The 500 - #86 - Born In The U.S.A. - Bruce Springsteen

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album #: 86

Album Title: Born In The U.S.A.

Artist: Bruce Springsteen

Genre:  Rock, Heartland Rock, Pop

Recorded: Power Station Studios and Hit Factory Studios, New York, New York

Released: June, 1984

My age at release: 18

How familiar was I with it before this week: Very

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #142 - dropping 56 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Glory Days

There is a particular confidence that comes with being young. Not necessarily confidence in yourself -- I was a chaotic jumble of angst, acne and anxiety as a teen -- but I had confidence in my place in the world. It is a time when you think you know everything and you do know the culturally hip landscape intimately. You're fluent in the slang. You know which movies are worth lining up for on opening weekend, but you've also seen the smaller films that will eventually be recognized for their innovation, craftsmanship, and lasting influence.

You've found your tribe and settled into its uniform. Maybe it's denim, leather, band T-shirts, parachute pants, rugby tops, Polo shirts, high-top sneakers, or some combination that would look ridiculously anachronistic today. You've perfected your hairstyle -- for me it was a perfectly coiffed mullet, with feathered bangs on the sides.

Me in 1985.

At the time, though, it wasn't a costume. It was armour. It told the world exactly who you were and, just as importantly, who you weren't. You might experiment with elements borrowed from another clique's style. You might flirt with a different haircut, a different jacket, or even a different soundtrack. Underneath it all, however, you were absolutely convinced that your look, your music, your movies, and your generation had landed squarely on the right side of cool.

When I think back to that feeling, I often return to a car ride on the morning of January 1, 1984. The night before, I had been at a New Year's Eve party hosted by my girlfriend Maria's brother, Danny. After helping with clean-up and a hearty breakfast, Danny offered to drive me home from the east end of London all the way to Byron in the west. It was a substantial trip, especially after a late night, and while I'm sure I thanked him at the time, I appreciate the gesture even more in hindsight. It was a generous thing to do for his little sister's boyfriend.

I distinctly remember a stop for gas and, as Danny pumped in fuel, Van Halen's latest, and biggest, hit single, Jump, played on the radio. Their upcoming record, 1984, would hit shelves a few days later and my friends and I were still coming to terms with their new sound.

What we didn't realize at the time was that we were listening to more than a hit song. We were hearing a changing of the guard. The great rock bands of the 1970s were finding ways to survive and thrive in a new decade. Synthesizers that once seemed confined to New Wave acts were becoming part of mainstream rock. Advances in recording technology were creating bigger, brighter and more polished productions. Music videos were becoming almost as important as the songs themselves. The old rules had not disappeared, but they were being rewritten. Van Halen was teaching us that the future of rock would not look exactly like its past.

For a long time, I reflected on 1984 as the year when everything came together. What I've gradually come to realize, however, is that we rarely remember a single year as vividly as we think we do. Memory compresses time. When we point to one magical year, we are often talking about a larger period that surrounds it. In my case, when I say "1984," I am really talking about the remarkable three-year stretch from 1983 to 1985. Those were the final years of high school and the beginning of adulthood for me. I moved from 17 to 20 during that span, and felt completely plugged in to the culture of the moment.

The timing was extraordinary. MTV had transformed the way music was marketed in the United States, and MuchMusic would soon do the same in Canada. Record companies were pouring unprecedented resources into turning albums into blockbuster events, releasing multiple hit singles and accompanying videos designed to dominate both radio and television. At the same time, the decade was finally beginning to define itself visually. The earth tones, softly feathered hair, and lingering styles of the 1970s were fading in the rearview mirror, replaced by neon colours, shoulder pads, leather jackets, designer sneakers, spandex, oversized sweatshirts, and enough hairspray to threaten the atmosphere. The ‘80s that people nostalgically remember today had arrived.

