’s big house was. Looking at it, going ‘God! That’s pretty cool.’ Roy Orbison was next door.

You have this song, “The First Time I Heard Johnny Cash Sing I Walk The Line”/ I’ve heard you read the memoir of it – the way you describe his voice sounding like Abraham Lincoln looked – what did you mean?

It’s just that kind of gravitas. Deep gravitas. And also that iconic sense – that you could have his bust on Mt Rushmore. Put him and Dylan and Chuck Berry and Merle Haggard and Hank Williams up there.

Is the song literally true, that when you first heard “I Walk The Line” you were transported?

Yeah – well, I was trying to capture the poetry of the moment in the way I wrote that. But I think that when that particular experience was through with me – I mean, given my parents and my life, chances are I’d have been a songwriter – but hearing that when I was 5 years old and going that far away, it sort of sealed the deal.

Did you ever work together? I presume his vocal is dubbed onto that record.

Yeah it was dubbed on. I helped in the studio. I produced a record with him and Carl Perkins and Jerry Lee Lewis. A live record. It was recorded in Germany.

What was it like working with him?

Great. It was funny. My favourite thing about John was his wicked sense of humour. He was a kid. Whenever he suited up and was the Man In Black he was an imposing figure – this worldwide icon, but relaxed and away from that he was a prankster. He was a funny kid. And he really indulged his childish self. It was fun.

Did you consider him to be a genius?

Well you know that word is… that’s a tricky word. How do you define it? I think a song like “How High’s The Water Mamma”, that’s Faulkner. That’s genius. Or “I Walk The Line”, “I Still Miss Someone”, or “Big River”. There’s a poetic genius, for sure. I think the genius lies in being an elevated everyman. You don’t get to that place if you’re not somehow touched with that extra bit of charisma. And as my friend Stuart Smith would always say, he was a body language genius. We used to tour with him and we would open, and I remember doing this show at the Albert Hall, and my band would open, and we’re standing watching him from that little door by the stage, and Stuart turned to me and he said “There is no greater body language than that man on stage.”

Just from the way he stood?

Yeah – just you know, hey, I’m comfortable here. Like his most comfortable chair was on that stage, standing up singing for people.

This phrase you used – elevated everyman – it is a difficult position to be celebrated for being apparently like everybody else. And being above it.
It’s hard to do. It’s hard to be in both places at once. And I think he paid a price for it. He died a young man. He wore himself out doing it. He lived hard.

Was he conflicted about the responsibilities of that?

No I don’t think so. I think he was really comfortable. He was more conflicted about his own personal demons, that he struggled with. There was a part of John that I was aware of: he had currents swimming in two different directions. He struggled with drugs, most of his life. There was always that clean-up time, which he really had, where he had that really big turnaround with June, but he still struggled later on.

What was at the root of the drug problem? Was it a recreational thing that spiralled?

No. It was like he survived what Elvis didn’t survive. I talked to him about this. You know, when they came of age and they were out there, and those guys were making records and going on the road and trying to keep their schedule together, and somebody handed him amphetamines. And if you’re pre-disposed toward chemical dependency – we talked about this – they handed those guys the hard stuff from the get-go. At least when I came up people were handing you a beer and a joint. It was a gentler entry into that world. For those guys coming up in the Fifties – the Everlys and all of those guys – they handed them amphetamines, which is basically like plugging yourself into the light fixture. And scientifically there are those who are pre-disposed to struggle with introducing chemicals to the body. And you’re in for a long bout with that: amphetamines are rough. When you’re flying on it it’s like you can conquer the world, but coming down off it’s a really hard crash.

Is there one story which sums up what you think of John?

The one I told you about being drunk out of my mind and insinuating I was going to have my way with his daughter. He put me in my place with world class resolve. But there’s also another personal memory I have – that we were in the cabin that he and June had on their property, and he had a hammock on the front of it. Somebody had a video camera, and John was just laying in the hammock, just kind of swinging idly, really relaxed. And someone handed me the camera and said: shoot dad. So I put the camera on him, and I watched this relaxed man, this patriarch lying in a hammock, become Johnny Cash, through the camera. And it was so powerful. It was almost like this transformation. It wasn’t a Jekyll and Hyde thing, it was just ‘oh, the camera’s on’, and whenever it was time to go to work, even if it was just for a home movie, he became that icon. I just watched that icon inhabit that body. I remember thinking to myself, ‘Good God, it’s so strong.’

