Roots of Rock: Sun Records & Johnny Cash

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This is Fresh Air.

I'm Terry Gross.

Today we continue our archive series, R ⁇ B, Rockabilly, and Early Rock and Roll.

We start today's show with Sam Phillips, the founder of Sun Records.

That's the Memphis-based label that launched the careers of Elvis Presley, Cherry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, Charlie Rich, Roy Orbison, and Johnny Cash.

We'll hear an interview with Cash in the second half of the show.

Before Phillips started his own record label, he produced the first records of bluesmen B.B.

King and Howland Wolfe.

As Peter Guralnik, the author of a biography of Sam Phillips and a two-volume biography of Elvis has said, quote, Phillips has left a remarkable legacy both of black blues and the wide adaptation of it which became rock and roll.

He has written one of the most astonishing chapters in the history of American popular music, and for this we can only be grateful, unquote.

Sam Phillips sold Sun Records in 1969.

He died in 2003.

I spoke with him in 1997.

We started with one of the first records he produced in his Memphis studio.

It's one of the very early rock and roll records.

Recorded in 1951, this is Rocket 88, featuring singer Jackie Branston with Ike Turner at the piano.

You women have heard of Jalopis, you've heard the noise they make, but let me rentuce my new Rocket 88.

Yes, it's straight just one way.

Everybody likes my Rocket 88.

Baby, we'll ride in style, move it all along.

Part of your genius has been finding musicians who brought together black music and country music, creating rock and roll and rockabilly.

I'm wondering how you were exposed to black music as a white man growing up in the segregated South?

My interest in black music started at a very early age.

I

worked with black people in the fields.

My daddy was a farmer, and he grew cotton, and of course cotton had to be picked and hoed.

My father, incidentally, did not own the farm.

He was a tenant farmer, and he, in turn, would bring other people onto the farm to help them.

So

we

were able to be together an awful lot with black people because of the closeness of the type of work that we had to do on the farms.

You started your producing career recording blues musicians and leasing the records to companies like RPM, Modern, and Chess Records.

You recorded Helen Wolfe, Walter Horton, Bobby Bland, Little Jr.

Parker, B.B.

King, the very start of their careers.

I'm wondering what what it was like for you as a white man in the South in the late 40s and early 50s to be recording black musicians.

Was it ever difficult to

have rapport?

I'm wondering if they saw you as the man because you were recording them and because you were white.

It was

a type of thing that I think most black people had some doubt as to what, quote unquote we were up to early on

because in many instances black people were taken advantage of and

maybe when they thought something was for free or for a certain price it didn't turn out that way.

I knew that

the black people that I was going to record,

most of which had never seen even microphones, let alone a little studio, that the psychology that would be employed by me

to have them feel comfortable and to do the thing that they felt they wanted to do in the way of music, rather than to try to please or do the type of thing that a white man might want to do,

have them do,

because I was not looking for Duke Ellington or Count Basie or Nat King Cole or any of the outstanding black jazz and pop musicians.

The people that I was recording were people that had to a great extent the feel for the things they had experienced and they loved and the way they spoke was to the people through their music.

One of the great blues musicians that you discovered and first recorded was Helen Wolfe.

I want to play the recording that you produced of him doing Moonin at Midnight in 1951, and this was something that you did for chess records.

I think it made it to number 10 on the RB charts.

Tell us about your first encounter with Howland Wolf.

The Wolf, as I've said so many times, is one of my favorite artists.

He was so individual in the things that he did.

He had, number one, a voice that was so distinctive that there is nobody could mistake it for anybody else.

That intrigued me.

It was so absolutely untrained in so many ways, but at the same time it was so honest that it was just,

it brought about a certain passion just by listening to him.

And there was one thing about the wolf that you never had to worry about.

When he opened his mouth in a recording studio, And he would talk real low when he was talking to you.

