I remember getting onstage when I was three years old. I wasn’t any older; and I don’t think I was any younger. My Daddy was touring and, after his song
A Boy Named Sue, he called me onstage to take a bow. It would become a pattern for years. Daddy would sing the song, and then he’d tell the crowd, “Well, I eventually did have a boy, but I sure didn’t call him Sue. I called him John Carter Cash, and here he is. John, son, come out and take a bow.”
Each night, as soon as I heard my Daddy say that, it was always my cue. I’d walk out onstage towards him and bow to the audience. Then, when I was a little older, he’d have me playing with the band. Even at that stage, I knew that I’d been born into a richly musical family.
There was always music in my household; there were always musicians dropping by to play with my Dad or my Mom. But walking out onstage, that gave me a rush like nothing else. Even as a three-year-old, I felt the energy of the crowd. It was a rush that I have never gotten over.
I was born in Tennessee and raised in Hendersonville on my Daddy’s farm. We had a big spread; plenty of room for the kids to run around. My father and mother were always very close to nature; they loved growing things and fishing. Daddy especially considered nature one of God’s greatest gifts. He would always point out flowers and animals to us. It was as if he was in awe of God’s creations. I guess a lot of his feelings on the subject can be found in his songs. He sang from the soul.
Daddy was a very gentle and kind man. He was also the most patient human being I have ever come across. Even though he was always on the road, or in a studio recording, I never felt he was missing from my life. Daddy was always around. I could always go to him and talk about what was going on. He would listen without passing judgment on me.
Even later when I went through some wild times — drinkin’ and gettin’ into trouble — I always recall my father treating me with respect. I was a little rebellious when I was in my teens and twenties. When I turned 18 years old, he cracked open two Budweiser bottles and passed one to me. I guess he was more than a little surprised when I drank mine three times faster than he did. But he smiled. He knew it wasn’t my first beer. Nevertheless, he didn’ t want to preach. I guess he thought I’d rebel if he was to preach at me.
That part of his character really comes across in the way Joaquin Phoenix plays him in Walk the Line. I first met Joaquin at my father’s funeral in 2003. I knew he would be playing my father in the film by then. It was a very sad day for me, but I remember we had a few words. I was immediately struck by how much he knew about my father’s music. He has done a fine job of portraying him on-screen, which can’t have been easy. It is strange, but Joaquin’s performance really gets across just how tender my father could be at times. He was a very religious man, but not in an obvious way. His faith was important to him; he never forced it on anyone else. Joaquin has certainly picked up on that.
Joaquin, I think it would be fair to say, was nervous about playing Johnny Cash. I can see why: to many people, musicians and fans alike, my father’s music and his legacy is larger than life. He led a full and vibrant life with no regrets. I remember one time a journalist came into the room to interview him, and Daddy told him to go back and research some more. Now, most people might find that a little scary, but my father sometimes had a strange sense of humour.
I think Joaquin worried about disappointing people. But I recall telling him at the funeral that he’d do my father proud. I had only words of encouragement. And now, having seen the film, I think Mom and Dad would have been very proud of his accomplishments.
As for me, I really stopped playing live some time ago. I am still involved in music, but more behind the scenes nowadays. I believe that early on I took a lot of my Daddy’s music for granted. I could say the same about the music from my Mom’s side, with the Carter Family (see box below). But I found I settled down in my late twenties. And, by the time my father was recording American III: Solitary Man, the third of his four great albums with Rick Rubin, I was helping out in the studio. Daddy was very ill by then (Parkinson’s disease was diagnosed in 1997), and I threw myself into helping him in any way I could. Becoming grounded in life was a big thing for me. It changed my life. In fact, I now think that working with my father helped save me from ruin. In the studio, recording songs like Solitary Man and I See a Darkness taught me a discipline I’d never had. He passed on the need for persistence in the face of adversity. He was one hell of a fighter.
When my mother died in 2003, due to complications after heart surgery, my Daddy didn’t want to stop making music. He was suffering greatly. A heavy sorrow had come over him like I’d never seen before. I think a part of him went when she died; a part of him went to Heaven with her. They were very close; they were part of the same whole. I have never met two people who were so in love with each other. After losing her, though, my father was not bitter. He did not curse God once. I liken him in spirit to Job in the Bible. Even though life had dealt him a painful blow, he did not stop. He threw himself back into work. It seems like he knew he didn’t have much time left.
His persistence never gave up. He was recording two weeks before he passed away. He was very ill and some days it was very difficult to get him down to the studio. But the songs just kept pouring out of him. And, even despite the difficulties, once we got him in front of a microphone, he’d just nail them all.
I always found it remarkable — and very moving — that although his health was slowly failing, his voice, that steady voice, never faltered once. Even at the end, it sounded as steady as a rock. If you listen to some of those songs now, they’re about some of the best he ever recorded.