And talk about blockbusters. The number of multi-platinum selling albums, with a plethora of hit songs on them, released between 1983 and 1985 was staggering. Just as important was the rise of the music video. Record companies were suddenly spending hundreds of thousands, and sometimes millions, of dollars on elaborate productions complete with storylines, special effects, exotic locations, and cinematic production values. A hit song was no longer enough. Artists now needed a memorable visual identity to accompany it. Consider the first half of this three-year span:

• Cyndi Lauper - She's So Unusual (5 singles, #487 on The 500)

• Culture Club - Colour By Numbers (4 singles)

• Huey Lewis & The News - Sports (4 singles)

• Def Leppard - Pyromania (3 singles) 

• The Police - Synchronicity (4 singles, #448 on The 500), 

• David Bowie - Let's Dance (3 singles)

• Journey - Frontiers (3 singles)

• U2 - War (3 singles, #228 on The 500)

• ZZ Top - Eliminator (3 singles, #398 on The 500)

• Michael Jackson - Thriller (6 singles, #20 on The 500)

• Van Halen - 1984 (4 singles)

• Prince - Purple Rain (4 singles, #76 on The 500)

And we are only halfway through this pivotal period in my teenage life. In June,1984, one blockbuster had barely left the record store shelves before another arrived. On June 4, Bruce Springsteen released Born in the U.S.A., an album that would produce seven Top 10 singles and ultimately sell more than 30 million copies worldwide.

Springsteen in 1984.

Yet its path to becoming one of the most successful records in rock history was anything but straightforward. Much of its DNA can be traced back to the stark, acoustic recording sessions that produced Nebraska in 1982 (#226 on The 500). During those sessions, Springsteen recorded dozens of additional songs, many of which would eventually be reworked with his backing group, the E Street Band, and transformed into the larger, louder, and far more commercial sound of Born in the U.S.A.

Bruce with the E Street Band.

That unlikely journey, from the lonely landscapes of Nebraska to the stadium-filling anthems of Born in the U.S.A., received renewed attention in the 2025 biopic Deliver Me from Nowhere, which chronicles the making of Nebraska and the creative crossroads Springsteen found himself navigating in the early 1980s. It is one of rock music's great tales of evolution. The album that emerged from those sessions became a cultural phenomenon, while the album that almost wasn't, continues to fascinate musicians and fans decades later.

As I was preparing this post, I found myself in a conversation with my good friend and previous guest blogger, Jeff Lewis. Jeff is a serious Springsteen fan, having seen The Boss live four times, so I knew he would have some thoughts on Born in the U.S.A.. I also knew I was giving him little notice. As it turned out, that was less an obstacle than an invitation. Within what felt like minutes, my phone lit up with a thoughtful, detailed response that was longer than most of my high school essays.

From Jeff:

Springsteen’s Born in The U.S.A. album may be one of the most misunderstood albums of the ‘80s. Fans and radio listeners heard a pop album with upbeat melodies and catchy hooks. However, for the savvy record listener, the lyrics told a different story.

Those same songs with the bright keyboard riffs, booming production, and cannon-shot snare drums were, in many ways, a continuation of the dark, working-class stories Springsteen had explored on Nebraska. Beneath the stadium-sized choruses and radio-friendly hooks were songs about people confronting disappointment, dead-end jobs, broken dreams, and the uneasy realization that life had not unfolded the way they had imagined. The music sounded triumphant. The characters often were not.

The title track, Born in the U.S.A., remains the album's most famous example. Originally developed under the working title "Vietnam," the song is still mistaken for a flag-waving patriotic anthem. In reality, it is a bitter protest song about a Vietnam veteran who returns home only to discover that the country he served has little use for him. Its message is uncompromising; ordinary people are often asked to make extraordinary sacrifices, only to find themselves forgotten when those sacrifices are no longer convenient.

Dancing in the Dark may be the album's most radio-friendly song, with its infectious melody and polished pop sheen, but beneath the surface is a young man wrestling with frustration, self-doubt, and the feeling that life is passing him by. My Hometown paints a portrait of a small American town in decline, where blue-collar jobs are disappearing and old racial tensions still linger beneath the surface. Downbound Train tells the story of a man who loses not only his livelihood but also his sense of direction as economic hardship slowly dismantles the life he once envisioned. Even Working on the Highway, wrapped in an upbeat rockabilly groove, centres on a labourer serving time on a chain gang. Meanwhile, Glory Days taps into something universal. We can laugh at the characters' rose-coloured nostalgia, but we also recognize ourselves in them as they cling to cherished memories and look back on the promise and carelessness of youth.

