I vividly remember riding in the front passenger seat of a VW Rabbit, on the way up the steep road to Powder Mountain with my dad, listening to a tape of John Prine. I was probably nine. It may be the first memory I have of really paying attention to music. (It was certainly the first time my dad explained marijuana to me, when I asked what Illegal Smile meant! Later I would read the liner notes for his wonderful anthology “Great Days,” where Prine asserts that the song was never about drugs, but it became such a beloved pot smoker anthem that he didn’t have the heart to break it to them.)
There’s so much more to say and remember and listen to. For tonight: His music has been a part of my life for as long as I can recall and I’m sad that he’s gone. Peace.