Cash by Johnny Cash
I’ve had this on my to-read list for years and years, since I read High Fidelity, which must have been in about 1997 or so. The main character in Nick Hornby’s novel cites it as his favourite book, as I recall, and for some reason that stuck with me, and made me think that this must be a definitive work of rock’n'roll literature, and that I must, some day, get round to it. My sister-in-law and her husband bought it for me this Christmas, so I finally have.
Obviously, I expected there to be a bit of God. You can’t really listen to Cash’s music without realising that there’s some heavy-duty religion running behind much of it. But I didn’t expect to run into people like Billy Graham, I didn’t expect quite so many miraculous interventions, I didn’t expect half his extended family to have degrees in theology, and I certainly didn’t expect the singer of all those rebel songs to exhibit such completely uncritical acceptance of all-American godliness. It’s all a bit overwhelming for a cynical Brit, but it would be churlish to openly criticise something that inspired such great music, so I won’t.
The rest of the book covers his various other addictions, lapses and relapses, his failing health, a lot of entertaining on-the-road stories, a large amount of detail on his various properties scattered across the North American continental plate, and a list of acknowledgements that takes up several chapters and seems to cover all the major figures in country music ever. The postscript chapter dealing with the diagnosis of Cash’s Shy-Drager syndrome has the tone of a farewell, so it is pleasing to note that he recorded enough material to release at least two albums following its publication, and kept performing right up until 2003.
Overall, it’s enjoyable and interesting reading, but I confess that I think Hornby’s Rob Fleming needs to explore a little more widely if this represents his apotheosis of literary art. I suppose that was rather the point, in which case it’s nice to finally get the joke.