And he was a big man, about six feet four and weighed probably 225 or 30 pounds and nothing but muscle but when he talked to you you could barely hear him when he sang to you you hardly needed a microphone or an amplifier but more than that his ability to get lost in a song for two or three minutes or how long the song was was certainly

as good as anybody I ever recorded.

And when I say get lost in a song, I simply do mean that.

And I think that is a good,

unsophisticated term of saying that

we all tried to get lost in what we were doing.

And I think that was part of our success.

Well, let me play this 1951 Howling Wolf record that you produced, Moon and I'm anxious to hear that one of my favorite records.

Well,

somebody calling me,

calling me on my telephone.

somebody calling

over my telephone.

Well,

keep on calling,

tell them I'm not at home.

That's Howl and Wolfer Recording, produced in 1951 by my guest, Sam Phillips.

Sam Phillips, you started Sun Records, your studio in Memphis,

after recording for independent companies, other people's independent companies like Chess Records.

Why did you want to start your own studio?

Did you have a vision of what you wanted to do in your own studio?

I actually never wanted to

actually form a label as such, like Sun Records.

I wanted to be strictly on the creative end of it

because I believed so strongly in what I believed in

and I wanted to prove to myself one way or the other that what I had felt apparently for an awfully long time was either

something that was worthwhile or that the public if it had the chance would would tell us that you know you're on the wrong track but after dealing with RPM and modern records and chess

I guess I was disappointed in the way that I thought business was done

and I don't like to speak disparagingly of people because these were these people were my friends but I

had some difficulty and

you know working with them from a standpoint of what I felt was fair and equitable in the things that we had agreed on.

When Elvis first auditioned for you,

I know that he sang in styles of his favorite performers from white and black, from Lonnie Johnson to Dean Martin.

What did you do to try to get a sense from Elvis of who Elvis really was, of what his kind of own voice was?

Well, Elvis being as young as he was, and of course I,

gosh, I'm 12 years and three days older than Elvis, and he's 19, I guess I was 31 or whatever.

But I can tell you, the only time that we possibly had what you might say

a difference of opinion

in what we were doing is that I really did not want to do some of the quote-unquote more poppish things that Elvis truly did like because Elvis, let's face it, had

an absolute beautiful voice from the beginning.

Trained or not, it was beautiful.

But at the same time, he also had a certain intrigue about his voice, and I knew that, and I knew that we needed to

feel our way around

between great gut bucket blues and country.

I really, truly thought that.

So I think Elvis, if he had had his way and he absolutely gave us no problem at all on it, maybe he wouldn't have put a country type thing on the backside of each R ⁇ B record that we put out on him.

Do you have a favorite of the Elvis Sun sessions that

I really do, and

I've kidded about it a lot because I wrote the song.

I really didn't.

It was the song Mystery Train that Little Junior Parker really basically wrote it, and we did it by him on Sun and we did it in an entirely different tempo and approach and he had the idea for the song and came in and

it wasn't quite like we thought it should be and so I worked with him a little bit because I really did love the idea of the song.

So when we decided to do it on Elvis, it is something that I think that we did so entirely different, although Little Junior Parker's record was Elvis' favorite of the two, I have to say that both of them were my favorites.

Till this day, I'd have to say Mystery Train ranks way up there.

Why don't we hear, since you produced Junior Parker's version of Mystery Train 2, why don't we hear both the Junior Parker and the Elvis version back to back?

We're in for a treat.

Train I ride

sixteen coaches long

Train I ride

sixteen coaches long

Well let a long black train

carry my baby home

train train

coming right

train train

coming right on the big

baby

But it never whipped again

Train

This is Junior Parker and Elvis Presley, both of their versions of Mystery Train, both versions produced by my guest, Sam Phillips, the founder of Sun Records.

You gave up recording in about 1963.

You gave up producing records.

Why did you stop?

I saw the handwriting on the wall when you would do what you did, had to do, and your distributors had to work with you.

And then the major labels would come along and offer contracts that we couldn't even think about, guarantees,

because we were still very, very limited on funds.