The album was not entirely bleak. Darlington County follows two friends looking for adventure and trouble on a road trip, while No Surrender captures the idealism, friendship, and restless energy of youth. Yet the darker themes are never far below the surface. Misinterpreted or not, by 1985 everyone recognized Born in the U.S.A. from its opening notes. We sang along at parties, blasted it from car stereos, and celebrated its enormous choruses. Only later did many of us realize that beneath the sing-alongs and fist-pumping hooks were stories of struggle, loss, and disillusionment. The music felt like a celebration. The lyrics often told a very different story.

Back to Me:

I suppose I am indulging in a little bit of my own Glory Days nostalgia as I think back to June, 1984, when Born in the U.S.A. began its 140-week run on the Billboard charts. I was preparing for my final year of high school and, at the time, 18 felt grown up. Now I realize it was really the beginning of everything. Life stretched out endlessly ahead, the music kept getting bigger, and every few weeks seemed to bring another album destined for heavy rotation on car stereos, bedroom turntables and MuchMusic. As the summer passed, I could see 20 approaching, even if I wasn't quite ready to believe it.

Here are the blockbusters that followed, and the hit songs contained on each:

• Madonna - Like A Virgin (5 singles)

• U2 - The Unforgettable Fire (2 singles)

• Bryan Adams - Reckless (6 singles)

• Dire Straits - Brothers In Arms (4 singles, #352 on The 500)

• Tears For Fears - Songs From The Big Chair (4 singles)

• John Cougar Mellencamp - Scarecrow (3 singles)

• Whitney Houston - self-titled debut (3 singles)

• Heart - self-titled eighth record (4 singles)

• Phil Collins - No Jacket Required (4 singles)

Looking back at that time makes me realize that Springsteen nailed the emotion I now feel

“Glory Days, yea, they’ll pass you by
Glory Days, in the wink of a young girl’s eye
Glory Days”

The 500 - #87 - The Wall - Pink Floyd

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album #: 87

Album Title: The Wall

Artist: Pink Floyd

Genre:  Progressive Rock, Art Rock, Rock

Recorded: Six Studios - London, Nice, New York, Los Angeles, Correns, Hollywood

Released: November, 1979

My age at release: 14

How familiar was I with it before this week: Very Well

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #129 - dropping 42 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Comfortably Numb

It was a cold Thursday evening in late November, 1979. I was a student at Kingsville District High School in Southern Ontario and a big part of my teen-age life revolved around music. I played saxophone in the school band, and our conductor was Mr. Buchanan, the school's music teacher. Conveniently, he also happened to live just four houses down from my family on a country lane lined with orchard and pepper fields along the northern shore of Lake Erie.

My first high school - recently demolished.

Mr. Buchanan had agreed to give me rides to band practice on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Looking back, that arrangement feels almost impossible to imagine today. A teacher travelling with a student alone in his car would likely trigger a lengthy chain of policies, permissions, and concerns. In 1979, however, nobody thought twice about it. We lived less than 200 metres apart and were heading to the same place. It was a practical arrangement, it was convenient, and it was simply how things worked. The 1970s feel like the Wild West compared to the carefully supervised world we live in now.

My family home and Mr. Buchanan's. Gone are the orchards.

Most Thursdays, I was grateful for the ride. On this particular evening, though, I found myself hoping Mr. Buchanan would be late…maybe, if I was lucky, he would be sick and cancel band practice altogether.

For several days, the radio station WRIF 101 out of Detroit had been building anticipation for the release of a massive new album. In those pre-internet days, radio stations were masters of suspense. There were no music websites, no social media leaks, no YouTube preview videos, and certainly no AI assistants ready to tell you everything you wanted to know. If a major album was about to drop, radio stations became the gatekeepers of information, and they knew exactly how to keep listeners hooked.

Every few hours, WRIF would drop another clue…A huge band…their first album in years…a double album…containing more than 80 minutes of new music…an epic work unlike anything you have heard!

WRIF DJ Arthur Penhallow (1970s and 80s)

The station promised that on Thursday night they would play the entire first side of the album. For a music-obsessed teenager, this was a Super Bowl-level event. I was glued to the radio, relishing every detail the DJ delivered leading up to the big reveal.