Was that a conscious thing with him?
No. I think he probably called on it consciously when he needed to. But this particular time, it was just the instinct of, ‘Oh, the camera, it’s on me, I’m who I am,’ and pfff, there it is! Going from just lying in a hammock enjoying a summer’s day. It was really profound, to be looking through a camera lens and see it. So I can imagine, a photographer, lurking – like Alan Messer shot Johnny Cash a lot – and we had this conversation, because he shot my new album cover and I told him that story and he said, oh yeah it was always that way whenever we would start to shoot. He said he would snap, take the picture, and the legend would assume itself right before his eyes.

You compared him to Will Rogers once – what did you mean?
It’s what we already talked about – the elevated everyman. It’s like the everyman as poet, you know? As a poet, Will Rogers just had this natural conversational style. Will Rogers was a pundit, really, in a way. And John had that same kind of comfortable everyman – but the difference between him and the common man was his poetic brilliance. He was really a poet. At the end of the day, Johnny Cash was a poet.

INTERVIEW: ALASTAIR McKAY

In this month’s issue of Uncut , we bring you the inside story on the House Of Johny Cash. We spoke to his family, friends and collaborators to tell the definitive story of the Man In Black. Over the next few weeks on www.uncut.co.uk, we’ll be printing the complete transcripts of these interviews.

And here’s the first one: Nick Cave

Covered Cash’s “The Singer” in 1986 and sang together on “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” for American Recordings VI. Their version of UK folk ballad “Cindy” came out posthumously on the Unearthed boxset.

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UNCUT: How did you meet Johnny Cash?

CAVE: I had two phone calls from Rick Rubin. The first one I was on holiday somewhere in the south of France and I got this call completely out of the blue from him – just asking if I had any problems with Cash recording “The Mercy Seat”. And that was just such a strange thing – nobody was supposed to know where I was, and it was such a very strange phone call that came through.

I didn’t have too many problems with that, at all. So that just kinda happened without incident. And I got the record and heard it and was really, really moved by it. And thought it was offered another side to that song that I could never have brought to it, I don’t think. It was just his age and his stature, and what had happened brought to that rendition of that rendition of that song. And it had that strange wigged out harpsichord at the end.

So that was one of those little gifts that you can never predict. The next time I was in LA on tour and I got another of these phone calls from Rick asking if I wanted to come down and sing with Johnny Cash the following day. Obviously I wanted to, but I was full of trepidation about the whole thing. He just said bring a couple of songs and we’ll do them. Actually [Bad Seeds’ collaborator] Warren Ellis suggested the Hank Williams song, “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”. We also did a little version of “Cindy Cindy”, which was very funny.

But he was there with June, and she was an absolute trip, this woman. When I mentioned the song “Cindy Cindy”, they said, “Oh we know that,” and this particular song has got these floating verses where everyone throws everything into ot. And they were yelling out verses that I’d never heard to each other – “Do you remember the one, ‘If I had a needle’?!’” and all that sort of stuff. It was a joy to watch. But the real highlight was the Hank Williams song. He’d done it before – I didn’t know that. And that was his favourite Hank Williams song, he said.

What physical state was he in?

When I saw him I was half an hour early. Well, I was on time, and he was half an hour late. I was sitting in the recording studio with the band and Rick, and then he appeared, and there were these steps that he had to walk down to get into the studio. Whatever the condition he had – one of the problems I think was diabetes, and if he went from light into dark he couldn’t see, he was basically blind for ten minutes, so when he came into the studio, he looked real ill, and was helped down the stairs by two people.

He had his arms out in front of him going “Are you there Nick? Are you there?” And I’m like, fucking hell, how’s this guy going to be able to sing anything? Let alone get down the stairs. So it was quite a shock, you know? He sat down and talked and his eyes adjusted to the light, so he could see, and we sat around and talked about things for a while. Then he said, so what do you want to play? So I told him, and the band just started up – they were fucking unbelievable, and he sang it. I was secretly terrified that I wasn’t going to be able to sing this song with him – that it would be in some kind of key that I couldn’t get to, and that I was going to fuck it up. But everyone was so relaxed about it and he was so relaxed and generous with his praise that I felt all right when I actually sang it.

When the song finished there was this sort of silence, and Rick Rubin’s voice came through the cans saying “We’re gonna have to do that again.” And I’m like, “Yeah, I’m flat, right?” And he goes “Nope, Johnny’s flat.” So suddenly I felt a sense of freedom, to sing the song. I had got away with it. Then they got me to sing some harmonies on the other song. And I’m like you don’t want me to do that. And June’s going “You get in there and you sing those harmonies!” I’m like, [sheepish] all right.

We heard that Johnny’s voice was gone and he had to pray to get it back.

