Onstage at Chicago’s Earl of Old Town with the Ensemble, I complete a guitar break and glance up to survey the audience. Sitting at the table directly in front me are Kris Kristofferson, Paul Anka and John Prine.
Situated on North Welles Street, across from The Second City comedy theater, celebrity audiences and marathon sets were the norm at the Earl. The Ensemble (Carey Cohen, Ernie Mansfield and I), were the unofficial house band at the pub, and not easily impressed. But having three of my favs at one table was something special. Between sets, I overheard discussions about Jerry Wexler’s offer to Prine for a deal with Atlantic Records.
Half century later, my wife and I are sipping coffee on a bistro patio in Cologne, Germany, when I notice another patron sneaking looks in our direction. Eventually, he walks over pointing at my shirt and says, “John Prine.” There was immediate understanding; Prine’s recent death a shared sadness. We talked briefly about how Prine was not only a great artist, but probably the last sane person on the planet.
Back in the States a few months later, I’m toting a bag of groceries across a Publix parking lot when I hear someone behind me singing, “Sam Stone came home to his wife and family . . .” Startled, I turn around. A man collecting carts was singing the Prine set list off the back of my shirt. We share a smile. Made my day.
These mini ‘John Prine Celebrations’ have become a reoccurring part of my life and good for mental health. Turn strangers into friends.