Truth be told, the identity of the mystery band wasn't really a secret. Around Kingsville District High School’s cigarette senate, older, cooler rockers who convened in the smoking pit and on the school bus had already confidently predicted what was coming: A new record from Pink Floyd. The band’s new single, Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2), was already in heavy rotation on the rock stations. The rebellious chorus of "We don't need no education" was blasting from car stereos, portable radios and the voices of students all over Essex County. The song had worked its way so deeply into teen-age culture that I had scribbled those words across the front of my “Trapper Keeper” binder while a math teacher was trying, unsuccessfully, to provide exactly the education the song was protesting. (After more than 30 years of trying to engage students in lessons, I owe Mr. Lee an apology…it really was my fault I struggled in his math class).

Trapper Keeper Binder - a high school staple in the late 70s/early 80s

As 6.30 approached, I stood by the front window, stealing glances out to the road while the radio continued humming in the background. The DJ's voice rose with excitement as airtime for Side One drew closer. The anticipation was riveting and every commercial felt like a red light on an abandoned road.

I knew this would be the talk of the school on Friday morning and that every teenager from Grand Rapids, Michigan, to Leamington, Ontario, was tuned in…Then I saw headlights. Reliable Mr. Buchanan was stupidly on time.

I grabbed my saxophone case, pulled on my coat, and headed out into the cold November night. The DJ’s voice disappeared as I slammed the front door and aimed for the passenger seat. On most nights, I was delighted to go and make music. That night, however, it felt like I was driving away from history. It was the first night the public would hear Pink Floyd's eleventh studio record, The Wall.

Pink Floyd (Wall Era) (l-r) Richard Wright, David Gilmore, Nick 
Mason and Roger Waters.

I would hear The Wall in its entirety within a few days. A couple of my friends (or their older brothers) bought copies as soon as the record hit the stores, and I spent more than one weekend afternoon sitting cross-legged on someone’s bedroom floor as the album slowly turned on a stereo system that also occupied a place near the top of my teen-age wish list.

Gatefold interior of The Wall album.

We would study Gerald Scarfe's unsettling artwork on the inner gatefold, pore over the lyric sheets tucked inside the sleeves, and try to make sense of a story that felt far more complicated and mysterious than the disco hits and straightforward rock and roll bangers that dominated the charts that autumn. The Wall wasn't the sort of album you simply played. It was a conceptual journey ripe for exploring.

The record eventually found its way into my own collection, although not until a year later when the family moved to London, Ontario, and I finally had my first turntable…an inexpensive Candle 590X which I purchased from the now-defunct Consumers Distributing Catalogue store in the autumn of 1980.

Candle 590X Turntable - inexpensive and sounded it.

Forty dollars of babysitting money vanished in a single transaction, but for the first time I had a turntable of my own. To a teenager who measured wealth in albums rather than dollars, it felt like a sound financial decision. In fact, I was chuffed at how far I had advanced in my musical acquisitions.

Consumers Distributing Catalogue Store - A Canadian fixture 
frm 1957 - 1996

Pink Floyd’s The Wall appeared under the Christmas tree that year (1980) courtesy of my mom. At the time, she was working part-time at an Eaton’s department store demonstrating the latest miracle of modern technology: microwave ovens.

Hotpoint Microwaves - along with Toshiba, 
these were the models my mother was promoting.

In the weeks leading up to Santa’s arrival, she asked "the young men" in the record department to help with my gift selection. Rather than trying to guess what a teen-age music fanatic might want, she trusted the experts behind the counter. (Pro move mom)

To their credit, they assembled a remarkably strong starter kit for a 15-year-old with expanding musical tastes:

• Eagles Live

• Zenyatta Mondatta by The Police

• Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy by The Who

• The Wall by Pink Floyd

Looking back, I have to admire their work. They spanned American country rock, new wave, British rock royalty, and one of the most ambitious concept albums ever recorded. Forty-five years later, I'd still call that a pretty good haul for one Christmas morning. Every artist “mom selected” became featured multiple times on 2012’s The 500 list. (Thank you, unknown Eaton’s Department Store Dudes!!)

One of the Eaton;s stores in London featured in a 1960s postcard. 

