
By Michael D. Evans
With shelter-in-place and venues being shut down, live music hasnāt been an option since the pandemic began. And YouTube concerts just arenāt the real thing, although I am thankful that we at least have those.
We have been further deprived by the loss of too many musical icons in this all-too-painful year. The Americana community has been hit particularly hardālosing John Prine, David Olney, Jerry Jeff Walker, Justin Townes Earle and Billy Joe Shaver.
In a podcast tribute to Shaver, Otis Gibbs suggested that āif anybody is around Willie Nelson now, or Tom T. Hall, please keep them in a medically sealed room and take care of them. We need all the legends we can getā in these difficult times.
In addition to some of Americanaās best, during the year we lost Little Richard (āLucilleā), Kenny Rogers (āThe Gamblerā), Bill Withers (āLean on Meā), Peter Green (co-founder of Fleetwood Mac), Helen Reddy (āI Am Womanā), Johnny Nash (āI Can See Clearly Nowā), Eddie Van Halen (Van Halen, āBeat Itā) and Spencer Davis (of the 1960s group that bore his name).
John Prine
John Prine has been a part of our musical lives for longer than most of us can remember. A natural storyteller, he also employs infectious melodies through which to relay his tales. His catalog is filled with gems.
Who can forget the legendary āAngel from Montgomeryā (made most popular by Bonnie Raitt); the peaceful waters of āLake Marieā; the discovery of the Beatles and recording with the Rolling Stones in āJesus: The Missing Yearsā; or the poignant lyrics of āSam Stoneās Storyā (āThereās a hole in Daddyās arm where all the money goesā).
I last saw Prine about three years ago at Merlefest, the gold standard of east-coast music festivals. Although up in years and in poor health, he brought everything he had to the performance. It was a moving tribute to his own music.
āAfter a song or two, even the drunks in the room start to listen to [Prineās] lyrics. And then he has you,ā noted Roger Ebert in a 1970 review (yes, that Roger Ebert, sidelining as a music critic).
David Olney
In the mid-1990s, I heard Emmylou Harris perform āJerusalem Tomorrowā about a traveling con preacher who is forced to rethink his scam when he encounters the real thing. Then I learned it was written by David Olney and that Harris had covered another of his songs, āDeeper Well,ā on the same album. After listening to Olneyās originals, I was hooked.
Another wonderful storyteller, his live version of āSweet Poison,ā with an intro on the hemlock poisoning of Socrates, is outstanding. And who can forget this lyric: āI never said I would be honest, but at least I told you no lies.ā
Townes Van Zandt called Olney āone of the best songwriters Iāve ever heardā putting him in the same company as Mozart, Lightninā Hopkins and Bob Dylan.
I once hired an applicant for an editorial position because he was familiar with Olneyās music. (I hope HR isnāt reading this.)
Olney remains the only artist I have ever seen live to cover a Bee Gees song (their debut, āNew York Mining Disaster of 1941ā). It was an exceptional interpretation of one of their best songs.
Olney died in January of this year on stage in the third song of his set.
Billy Joe Shaver mightāve been the only true outlaw who ever made his living writing about the inner workings of his heart. The realest of them all.
Jason Isbell
Jerry Jeff Walker
Perhaps best known for penning the hugely popular and oft-covered āMr. Bojanglesā (most famously by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band), Jerry Jeff Walker went from the Greenwich Village scene of the 1960s to the outlaw country movement of the 1970s. Although commercial success largely eluded him, he became one of the many Texas legends to surface from the outlaw country scene.
Lucinda Williams says that his songs āhad so much humor, and they were anthems. There was a feeling of āus against them.āā
He is famously referenced in the lyrics of a Jennings song: ābetween Hank Williamsā pain songs and Jerry Jeffās train songs and āBlue Eyes Cryināā in the rain, out in Luckenbach, Texas, there aināt nobody feeling no pain.ā
āJerry Jeff was like the Sam Peckinpah of music,ā says Ray Wylie Hubbard. āHe was going to do it his way.ā
Justin Townes Earle
When youāre the son of Steve Earle and youāre named after Townes Van Zandt, there are no doubt big expectations of you. The younger Earle developed his own style and gathered a significant following, introducing Americana to a younger audience in a way that hadnāt happened since O Brother, Where Art Thou.
Hardly Strictly Bluegrass, where he performed many times, on its Web site remembered him as āa beautiful soul and a singular talent.ā
As with far too many, we lost him to the demons of his soul at much too early an age. Having experienced substance abuse issues since being a teenager, he once told an interviewer, āIāve lived the majority of my life in the dark rather than the light.ā
His lyrics express that complexity: āI am my fatherās son. Iāve never known when to shut up. Iāve got my mamaās eyesā¦and I still see wrong from right.ā
āItās a hard family to rebel in,ā Townes Earle said referencing his famously rebellious father, āI could have become an accountant. Or I could have become a Republicanāthat would have really pissed him off.ā
Billy Joe Shaver
For me, Billy Joe Shaver was the hardest loss. Nothing pleases me more than a new musical discovery, and although a latecomer to his music (the early 2000s), I was an impassioned convert. I have often referred to Shaver as the Jim Morrison, Ian Curtis and Kurt Cobain of country music.
After Waylon Jennings, in a drug-induced state, agreed to record an album of a then unknown Shaverās songs, Shaver pestered Jennings until that happened. The resulting album was Honky Tonk Heroes, and suddenly Shavers was ādiscovered.ā
Although he led a troubled life that included losing his fellow musician son to a drug overdose, he wrote insightful lyrics on pretty much any topic. āThe devil made me do it the first time; the second time I done it on my ownā expresses his owning up to his own demons. He was an engaging songwriter whether it be the crafty (āYesterday, Tomorrow Was Todayā) or the popular (āGeorgia on a Fast Trainā).
When the proselytizers come to my door pitching the wonders of the afterlife, I reply: āIāve seen Billy Joe Shaver live at a coffee house in Austin, Texas. Heaven? Been there. Done that.ā
In the beautiful āLive Forever,ā covered by Robert Duvall in the movie Crazy Heart, Shaver essentially writes his own epitaph: āYouāre gonna miss me when Iām gone. Nobody here will ever find me, but Iāll always be around. Just like the songs I leave behind me, Iām gonna live forever now.ā
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Michael D. Evans is a political activist, editor and writer. And he enjoys good tunes. Contact him at evansm@usa.net.