I do a few book reviews from time to time. Here's a recent one that ran in the Weekly Standard about Johnny Cash. If you like Britney Spears, you may want to skip this. ########## He Walked the Line The Man in Black "was rarely out of addiction's grip." by Dave Shiflett 11/05/2007, Volume 013, Issue 08 Johnny Cash The Biography by Michael Streissguth Da Capo, 320 pp., $26 Britney Spears, the world's most prominent lip-syncher, is under scrutiny these days, with tales of substance abuse and excessive butt-flashing that have put her at risk of losing permanent custody of her children. While she'll no doubt eventually convert her troubles into a career-boosting sympathy tour, that she could be considered even a minor practitioner of the dissipative arts indicates a severe decline in standards. Consider, for example, the late Johnny Cash, a world-class pill-popper who, according to long-held lore, was saved only by divine intervention, along with a little help from wife June Carter Cash. Yet this new biography indicates that even the Good Lord couldn't keep him clean for long. In addition, Cash, who lent his talents to the Billy Graham organization, seems to have spent the 1970s and '80s in the occasional company of various -Jezebels. He was a maestro on many fronts. Following his death in 2003, a basic theme ran through many Cash remembrances, including a popular film starring Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon: After years of wretched excess, the Man in Black saw the light, married June, and basically lived happily ever after. Yet according to Michael Streissguth, rumors of his rehabilitation were greatly exaggerated. Cash was rarely out of addiction's grip. Johnny Cash: The Biography provides the basic background of Cash's birth, first marriage, stints in the Air Force and as an appliance salesman, and his early musical career, playing three-chord music on a five-dollar guitar of German provenance. Three chords or not, Cash was a prodigy when it came to doping, which played second fiddle to nothing, including Carnegie Hall. Streissguth writes that a 1962 appearance at the fabled New York venue found Cash so debilitated that he could only manage to "whisper" his lyrics. It only got worse. In October 1965, Cash crashed and burned on the stage of The Steve Lawrence Show (CBS), where he had been slated to open the evening with his mega-hit "I Walk the Line." Guitarist Luther Perkins played the intro, Streissguth writes, but Cash blanked on the lyrics. Perkins, an apparently patient sideman, tried 11 more times to get the ball rolling, yet Cash was too stoned to sing. That debacle was followed, a few days later, with a drug bust in El Paso. Eventually he simply stopped showing up for shows. By 1967, as many as half of his dates were being cancelled. Those wondering what it takes to compete at this level may be astounded by Cash's dosage. His typical intake was 20-30 amphetamines at a time, three to four times a day. When it came time to throttle back, he'd knock back 20 or so tranquilizers. In the early part of their romance, which ran concurrent with Cash's first marriage, June Carter was also popping pills, though at a reduced rate, according to Streissguth. While myth and moviemakers have Cash cleaning up in order to marry June, former sideman Marshall Grant says Cash was back on dope soon after the wedding and, except for a dry period during 1970-76, was rarely drug-free. "There wasn't five days from 1976 until he came down with his disease that he was straight," Grant is quoted as saying. "They did a good job covering it up." Indeed, it seems that tales of divine intervention, at least of the subterranean type, were also ill-founded: Many Cash eulogies mentioned a pre-marriage descent into Nickajack Cave near Chattanooga, where his plan to commit suicide was vetoed by God. "That did not happen," says Grant. We are also reminded that Cash, like many touring musicians, was not the best of family men. "Dad quit coming home," says Kathy Cash, a product of his first marriage. "I remember one year Mom went an entire year without knowing where he was." Streissguth recaps a few of Cash's other troubles, including being forced to fork over $82,000 for causing a forest fire in Los Padres National Forest in California that destroyed 500 acres and much of the (endangered) condor population. And in an act of what might be karmic significance, one of Cash's worst years of drug backsliding (1983) came "after an ostrich that inhabited an exotic animal farm he owned attacked him and broke five ribs." The author, who also wrote Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison, is clearly an admirer, yet does not look past the soft spots in Cash's body of work. He also writes with gentle humor about Cash's big-screen version of the Jesus story, which the author says included a score consisting of Gospel set to boom-chicka-boom. The movie itself proved a compelling personal statement and a credible interpretation of Christ's days on earth, if one could look past the sharp southern accent of Mary Magdalene and the preponderance of combovers among males in the cast. Streissguth also reminds us, movingly at times, that Cash's latter years were hard. Besides addiction problems, he lost his Nashville recording contract, experienced an erosion of his songwriting talent, and was forced to endure a stint in Branson, Missouri. His alliance with producer Rick Rubin resulted in a series of recordings which are, as Streissguth has it, somewhat mixed: His originals could be compelling, though some covers are reminiscent of an old man crooning on a park bench to the full dismay of the local pigeons. His final days were black indeed, with June gone--according to the book, Rubin dispatched a faith healer on her behalf--and Cash slowly slipping away. His spirits, Streissguth writes, collapsed as the sun fell. The gloaming, he'd say, invoking the Scottish term for evening, was the hardest part of the day. It was the hour when she had passed. He'd stare out the office window, absorbing what he could discern of the shimmering of the setting sun on the lake. Johnny Cash's music remains popular--he sold over 50 million records--especially with a younger audience that considers the Man in Black to be one of their own. And in any case, whatever his personal shortcomings, much better JC than Britney, who should put on some underwear, get back to rehab, and recognize that her ring of fire, like her voice, is a mere flicker compared with the real thing.