So it was no use in me being a farm club, so to speak, for the major league club.

And that's exactly what it came to be.

So I decided I was not going to work because I was offered a job with RCA by Steve Scholz to go to RCA at the the time I sold Elvis' contract.

And I did not go because, number one, I knew I would not be of any value to RCA because I had to do whatever I did, be it right or wrong, I had to do it in the way that I felt was necessary to prove what I had set out to prove.

I knew that that wasn't necessarily going to work well with a

big company.

It would be absolutely no percentage.

It'd be only frustration.

I would accomplish absolutely nothing.

You must have, or I would imagine that you must have really missed recording people when you stopped and missed discovering people.

I'll always miss it.

I sure will.

There is nothing on the face of God's earth that gives us more solace in more different areas and more different ways than music.

And you better believe that if I could stay around here another 74 years and I could start all over again and have my way with a major company or I would be recording people because there is nothing, there is nothing in this world that is more rewarding, whether you got a dollar out of it or not, than working with, I mean, absolutely untried, unproven talent and seeing it come to the forefront and entertain, I mean, even the hardest eared control man in the world behind that glass.

Did you ever wish that you were the performer and you weren't behind the glass in the control room, but you were in front of the microphone?

Never.

In front of the crowd.

Never, never, never.

And that's a good question.

That's probably one of the better ones, Terry, because I was never, ever jealous.

I was a pretty good musician.

I've always said I wasn't worth a damn, but my bandmaster and everything at Coffee High School said I was good.

I directed a band in the summer and this sort of thing.

But no,

that did not enter my mind.

Oh, no, listen, I had the good job.

I had the good job.

The boys out there on the floor, they had the tough job.

They had to worry about one instrument.

I had to worry about three, maybe, you know.

I think you just answered one of my questions.

You said you played tuba when you were younger.

You had said at one place that your favorite composer was John Philip Sousa.

Now, I mean,

I love marching band music.

I love band music and marches and stuff.

But I was really shocked to hear that from you, the man who discovered Elvis Presley.

John Phousy.

Hey, you've been reading my record or something, girl.

Let me tell you something about John Phillips Souser.

What martial music is, is what I call stiff music.

This man absolutely got more melody chords.

I'm not talking about necessarily harmony chords because

let's face it, martial music is not made up just for a nice big blend of harmony.

But you listen to this guy and the way that he handled it.

This guy is a master at crafting music that if you can make people want to listen to it,

and if you can make somebody want to listen to a good martial piece of music like the Washington Post

March or a Symphony Delis and enjoy it, I mean, I'm going to tell you, you are a master musician.

He is the best.

He is the best at what he did.

There's not a good second.

You can't name one.

and of course uh the boston pops has always been one of my favorite that feedler was so crazy i loved him man he was scared of nothing absolutely scared of nothing the criticism he didn't give a damn give him a drink before he went out on stage a hip a pint and you can forget it honey you were gonna have fun with music i mean you know you don't wait wait wait wait wait wait don't don't get me started no no no wait wait wait wait you mentioned giving you know that he had a little drink before

my

understanding is that you wouldn't let your musicians have a drink in the studio, with the exception of Helen Wolf.

That is right.

Damn you, woman, I swear to God, do you have my jail record up there, too?

But honestly, that's a fact.

And the wolf, I looked at him as big as he was, and then a half of a pint of Thunderbird wine.

And actually, that half pint was half gone already.

And I said, you know, there can't be too much harm done if I permit him to break the rules around here.

And besides that, if he stepped stepped on me, I might be no more.

Now, what about other people?

Why wouldn't you let them drink?

Because after all, you wanted them to be as relaxed and as natural and uninhibited as they could.

I don't really know.

I really honestly don't know, Terry.

There was just something I wanted them to really get high on

what we were attempting to do.

And the one thing that I can tell you unequivocally, again,

is that we did get high on our music.

