Johnny Cash – American VI: Ain’t No Grave

by Timothy McNulty on March 1st, 2010

Johnny Cash – American VI: Ain’t No Grave
February 23rd, 2010
American Recordings/Lost Highway
Score: 6.9

It’s doubtful anyone needed further proof of the late Johnny Cash’s power as an interpretive singer, or evidence of producer Rick Rubin’s lack of inventiveness in complementing that power, but American VI: Ain’t No Grave arrives to affirm both truths. It also closes the file — ostensibly — on Rubin’s collaboration with Cash, which began in 1994 with American Recordings and continued until the singer’s death in September of 2003. Within the broader context of Cash’s recorded legacy, Ain’t No Grave is absolutely essential. It contains some of the very last recordings he ever made, and for that reason alone it’s a treasure. But within the framework of the Rubin-produced series, the record mostly falls victim to formula: Cash delves into a varied roster of songs, at turns reflective, somber, and chilling, and is backed by spare, restrained, and often uninspired Americana-lite-type music.

Cash himself, of course, is stunning as always — even wheelchair-bound and unable to play the guitar, his voice audibly weathered by age and illness. Despite physical limitations, Cash’s warm, warbling baritone remains a clear, uncluttered conduit to what seems like an endless reservoir of empathy for the human condition. There are two tracks here, ‘Cool Water’ and ‘Satisfied Mind’, which pair Cash with only an acoustic guitar, bringing the record full circle with the humble beginnings of the American series. Though they’re not the only moments of stark beauty, they’re some of the rawest — a powerful reminder of the profundity which Cash is capable of bestowing so effortlessly, and with little assistance.

Not to say that Rubin’s commitment to minimalism isn’t well intentioned. Cash’s voice is the star of the show, rightfully so. And it’s true that part of Cash’s ethos has always been simplicity. But the respective performances of the session players (however venerable those musicians may be) don’t feel so much like a tribute to Cash’s bare-bones philosophy as they do a lackadaisical run-through of the material. It’s a rare moment on the album when the music seems to genuinely interact with Cash’s reading of it: the lilting folk of Kris Kristofferson’s ‘For The Good Times’ and the album’s closing number, a breezy, swaying and bittersweet ‘Aloha Oe’, are the only two that come immediately to mind.

Thematically, the album is just as cohesive, if not more so, than any of those Cash made with Rubin. The slow-marching title track bears the sonic imagery of impending death — rattling chains, tolling bells, etc. — and yet the lyrics are sternly defiant, a conscious reference to Cash’s determination to continue recording after the death of his wife June Carter, and right up until his own passing. Much of the record reflects that same stoicism, though it’s often expressed more tenderly, as on Cash’s own song of faith, ‘I Corinthians 15:55′: “Oh death, where is thy sting? Oh grief, where is thy victory? Oh life, you are a shining path and hope springs eternal just over the rise.”

On earlier albums in the American series, such as The Man Comes Around and Solitary Man, the song selection and mood was one of reckoning, or the anguished moments before and during such an experience. Ain’t No Grave is accordingly one step past that reckoning. ‘For The Good Times’, ‘Satisfied Mind’, and ‘I Don’t Hurt Anymore’ explore different scenarios — the loss of love, the loss of wealth — yet in each song, the narrator looks back on the trials of life to find comfort in the process of transcendence, absolution, and finally ascension.

The record ends in a strangely perfect way, with ‘Aloha Oe’, a song written by Hawaii’s last indigenous monarch, Queen Lili’uokalani. It seems an odd choice at first glance, bordering on comedic and even satiric. But there’s nothing funny or insincere about Cash’s performance. A resonator guitar strikes up an old honky tonk riff (a sly homage to the Hawaiian roots of steel guitars, seen as so integral to American country music) and Cash leads the way through gently swaying guitars, bidding a dignified and uplifting farewell to his listeners.

It’s a moment when all the pieces fall into place. The album’s follies seem to dissolve in the same way that Cash’s demons have been cast aside, one by one, song by song. All that’s left is what matters most when it comes to Cash and his legacy: simple music, simple words, and an achingly honest voice to bind it all.

Tim McNulty

Myspace