I can think of two singers who have written songs in answer to the question, “Why do you wear black?” Morrissey’s famous phrase has become a truism of Goth culture: “I wear black on the outside / Because black is how I feel on the inside” (from the song “Unloveable”). Johnny Cash’s answer in “Man in Black” is far less saturnine:
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin’ in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he’s a victim of the times.
Now honestly, I love The Smiths, and until news arrived that Johnny Cash had died, this column was slated to be about Morrissey’s lyrics (next time, folks). But could the contrast be starker between a literary fop finessing his own image and a hardened realist concerned with the plight of others? Might this contrast epitomize the difference between alternative music and country — the former so tortured, inward, and romantic, the latter so open, social and life-affirming?
I wear the black for those who never read
Or listened to the words that Jesus said
About the road to happiness through love and charity;
Why, you’d think He’s talking straight to you and me.
In the late 1960s, Cash became a born-again Christian to the consternation of his myriad fans and critics. They could have done without the Holy Land imagery at concerts, the repackaged gospel songs, the Billy Graham cameo on the 1971 album, A Man in Black. They wanted Cash, the genuine country article. But several factors had changed him profoundly: his recovery from addiction to amphetamines, the sudden deaths of his friend Roy Orbison’s two sons, and his marriage to June Carter. In the public view, he had undergone the classic American posture-change — from youthful bad-boy to repentant convert. In private, Cash apparently had undergone a true heart-change that gave him a new vision for his career.
Well, we’re doin’ mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin’ cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we’re reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there oughta be a Man in Black.
I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold;
I wear the black in mournin’ for the lives that could have been—
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.
Paradoxically, although his conversion to Christianity went against the grain of the anti-establishment 1960s, his increased sense of social burden and renewed stance against materialism supported the spirit of the age. Of course Cash was also a troubadour, a poet. With his pen he captured an era of late ’50s fin-tailed decadence — “streak of lightnin’ cars and fancy clothes” — as well as the social revolution of the ’60s, expressing solidarity with “the ones who are held back” and “the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold.” Later in the song, one hears an echo of Bob Dylan in the line, “things need changin’ everywhere you go.
Cash’s stardom began to fade in the mid-’70s. By the early ’90s, it had waned to the extent that no major label was interested in him, so he hooked up with hip-hop pioneer Rick Rubin and in 1994 released American Recordings. Three more American Recordings CDs would follow: Unchained (1996, backed by Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers), Solitary Man (2000), and The Man Comes Around (2002). What’s interesting about the four albums is not so much their sound — gritty, mostly acoustic, with a pleasing basement-tapes vitality — but the motley roster of musical acts Cash partnered with on them: Tom Waits, Glenn Danzig, Beck, Soundgarden, Flea, Sheryl Crow and Will Oldham (Bonnie Prince Billy), representing a spectrum of styles from pop to hardcore punk and college radio alternative.
Although Morrissey’s reason for wearing black apparently contrasts with Cash’s, at the end of his career Cash had as much in common with the likes of The Smiths as with his multitudes of country music offspring. The soaring strangeness of his cover of Will Oldham’s “I See a Darkness” from American Recordings III makes this clear:
And you know I have a drive
For life, I won’t let go,
But sometimes this opposition
Comes rising up in me;
This terrible imposition
Comes blacking through my mind.
A panegyric to clinical depression, to be sure. Here, as in Morrissey’s “Unloveable,” the black color is inside, and the only solution is love. The song ends:
Do you know how much I love you?
Cause I’m hoping some day soon
You’ll save me from this darkness.
I love Johnny Cash not merely because he was one of the fathers of country music, the original Man in Black, a cultural figurehead, a publicly penitent sinner, and one of the best songwriters America has produced — but because he, a bit like Walt Whitman, contained so many voices. In the end he proved, at least to me, that country and alternative — outwardness and inwardness — are two sides of the same aesthetic coin.