He told me about the late folk singer, who I knew from Alex Bevan, my childhood idol who’d opened several Midwestern runs, about his sense of humor, love of baseball (especially the Chicago Cubs), his amazing family, his years long battle with leukemia. Chagrined by the killed story, apologizing profusely, I agreed. “Because I’m gonna make’em.”Ĭalling for the advance music, Dan Einstein asked if we could clear the air. “They’ll send it,” Prine assured, eyes twinkling. “ The Palm Beach Post isn’t that important,” I explained back in the days when advance cassettes on good tape was a meaningful expense. Told me I should call the office and get a copy. He wanted to tell me about Tribute To Steve Goodman, the tribute recording for his best friend who’d died from leukemia. Waiting after his set to apologize for wasting his time, Prine could’ve cared less. Prine stepped over the speakers during the opening “Lulu Walls,” said, “Hey, Holly.,” scared me to death and forgot the next verse of his song. When I went to review the Carefree show for the Palm Beach Post, because I knew small labels lived by people knowing they’re out there, they put me front row. When I took a job at a competing paper, my story was spiked. About so many things, the Midwest, Aimless Love, old songs, home cooking, country music, Johnny and Rosanne Cash, traveling the country – and not being too famous, just famous enough. ”He doesn’t like doing interviews, just know that.”Īnd at 2 pm on the dot a slightly sand-papered voice called, asking, “Is Holly there?” I asked tersely, “Is it okay for him to call me now?” I picked up the phone, listened to a half-baked apology, said I didn’t care. “Holly, they want to make sure you’re not a psycho.” “We went to college board stuff together: him from UCLA, me from Arizona.” The day before the appointed time, Jeff Chabon, Fantasma Production’s publicist, begged me to please call the management office. They could set-up the interview, but I wasn’t speaking to the rude man who’d hung up on me. Just one thing: I wouldn’t talk to that Dan Einstein. A million people across the state would read the feature it would help sell tickets on the other Florida shows they were promoting. Even though it was West Palm Beach, Doug Adrianson, my editor at The Miami Herald, would understand the value of this performance. If only Prine knew.Īnd then John Prine booked into the Carefree Theater, which ran smart movies and the occasional concert. I lamented for this empathetic soul who’d written about an OD’d Viet Nam vet, forgotten old people, a middle aged housewife shipwrecked in her marriage. Who was this rude person who wouldn’t even listen.
John Prine had a mail order record label. “He doesn’t talk to college papers.” CLICK. They’re the next generation of fans,” I protested. “He doesn’t talk to college papers,” said the voice at the other end of the phone.
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