Johnny Cash: The Life

  “Yes, go on in the dressing room and take it off and give it to me.”

  That night Cash stopped by Carter’s room at the hotel, ostensibly to thank her for ironing his shirt, but she had been around country singers too long not to suspect something more was on his mind. For her part, she was certainly attracted to him; she thought he had a tremendous charisma onstage, and she respected him as an artist. She had been following his recordings ever since “Cry, Cry, Cry.” She was expecting him to come in and try to sweep her off her feet, but he wanted to talk about the Carter Family and Jimmie Rodgers, and the conversation continued to their respective childhoods and their parents. Johnny was especially interested when June said her father loved to read about history and religion. Eventually that first night Cash leaned over and tried to kiss Carter, but she resisted. As she later put it, “I kind of chummed him out of the room, very gracefully.”

  The next day he headed back to California, but they both knew that for them it was only a matter of time. She called him “John” from the start, switching later to “Cash” only in those moments when she wanted to point out to him that he wasn’t being himself—when he was high on drugs or on ego. “I was enthralled,” he said. “Here was this vivacious, exuberant, funny, happy girl, as talented and spirited and strong-willed as they come, and she was bringing out the best in me. It felt wonderful.”

  Before the start of the next tour in Miami, Cash spent February 10, 11, and 12 in Nashville, recording more tracks for the album that was going to salute the old Sun Records sound. It was a carelessly assembled collection of songs, including “Cotton Fields,” the old folk-blues song popularized by Lead Belly, and “In the Jailhouse Now,” a Jimmie Rodgers tune that was revived in the 1950s by Webb Pierce. Cash also took another crack at “Sing It Pretty, Sue” and “Delia’s Gone.” That gave him and Law a lot of material to choose from. As it turned out, none of it was a bona fide hit. Columbia didn’t see enough potential in “Delia’s Gone” even to release it as a single.

  The Sound of Johnny Cash didn’t crack the pop sales charts when it was released later in the year. Not only did the Nashville studio fail to reproduce the stark seduction of the old Sun studio, but also Cash’s vocals were mostly indifferent. He later told me, “I remember where my head was at the time I was singing those songs. I wasn’t too with it on some of them.” About “Cotton Fields,” specifically, he said, “I had no business recording that song in the first place. Kind of showbiz cotton-patch song. Ledbetter [Lead Belly’s real name, Huddie Ledbetter] didn’t mean it that way.”

  In the wave of failure, there was one consolation. Billboard’s staff was enthusiastic about “The Big Battle,” including the single in their “spotlight” section. “A fine saga song of a soldier on a Civil War battlefield,” they called it. “One of his best recent outings and the tune, of his own cliffing, is right up his alley. It can make it big.”

  Cash read the review on the way to Miami for the next tour, and the words allowed him to hold on to his belief in his own artistic heart. Despite the disappointing sales, he was in good spirits. He was going to see June again, and Carnegie Hall was only three months away.

  While hoping that June would be more receptive this time, Cash recognized that she was trying to keep a civil distance, and he toned down his advances. He sensed something special about her, and he didn’t want her to think he was just another country star on the make. He was happy that she’d be on the bill at Carnegie Hall, and he delighted in sharing his dreams for the show with her.

  They continued their friendship as the tour moved to Houston and then Shreveport, where they performed on a revamped edition of the Louisiana Hayride (the original format had ended in 1960). There’s no evidence of his seeing Billie Jean, who, it turned out, was no fan of June Carter, whom she had met during her days as Mrs. Hank Williams. “He was desperate for someone in his life, and June was on the road and June was a hustler,” Billie Jean says. “That’s her reputation. She was a longtime hustler.”

  It’s easy to dismiss her comments as jealousy, but Billie Jean wasn’t alone in seeing June as trying to “nab” Johnny Cash. In fact, June’s entry into Cash’s life caused so much suspicion—among Vivian, John’s parents, band members, and gossipers in Nashville—that she was in many ways an early country equivalent of Yoko Ono in John Lennon’s world. The gist of the grumbling that went on for years was that she was out to break up Cash’s marriage and use him as a springboard for her own career. As the years went by, she, again like Yoko, would be considered a villain by many of Cash’s old friends when she blocked their access to him, fearing they would contribute to his drug use. It wasn’t an easy role, but June was determined to play it.

