One Track Mind
Christmas in Prison - John Prine
When I was in college, I knew a guy who had a John Prine tattoo on his left shoulder. It was something I can’t recall exactly anymore—something like a dog with wings—a reference to some Prine album art, I now believe. At the time, I didn’t know anything about Prine and, faced with a super-fan, I kept my embarrassing ignorance a secret. Looking back on it now, I realize that, had I owned up to my lack of knowledge, the tattooed fan probably would have been thrilled to play me a Prine record, turn me on to his favorite musician.
Some years later, shopping at Jerry’s here in Pittsburgh, I found a beat-up old vinyl of Prine’s first album, John Prine. It didn’t take long for me to become a fan. I’ve been a Dylan fan for the majority of my adult life, and there was a definite Dylan-vibe on the first Prine record. But Prine had more Country-influence in his songs—more Hank Williams in the twang of his voice, and fiddles and steel guitars often accompanied the songs.
After becoming a fan, I encountered others who knew of Prine, by his work or by his reputation. I remember one hung-over afternoon in the outskirts of Philadelphia, watching friends play badminton, my friend Daniel and I singing John Prine lyrics—in our best impression of his twang—each taking a turn at lines we could remember from his songs.
“Christmas in Prison” is from Prine’s third record, Sweet Revenge. I’ve never been one for Christmas songs—that is, unless the Christmas wishes are tempered with a decent amount of heartache. And there’s more than a decent amount in Prine’s Christmas tune. The song’s protagonist describes what Christmas in prison is like, using some really stunning images—“The searchlight in the big yard / Swings round with the gun / And spotlights the snowflakes / Like the dust in the sun.”
The real heartbreak comes with the asides about the speaker’s sweetheart, though—a girl he “dreams of even when [he doesn’t] dream.” There’s a harmonica in the background of the song, whistling with a hollow reverb. And Prine’s voice sells the loneliness—we listeners believe him. There’ll be music tonight, he tells us (or his sweetheart perhaps), and he’ll probably get homesick. So will we.
Scott Silsbe lives in the Garfield neighborhood of Pittsburgh. He is an editor at The New Yinzer and a rocker in the band Workshop.