Johnny Cash endures as an archetype of American song, and his vast catalog is easily available for the hearing. It’s sensible to assume that every day new listeners are introduced to his work, but for those well-versed in it, the surprises are few. What about interpretations from other artists? Well, that can be a formidable task, but R&B vocalist Brian Owens is up to the challenge. With assistance from drummer Daru Jones and Robert Randolph and the Family Band, his new record gives a selection of Cash’s most beloved tunes a soul transformation, and the endeavor is not only an unstrained success, it’s often a delight. Soul of Cash is out October 6 through Soul Step Records.
I love Johnny Cash, but I don’t love him the way some folks of my acquaintance profess to. Those guys (and in my experience, guys it has always been) view any kind of non-reverent interpretation of Cash’s songs as a personal affront. As an example, once around 25 years or so back, I had a summer cookout, and a friend brought a friend. Can’t remember the cat’s name, but I do recall the look on his face when The Skatalites’ version of “Ring of Fire” started playing on the box.
It was like someone sauntered up and shat a big load right atop his plate of hot dogs. As the song continued playing he flatly stated something along the lines of “you just don’t do that to Johnny Cash.” I can only imagine what he would’ve done if it’d been Tom Jones’ (pretty dang good) reading of the same song. Spit out a lung, perhaps. This may seem a miniscule thing to remember after roughly a quarter century, but it’s remained in the memory because it relates to a broader question: exactly what kind of tribute befits a canonical artist best?
Straight covers of songs are often cool, but when it comes to stuff that’s been burned into the collective consciousness (with apologies to folks reading this who somehow aren’t yet familiar with Cash’s work), what would be the point? That kind of tribute isn’t interpretation, it’s impersonation. One can stick close to the source with fine results of course, but to do so out due to some sense of sanctity in my estimation is just bouge.
Brian Owens doesn’t have this problem, though as Soul of Cash’s opening version of “Ring of Fire” plays, it becomes clear that he didn’t approach the undertaking lightly, and brought a knowledge of history to the project, imbuing the song with the sweet and tricky (and therefore, somewhat rare) aura of country-soul, achieving the objective through the combo of funky drumming, warm bass, pedal steel in place of that horn line (though horns are present), and choir-like backing vocals.
Owens lead singing is impassioned but smooth, and it becomes apparent that the intention wasn’t to imbue the songs with soul-grit but instead to lean into a pop-soul zone that’s full-bodied but stops short of lush, with “Folsom Prison Blues” given a trucking up-tempo soul-revue treatment that would be equally at home in a mid-’60s discotheque and during the glory days of Las Vegas.
That’s to say it should be of interest to fans of Northern Soul and, to grab a name out from of left field maybe, Mr. Lee Hazlewood, with said artist springing to mind during the carefully unfolding vividness of “Walk the Line.” There are strings (but again, lushness is avoided), a pervasive (and killer) bassline, a fine moment where the horn section kicks in, and more, but through it all Owens nixes any temptation to embody the mode of a belter, with his smoothness conversational. By extension, his “Cry Cry Cry” reminds me of Sam Cooke, but with additional Southern-style (post-Stax and Hi) heft.
My highlight for the album is the terrific “Sunday Morning Coming Down” (which is from the pen of Kristofferson, don’tcha know) and its return to the country-soul zone. It’s hard to imagine any fan of Tony Joe White not digging it. There’s also substantial gospel flavor both here and across the LP, which is appropriate given the subject of this tribute and doubly as Owens is the son of a preacher. And with the more instrumentally stripped-back but vocally ardent “Long Black Veil” the album completes a consecutive spotlight on songs Cash himself covered (the original was by Lefty Frizell, though it was written by Danny Dill and Marijohn Wilken).
From there, “The Man in Black” just unperturbedly rolls, and the disc is capped with an original co-penned by Owens and Rissi Palmer, who also sings on the track. Topically, it’s an explainer for those who consider this project unusual, but really, simply listening to Soul of Cash will relate, at least to ears valuing the subject as an essential component in an artistic continuum rather than as an untouchable paradigm, all they need to know.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A-