By 1983, I had begun treating "We don't need no education" less as a song lyric and more as a rough draft for my academic future. A year earlier, the movie version of The Wall was released in theatres and it had an even greater impact on my education than the album itself. I was in Grade 13, (later called O.A.C. for Ontario Academic Credits) -- a uniquely Ontario fifth year of high school that existed until 2003. For many students, Grade 13 provided an extra year to prepare for university. For me, it briefly became an opportunity to perfect the art of napping, movie watching and Pop Tart & Tea consumption.

Vintage 1980s Pop Tart package.

A high school friend once described his Grade 11 as "the best two years of my life." At the time I laughed at the joke. Then I proceeded to spend roughly two and a half years in Grade 13, accumulating enough credits to graduate and, much to my parents’ relief, qualify for university.
My extended learning curve was my own fault. However, I did have friends who were willing accomplices…in particular, my chum Steve Mackison.

Steve was my roommate, a decade later, in 1993, pictured here
with my future wife, Angela.

Steve was the first person I knew who owned a VCR. That may not sound especially impressive today, but in the early 1980s owning a video cassette player instantly transformed your home into a destination. Through an uncle whose sources remained somewhat mysterious, Steve also had access to an impressive and ever-changing collection of movies. Titles like Body Heat, Death Wish II, and Scarface circulated through his living room long before many of us were old enough to watch them legitimately.

Movie poster for Body Heat.

More importantly for this story, he also acquired a copy of Pink Floyd: The Wall movie Released on video that year and starring Bob Geldof as the troubled rock star Pink, the film transformed Roger Waters' sprawling concept album into a surreal visual experience filled with Gerald Scarfe's nightmarish animation, powerful symbolism, and imagery that could be interpreted, debated, and over-analyzed for hours…and we sure did, as Steve's house soon became the campus for an unofficial educational institution we dubbed Mackison 101.

Bob Geldof as Pink in the film version of The Wall.

The schedule was flexible, but I do remember the autumn of 1984 when I attended first-period English because the teacher, Ms. Howse, was an extraordinary educator who redirected my rebellious and often unfocused teen-age self with patience, enthusiasm and a genuine passion for literature. However, after English, I would wander over to Steve's place during a second period spare. His parents, the kind and loving Babs and Wally, left for work early and returned late. The house was quiet, unsupervised, and home to one of the most comfortable pieces of furniture in my universe: a gigantic white sectional couch that could induce unconsciousness within minutes.

White, sectional sofa, similar in style to the Mackison's.

Many mornings I would arrive intending to stay for an hour. Instead, I would wake up sometime near lunch, enjoy tea, eat a couple of Pop-Tarts, and settle in for whatever movie Steve was screening that day. Class schedules gradually lost their grip under such conditions.

The Wall became a particular favourite and to say I watched the film, at least in part, a hundred times is probably an understatement. I knew it the way I knew Monty Python sketches as a pre-teen and the Ontario Grade 7 math curriculum now.

The Wall, movie poster.

Looking back, repeated viewings probably taught me quite a bit. I absorbed lessons about symbolism, metaphor, visual storytelling, alienation, grief, and the dangers of building psychological walls between ourselves and other people. I even learned about the perils of fascism and the defense of the Anzio Beachhead, which was part of the Allied Forces Italian Campaign in World War II. It was during this battle that principal songwriter for The Wall, Roger Waters, had lost his father…an event he wrote for the only song in the movie that is not on the original album, When The Tigers Broke Free.

Single for When The Tigers Broke Free - Pink Floyd.

However, what I did not absorb, unfortunately, were the lessons being taught in the classes I was missing. University entrance applications, regrettably, weren’t asking prospective students to interpret the symbolism of "marching hammers" or the satirical sentiment intended in showing robotic British school children falling like lemmings into meat grinders in the film. That’s too bad…I would have earned a scholarship.

Screen capture from an animated sequence in The Wall film.

Eventually, I made one of the smarter decisions of my teen years and transferred to another London high school, H.B Beal. The move wasn't motivated by academics alone, but it put some distance between me and the daily temptations of friends, including sessions of Mackison 101. By the time I began making friends at Beal, I had already developed better habits and found myself focused on something that had seemed optional for a while: passing courses.

H.B. Beal Secondary School in London, Ontario.

The result was a string of strong marks and successful completion of the remaining credits I needed for university admission. In the end, I escaped Grade 13 with both an education and a diploma. Whether The Wall helped or hindered that process probably depends on how I frame it. I still believe I am a better thinker and writer because of that record.