  If her goal was strictly career advancement, she might have looked elsewhere. Cash’s commercial prospects were shaky by the end of 1961. He hadn’t had a knockout country hit since “Don’t Take Your Guns to Town” two years earlier, and the mounting drug use made his future appear increasingly uncertain. Billie Jean had already rejected a place in Cash’s life because of those drugs. June, however, was immediately attracted to this troubled artist—and true to her Carter genes, she was ready to fight for this man.

  The rumors started flying as soon as she arrived on the scene. In her memoir, Vivian, after mentioning her husband’s drug use in the early 1960s, writes: “And worse yet, some of Johnny’s band members began dropping not-so-subtle hints to me that June was after Johnny on the road, and that I should really do something about it.

  “When I confronted Johnny with the reports, he insisted June had done none of those things I had been told. He said I was letting my imagination get the better of me, and not to listen to gossip. I chose to believe Johnny, but I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feelings I had about her.”

  Cash and Carter were together constantly on the road. Several members of the troupe, including Marshall Grant, were very fond of Vivian, and it’s easy to see how they could assume there was more going on than there actually was at that point. But after Shreveport Cash returned home to California, where he continued to work on the plans for the Carnegie Hall date. He was back in Nashville on March 19 and 20 for a recording session whose only interesting feature is that Anita Carter contributed vocals on two tunes, one of Cash’s favorite gospel numbers, “Were You There (When They Crucified My Lord),” and “Johnny Reb,” a song written by Merle Kilgore, whom he knew from the Louisiana Hayride. Neither track was released; Cash’s voice sounded fried. But he did mention to Marshall after the session that Anita was “one beautiful woman.” Marshall asked himself if Vivian was now going to have to worry about two Carter sisters.

  After some Midwestern shows that month, Cash returned to Los Angeles and recorded in late April a version of “Bonanza!” the title song from one of the nation’s hottest TV shows. Al Caiola had a hit instrumental version in the spring of 1961, but no one had done a vocal version. After the exposure of “Johnny Yuma,” it seemed a logical commercial move—but first Cash and Johnny Western wrote new lyrics. In addition, that month Cash and Bonanza star Lorne Greene planned to do a duet on “The Shifting Whispering Sands,” an Old West ballad that had been a Top 10 hit in 1956 for western-pop singer Rusty Draper. But Cash was sick and didn’t make the session. He later overdubbed his vocal on the tape that Greene and the musicians made that day; but that recording, too, was never released.

  With recording out of the way, he headed to Spartanburg, South Carolina, on May 3 for a short series of shows leading up to the date at Carnegie Hall on May 10. Two days later in Columbia, South Carolina, Cash was feeling nervous about the New York showcase and took a walk with June, hoping to relax. When they got back to the hotel, they went to her room, where she told him to lie on the bed so she could rub his back and try to ease a sudden series of spasms. Cash recalled years later the tension in the room.

  “It got real quiet, neither one of us said anything. Finally I said, ‘I wish I weren’t feeling the way I am.’ She asked what I
meant and I said, ‘About you.’ And she said she was ‘feeling the same way, ’cause there’s only trouble if we keep feeling this way.’”

  With that Cash stood up and said, “We won’t, then. We’ll just work together.” Cash insisted they were only trying to be sensible. “We both had that attitude,” he said. “We weren’t gonna start anything.”

  II

  Carnegie Hall and the Hollywood Bowl were part of Holiff’s master plan to reposition Cash, in the eyes of disc jockeys and talent bookers, from a country music singer to a folksinger with strong mainstream appeal. If he could do that, Holiff figured he’d have a much better chance of getting his client booked on primetime TV shows and into the more lucrative pop market.

  The industry had been talking about a coming folk boom ever since the Weavers and Harry Belafonte became so popular in the early and mid-1950s respectively, but it was the success of the Kingston Trio late in the decade that made execs look to folk as the next rock ’n’ roll—or, more precisely, the musical choice of those teenagers who had embraced rock in the 1950s and were hungry for more substantial fare as they reached college age.

