Paul Collins

America lost one of her great dreamers to COVID-19. In early April, at 73, the iconic country-folk singer John Prine died from complications of Coronavirus: the insidious virus that has stolen the lives of far too many people in the wake of its deadly rampage across the globe. The night that it took Prine away forever, a bright light was extinguished forever. We have lost a singer-songwriter who had a gift for marrying words and simple guitar chords together in a way that elevated the lives of everyday people to an Art Form. He wrote songs that, in a plainspoken way, chronicled the hopes, dreams, and struggles that live inside of common people in a beautiful poetic style.

Across five decades, the Chicago-born Prine resonated deeply with fans from across multiple generations, and yet, he never had a hit record. I’ve simply never been able to warp my mind around that. I don’t believe that I’m alone in wondering why that was the case. The son of a tool and die maker from the hills of Kentucky, he was raised on the music of Hank Williams. He was a restless kid who started writing songs as a teenager. He started life as a mailman in Chicago, dreaming up lyrics in his head to pass the time on his mail route. As time went on, he cut his musical teeth on the small folk clubs that dotted the Chicago city scape of his times. Despite never having a hit record in the national charts, his destiny was that of a Mid-Western master storyteller who, across the years, evolved to become one of the most influential songwriters in the country-folk music arena. He was revered by the likes of Bruce Springsteen, Kris Kristofferson, Johnny cash, and the master himself; the legendary Bob Dylan.

In my mind, there resides a crystal and indelibly etched image of the long ago moment when I first discovered him and his songs. Having undergone cancer surgery in 1998 in his neck, his songs were sung in a raspy gravel voice that had the tone of broken glass. That didn’t matter one bit, for what he sang about was real life and real people. The words of his song, “Sam Stone” were a haunting reflection of real life; “There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes.” There was his classic anthem to the hard luck of middle age, “Angel of Montgomery,” which Bonnie Raitt covered and had a national hit with. One of my very favorites from Prine’s musical catalogue will always be “Hello in There,” a truly heartbreaking portrait of loneliness and old age. In its way, “Hello in There” might be, in a very folky American way, on a par with “Eleanor Rigby,” Paul McCartney’s brilliant ode to loneliness.

What was always true was the fact that across 5 decades, this Mid-Western poet and singing mailman, had an amazing talent for telling stories in a way that made you laugh deep down in your belly, and that could also bring a tear to your eye and put a lump in your throat. His were the songs that always stayed with me. Songs that never grew old, stale or tired. That prolific songwriter with the raspy voice and unique style of self-depreciating humor chronicled the human condition in a way that left me in awe every time I heard him.

A multiple Grammy winner and member of the Songwriters Hall of Fame, who was chosen to receive a 2020 Grammy for lifetime achievement, he was also admired and influenced many of the popular artists from the current generation such as Jason Isbell, Kasie Musgraves and Margo Price.

FILE — In this June 20, 2017, file photo, John Prine poses in his offices in Nashville, Tenn. Prine died Tuesday, April 7, 2020, from complications of the coronavirus. He was 73.(AP Photo/Mark Humphrey, File)

Yes, America has indeed lost one of her beautiful dreamers, a gifted songwriter and master storyteller all wrapped up in one package. As I say, his were the songs that, for me, will never grow old, stale or tired. They are the songs that will always stay with me, and that will always leave me thinking a bit more deeply about people and about this life we’re all given. When he left us, a bright light was extinguished forever. Where once there was a warm glow, now there is darkness and a yawning empty space. Rest in peace, John Prine.

Paul Collins is a freelance writer from Southborough, Massachusetts.

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