In retrospect, this Ontario teen “did need an education”. Thankfully, I found teachers willing to provide one (Tip of the hat to Mr. Buchanan, Mr. Lee, Ms. Howse and many others). I also owe a debt of thanks to Roger Waters, Pink Floyd and Mackison 101. Those experiences made me who I am today and I love the memories I created at a time in my life when I needed the friends I had and the music we listened to, including The Wall.

Things worked out fine for Steve too. He also graduated from Mackison 101, got into University and is currently The Venerable Steven Mackison, incumbent of the Church of the Redeemer in Toronto.

The 500 - #88 - At Folsom Prison - Johnny Cash

I was inspired by a podcast called The 500 hosted by New York-based comedian Josh Adam Meyers. His goal, and mine, is to explore Rolling Stone Magazine's 2012 edition of The 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

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Album #: 88

Album Title: At Folsom Prison

Artist: Johnny Cash

Genre:  Country, Rock

Recorded: Folsom State Prison, Folsom, California

Released: May, 1968

My age at release: 2

How familiar was I with it before this week: Somewhat

Is it on the 2020 list? Yes, at #164 - dropping 66 spots

Song I am putting on my Spotify Playlist: Cocaine Blues

I thought I knew this record. I certainly knew a lot of the songs. Folsom Prison Blues has been part of the Johnny Cash mythology for as long as I can remember, and Cocaine Blues wasn't unfamiliar territory either. The late Reverend Freddie and the Distillers, whom I wrote about in my Hank Williams post, used to perform both songs regularly. So when At Folsom Prison came up on my journey through The 500 Greatest Albums list, I figured this would be one of those records where I would be thinking all week about an angle to write about. Then, I fell into a research rabbit hole.

The more I read about At Folsom Prison, the more I realized how little I actually knew about it, even getting the title wrong for years. To me, it was "Live at Folsom Prison", which seems perfectly reasonable since it is, after all, a live album recorded at Folsom Prison. Except it isn't called that. The title is simply At Folsom Prison. No “Live.”

Folsom Prison, Folsom. California.

My mistake is an example of the tiny musical corrections this project keeps handing me – such as learning I've spent decades adding “The” to Eagles, Ramones and Pixies. None of those bands includes the definite article in their moniker.

I also had this image in my head of Johnny Cash essentially arriving at Folsom with his band and playing a concert for the inmates one evening. In reality, it was much more of a travelling country show. Carl Perkins, the man who wrote and first recorded Blue Suede Shoes, was there, as were The Statler Brothers; Cash's band; The Tennessee Three; and June Carter. In fact, those artists performed two concerts at Folsom on January 13, 1968, one in the morning and another a few hours later. Most of the performances from the first show appeared on the original album. Not bad for a morning shift.

Cash performing at Folsom Prison.

I knew June Carter was there because you can hear her voice on Jackson, her duet with Cash. However, I hadn't really thought about where the pair were in their lives at that particular time. We tend to look back at their story, knowing how it ends. They became “Johnny and June”-- one of those couples whose names seem naturally attached to one another. By the time I knew who Johnny was, June seemed inseparable from the image of the man himself. Indeed, they married -- but that wasn't the situation when they walked into Folsom that January morning 58 years ago.

Johnny and June.

Johnny had married his first wife, Vivian Liberto, 14 years earlier in 1954, and they had four daughters together. As Johnny's career took off, however, life on the road, his escalating drug use and his growing relationship with June helped tear the marriage apart. Walk the Line, the 2005 biopic with Joaquin Phoenix as Cash, Reese Witherspoon as June and Ginnifer Goodwin as Vivian, makes that troubled triangle one of the central stories of the film. By the Folsom period, Johnny and Vivian's marriage was over in everything but the legal formalities, while his relationship with June had become the central focus in his life.

Movie poster for Walk The Line.

In fact, James Mangold’s film Walk the Line begins with the Folson Prison concert. We see Cash backstage at Folsom before the movie moves backwards through his childhood, his first marriage, his early recording career, his drug problems, and his complicated relationship with June.

Joaquin Phoenix as Cash in Walk The Line's Folsom Prison.