  The Trio was still hugely popular in 1962, but the artist who contributed even more to the growing enthusiasm for folk was a young woman whose angelic voice and purist approach struck a deep emotional chord in young people. Joan Baez was only nineteen in 1960 when she released her debut album on the folk-centered Vanguard label and started building enough of a national following for that album to stay on the charts for more than two years, earning her the cover of Time magazine. At the same time, dozens of young folk artists were playing the clubs and coffeehouses of New York’s Greenwich Village, just a subway ride away from the headquarters of the big record companies.

  Cash’s label had already signed one of the most promising of those artists, Bob Dylan. Producer John Hammond was excited enough about Dylan to send Cash an advance copy of his self-titled first album in the fall of 1961. Cash was greatly impressed and sent Hammond a note of thanks. When Dylan’s album failed to sell well, the young songwriter became known around the label as “Hammond’s Folly.” The producer was forever thankful to Cash for expressing his support to Columbia bigwigs.

  Columbia executives all the way up to Lieberson understood the commercial advantages of promoting Cash as a folk artist, but they didn’t see it as an easy sell. Cash was thirty, which could make it hard for him to become accepted as one of the voices of this new generation. Holiff countered by pointing out that many of Cash’s original fans were rock ’n’ rollers, and they had already responded to the singer’s folk side, as demonstrated by such hits as “Five Feet High and Rising.” Besides, he noted, Cash was five years younger than Belafonte, whose folk sensibilities had contributed greatly to making him one of the industry’s biggest sellers since 1956. Two of Belafonte’s live albums had even been recorded at Carnegie Hall.

  To add to Cash’s folk credentials, Holiff put together a package for New York that also included June Carter and the Carter Family—making this the first time Cash would share the stage with June’s mother and sisters.

  In booking Carnegie Hall, Holiff wanted to show that Cash could sell tickets in New York, the nation’s biggest record sales market—one not known for country music shows—and he wanted Columbia to tap into the Carnegie Hall live album tradition. Despite some concerns about Cash’s unpredictable behavior, Columbia executives gave Don Law the okay to record the event. Holiff, in turn, stressed to Cash the importance of the moment: no disappearing act.

  In the days leading up to the performance, Cash thought about the show’s format with the same energy and drive with which he approached his concept albums. He wanted to take advantage of this prestigious spotlight to show who he was musically, including his roots—and anytime he talked about roots, he turned to Jimmie Rodgers. He even called the cast members together the day of the show to rehearse. To the shock of everyone present, however, Cash was so wasted from drugs, worry, and lack of sleep that his voice was reduced to a mere whisper.

  “Johnny had been getting steadily worse, but things really hit bottom at Carnegie Hall,” says Johnny Western. “He could sometimes pull himself together for important moments, but I think the Dutch courage left him that day. He knew this was a major event for him. The show was sold out in advance. The record company was recording it. I think the pressure just got to him and he turned even more to the pills.

  “Johnny’s voice was so shot he gave his secretary handwritten notes with instructions to all of us. He couldn’t sing a note. He had been taking diet pills to lose weight so he could get into that Jimmie Rodgers outfit [which Rodgers’s daughter had given Cash to wear at the show]. He was as skinny as rain.”

  To add to the anxiety, Cash disappeared after the rehearsal and didn’t return until just in time for the show. “It was literally a minute before we had to go on and John finally shows up,” Grant later said. “He was just downright filthy, dirty, really nasty. It was embarrassing for all of us. I knew that this was going to be a bad night for us.”

  When he walked onstage, Cash was intending to sing chiefly Rodgers’s songs, something that must have made Holiff and Columbia executives frantic. They wanted a Johnny Cash album, not a Jimmie Rodgers album. He even designed a dramatic entrance for his set. He lit one of Rodgers’s own railroad lanterns backstage and ordered the house lights turned off so that the only light on him would be from the lantern flame. He then walked through the dark to a chair at the center of the stage, put his knee on the chair—a signature move by Rodgers—planning to open with one of Rodgers’s most famous compositions, “Waiting for a Train.”