Well yeah. He went into this kind of long rant about various things, but he said that he’d had pneumonia three times that year, and he’d woken up and his voice had completely gone. And that he’d got down on his knees and said to God: “I never asked for nothing in my life, I never asked for nothing; but you give me back my voice! So I can go and sing with Nick Cave.” Then he says “And I woke up the next day and I’m singing like a bird!” And June’s going “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”

It was the real deal, and it was extraordinary. When he started singing all his illness just seemed to fall away. He became energised by that. I often hear that, and often it’s a load of shit, but this is actually true. In some ways when I was sitting there talking to him, I was kind of wondering how this man was going to be able to sing anything at all. Once he sat down there was just this real strength – this force of nature that came out of him. For me – it was two hours, and I walked out thinking, fuck, what happened then? That was the extraordinary thing. I felt I had really seen something that for me was hugely comforting, and inspirational, and truly incredible.

Some fans of the early stuff say the Rubin material doesn’t have the rhythm and attack of the earlier records.

I disagree with that. To do something like that – what Rick did with him – I’ve heard criticisms as well, from certain people, that Rick was kind of bleeding him dry by getting him back into the studio. But I’ve gotta say, it was the other way around. He was energising this man and giving him something that he hadn’t had for a while. Now there were certain songs that he got Johnny Cash to sing that were stepping into really risky areas, “Personal Jesus” and stuff like that. It’s risky, to haul this legend right up to the cliff face of contemporary music and expect him to do something with it. But I love the way he did those songs: the U2 song, they were great. And I think there were enough older songs to make those records really work.

What do you make of Cash as a singer? He’s almost intoning rather than singing.

It’s in the tone, and the phrasing. He has this unconventional and extremely awkward phrasing sometimes. It’s rhythmic, I guess, but it’s really on the one. Like that Bob Dylan song, “It Ain’t Me Babe” – “No, no, no!” But being on the one like that lends a certain gravity to what he sings sometimes. And also with the tone of his voice. I don’t think other people can get away with singing in that way. That’s the thing. You know, you’re really hearing every word thundering out.

There’s so much that’s complex with Cash. The sense of sin, and danger, and Biblical righteousness. But he has this stage persona, too…

I saw that show that he did in London maybe 10 years ago, 15 years ago. It was in three parts. He did early stuff with a small band, and then he sat and played. It was at the time the first of those American Recordings came out, I guess. In the middle he sat and played this new stuff on the guitar by himself, and then at the end June came out, and it was a big kind of knees-up end to the whole thing. And it really showed these three sides of him in quite an unconscious kind of way. When he did this stuff in the middle it was spine-chilling cos it was so… there was something wrong with his voice. When he put it low there was some irritation going on with his voice, but he just sang it anyway.

It was so beautiful, and so wracked at the same time. And such a contrast to that early stuff. Then he went on and did the thing with June Carter, doing Jackson and all that kind of stuff, and slapping their knees. I could be reading things into it, but he looked onstage as if he was quite uncomfortable doing that final stuff: that he was now somewhere else. And it was when he was doing that stuff on his own that it was just so beautiful. But I only met him for those couple of hours in the studio and he was everything that I thought he would be.

Was he a genius?

I don’t know what that word means.

Which period do you like best?

I go through all the different periods. Sometimes I listen to him a lot, and sometimes I don’t listen to him for years. And sometimes he seems to be having a huge influence over things.

Did he have a tangible influence on you?

I remember Mark E Smith coming up to me once, in is usual charming manner, and saying “Anyone that sings with a deep voice is an arsehole,” or something. And I was like, “All right, well what about Johnny Cash?” he was like, “Oh, no, you’re right.” And fuck you! But for me, it gave me a licence to sing in a certain way. Not that I sing like Johnny Cash, or by any means think that I have that tone of voice that he has, but I discovered a way of singing through trying to sing his songs, where you could sit back and there was a kind of relaxed tone. You could get down in that place where he gets down. and that there was still a kind of strength to that.

I discovered that from trying to sing some of that Muddy Waters, and trying to sing “Long Black Veil”, and those kind of songs that he recorded from years ago. That if you just sat back and sang quietly, I discovered that I had this pleasing tone to my voice that I didn’t know that I had at all. Because all through the Birthday Party I basically screamed, and I could never sing softly because the music was so loud. It was when we started to sing soft music that I discovered there was this kind of fluidness about my voice that I didn’t realise that I had. And that was very much from trying to sing those Johnny Cash songs.

So there’s a power in restraint?

Absolutely, and that really influenced the kind of songs that I wrote for quite a while. That I’m actually a better singer when I sing quietly than I am when I sing loudly. My voice pushes into a different tone when I sing loudly that’s pretty unattractive. People forgive me for it, but there was something about it. I guess it’s a kind of crooner thing.

ALASTAIR McKAY