Eventually the story swings back to Folsom, and we see Phoenix's Cash performing for the prisoners. The film, therefore, treats the concert almost as the destination. But it didn’t mean Cash’s turbulent life had come to an end. Just that events continued to unfold – but without Vivian.

Cash with his first wife, Vivian Liberto.

The movie covers Cash’s famous proposal to Carter on a concert stage in London, Ontario – interestingly only a few kilometers from where I wrote this post.

Mural depicting Cash's proposal on the exterior of
Canada Life Place in London, Ontario. 

Another fascinating aspect of the Folsom shin dig was the emergence of Glen Sherley, a musician who became part of the Cash legend.

He didn't come through the Folsom gates with Cash, Carter or Perkins. He was already on the other side a resident serving time for armed robbery. By 1968 he had spent considerable portions of his life as an inmate in the California prison system where he honed his skill as a songwriter.

One of Sherley's compositions was called Greystone Chapel, a song inspired by the chapel inside Folsom itself. He managed to have the song recorded, and a cassette tape found its way to Reverend Floyd Gressett, a minister who worked with prisoners and also happened to know Cash.

Greystone Chapel inside Folsom Prison.

On January 12, 1968, the night before the concerts, Cash listened to it, loved what he heard and decided he wanted to perform the song the following morning. He stayed up late that night learning it.

The best part of the story is that Glen Sherley apparently knew none of this as he took his place among the inmates to watch Cash perform, completely unaware that during the previous night one of the biggest stars in country music had been sitting in a motel room learning his song.

Sherley in attendance at Folsom Prison show.

Sherley watched as Cash tore through songs about prisons, trains, murder, loneliness and bad decisions, many of them describing lives that the men sitting in front of him understood well.

Near the end of the concert, Cash introduced another song and explained that it had been written by someone right there inside Folsom Prison. Then he said the man's name: Glen Sherley.

Cash shaking hands with Sherley.

Cash's bass player, Marshall Grant, later recalled Sherley essentially melting into his seat as the prisoners around him erupted. Suddenly, the guy sitting among them wasn't simply another inmate. Johnny Cash was standing onstage about to sing something he had written.

Because Columbia was recording the concert, Sherley's moment didn't stay inside Folsom. Greystone Chapel became the closing song on At Folsom Prison, meaning that this unknown prisoner's composition travelled beyond those gates even while its writer couldn't.

You'd think that would be the wonderful little piece of trivia at the end of Glen Sherley's story, but it wasn't. Sherley kept writing behind bars, and in 1971 another of his songs, Portrait of My Woman, was recorded by country star Eddy Arnold. Arnold didn't bury it on an album either. The song became a single and the title track of his Portrait of My Woman album. Sherley also got the extraordinary opportunity to record an album of his own while incarcerated at Vacaville, Prison. The Folsom prisoner whose song Cash had unexpectedly performed was slowly becoming a legitimate country songwriter without having built anything resembling a normal life outside prison.

There seemed to be a remarkable redemption story forming, and Cash tried to help make it happen. When Sherley was paroled in 1971, Cash didn't simply congratulate him and move on. Sherley became associated with Cash's House of Cash publishing operation and eventually joined Cash's touring organization.

For a while, the story must have seemed almost too perfect: an imprisoned songwriter has one of his songs unknowingly passed onto Johnny Cash; he hears Cash perform it inside a prison; has another song recorded by Eddy Arnold; gets released and finds himself welcomed into the professional country-music world.

Unfortunately, real life refused to provide a Hollywood ending. Sherley struggled badly outside prison. Years of incarceration hadn't prepared him for the schedules, expectations and pressures of life on the road. His behaviour became increasingly unpredictable, his relationship with members of Cash's organization deteriorated, and eventually that extraordinary second chance fell apart. His music career faded, his personal life deteriorated and, in 1978, Glen Sherley died by suicide at the age of 42.

Sherley's story changes At Folsom Prison for me. The mythology of the record naturally revolves around Johnny Cash walking into that prison dressed in black, facing a room filled with inmates and delivering that famous introduction, “Hello, I'm Johnny Cash.” That's the image that survived, and Walk the Line helped introduce it to another generation. But what I hadn't appreciated before digging into this album was how many other stories were unfolding in that room.