  Cash expected an immediate wave of enthusiastic applause, but the audience was confused. Always nervous at the start of shows, he panicked.

  “If there were any people out there who knew about Jimmie Rodgers (and I’m sure there were at least a few), they were slow to make the visual connection,” he wrote thirty-five years later in his second autobiography. “I thought they were going to be in awe—this must be something special, what’s he going to do—but they weren’t. They were yelling out for ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ before I even got to the microphone.

  “So I turned around and handed the lantern to somebody and I went into my regular opening number, whatever it was at the time. Which would have been fine, I guess, if I’d been able to sing. But I couldn’t. I was mouthing the words. All the people were hearing from me was my guitar.”

  Aghast, Don Law signaled for the crew to turn off the recording equipment. Not knowing what else to do, Cash plowed on desperately, hoping to salvage something of the evening.

  “I kept asking for glasses of water to ease my dry throat,” he wrote. “I kept hoping the pills I’d taken would boost me up to where I didn’t care anymore, but they didn’t. It was just a nightmare and I remember it all with perfect clarity. June came out dressed in a beautiful white robe with a heart sewn into it when I did ‘Ballad of the Heart Weaver.’ I whispered my way through ‘Give My Love to Rose,’ hoping to pull it all together somehow, but I failed. It was awful, start to finish.”

  The mood backstage was near funereal.

  June tried to encourage Cash, but he would have none of it. He snapped at her, then sat glumly in a corner of his dressing room, sending out such bad vibes that none of the regulars dared go near him. It took an outsider—Ed McCurdy, a folksinger best known for the antiwar anthem “Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream”—to finally bridge the gap.

  Johnny Western and Gordon Terry had made the rounds of the Greenwich Village folk clubs the night before and had run into McCurdy at the Bitter End. McCurdy said he knew who they both were and that he was looking forward to the show. They ended up spending much of the night together, and Western invited McCurdy to come backstage after the show to meet Cash.

  At Carnegie Hall, McCurdy sat in disbelief as he watched Cash unravel onstage, but he sensed early on the reason for the problem. After the show, he followed Western i
nto the dressing room and noticed Cash sitting by himself, his head down. He walked over to him.

  “It’s called Dexedrine, isn’t it?” he said.

  Cash looked up, wondering who this stranger was.

  “What is?” he finally replied.

  “What you’re taking,” McCurdy continued.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I just kind of recognized it,” McCurdy said. “I’m a kindred spirit. I’ve been into all that stuff myself. I’m in a program right now and don’t do anything, but I recognize Dexedrine. That stuff will kill you, y’know.”

  Cash didn’t like people questioning him about his drugs and he snapped back, “Yeah? Well, so will a car wreck.”

  But he loosened up when McCurdy introduced himself. He knew some of McCurdy’s songs, especially “Strangest Dream.” The talk helped distract Cash from the disappointment of the night sufficiently for him to go to a club with McCurdy, where he met a young folksinger named Peter LaFarge, who had recorded an album on Columbia.

  Cash already knew of LaFarge because Gene Ferguson, a promotion man at Columbia and a Cash crony, had given him a copy of LaFarge’s “The Ballad of Ira Hayes,” a dramatic account of the life of Ira Hamilton Hayes, a Pima Indian who was one of six Marines featured in the historic photo of the flag raising on Iwo Jima during World War II. The photo was a powerful symbol of American courage and determination, one of the most celebrated images of the war. Never comfortable with the attention, Hayes returned to his native Arizona and tried to lead a normal life, but he couldn’t escape fame. People would even seek him out on the reservation to thank him for his heroism. He re-created the famous moment in the John Wayne movie Sands of Iwo Jima.

  But Hayes’s life proved tragic. Feeling unworthy of the attention because other soldiers had given their lives in battle, the ex-Marine sank deeper and deeper into alcoholism. He was arrested fifty-two times for public drunkenness before he was found dead in an abandoned adobe hut. The county coroner labeled the death the result of exposure and alcohol poisoning. Hayes’s story was told in The Outsider, a 1961 film starring Tony Curtis as the ill-fated war hero.