Even the cuts that we didn't feel that we had it on, we got high on it.

And I want to tell you, there is no high in this world better than when you cut something that you didn't believe that you could do.

You maybe said to yourself, I know I can do it, but you really didn't believe you could do it, and you do it.

Now you tell me something that would be more potentially high.

Now that's high octane stuff so far as I'm concerned.

Sam Phillips founded Sun Records.

Our interview was recorded in 1997.

He died in 2003.

One of the people whose careers he launched was Johnny Cash.

We'll hear my 1997 interview with Cash after a break.

I'm Terry Gross and this is Fresh Air.

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Next in our series of interviews on RB, Rockabilly, and early rock and roll, we have my 1997 interview with Johnny Cash, one of country music's most influential performers.

He's in both the country music and rock and roll halls of fame.

Some of his best-known recordings include I Walk the Line, Ring of Fire, and Folsom Prison Blues.

His early recordings were on Sun Records, which was owned by Sam Phillips, who we just heard from, and was the most influential label that produced Rockabilly.

I spoke with Cash when his autobiography was published.

In the book, he said that after his hits in the 60s, he didn't sell huge numbers of records, but he kept making music he's proud of.

But in 1994, he hooked up with record producer Rick Rubin, who had produced many rap and rock hits.

The recordings they made together included many cash covers of contemporary rock songs, including songs by Nine Inch Nails and Sting.

And as the autobiography says, the Cash and Rubin collaborations transformed Cash's image from Nashville has-been to hip icon, and it gains him a new, young audience.

Soon after we spoke in 1997, he announced that he had Parkinson's disease and was canceling the remainder of his book tour, which had just begun.

His diagnosis was later changed to autonomic neuropathy, a disease affecting the nervous system.

Cash died in 2003.

Earlier that year, he won a Grammy for Best Male Country Vocal Performance for his new version, I'll Give My Love to Rose, which he first recorded on Sun Records in 1957.

Here's his 1956 recording of Get Rhythm, which was produced by Sam Phillips on Sun Records.

Hey, get a rhythm.

When you get the blues, come on, get rhythm.

When you get the blues, get a rock and roll feeling in your bone, but taps on your toes and get gone, get a rhythm.

When you get the blues.

A little shoeshine boy, he never gets low down, but he's got the dirtiest job in town.

Bending low at the people's feet on a windy corner of a dirty street.

Well, I asked him while he shined my shoes, how'd he keep from getting the blues?

He grinned as he raised his little head.

He popped his shoeshine rag, and then he said, get rhythm.

When you get the blues, come on, get rhythm.

You grew up during the Depression.

What are some of the things that your father did to make a living while you were a boy?

My father was a cotton farmer first,

but he didn't have any land, or what land he had, he lost it in the Depression.

So he worked as anthra

woodsman.

cut pulp wood for the paper mills, rode the rails on bin box cars, going from one harvest to another to try to make a little money picking fruit or vegetables, did every kind of work imaginable from painting to shoveling to herding cattle.

He's always been such an inspiration to me because of the varied kinds of things that he did and the kind of life he lived.

He inspired me so that

All the things he did so far from being a soldier in World War I to being an old man in his patio sitting on the porch watching the dogs, you know.

I think about his life, and it would inspire me to go my own other direction.

And I just like to explore

minds and the desires of people out there.

You know, it's interesting that you say your father inspired you so much.

I'm sure you wouldn't have wanted to lead his life picking cotton.

I did.

Until I was 18 years old, that is.

Then I picked the guitar and I've been picking it since.

Right.

Did you have a plan to get out?

Did you very much want to

get out of the town where you were brought up and get out of picking cotton?

Yeah, I knew that when I left there at the age of 18, I wouldn't be back.

And it was

common knowledge among all the people there that when you graduate from high school here, you go to college or go get a job or something and do it on your own.

And having been familiar with hard work, it was no problem for me.

But first I hitchhiked to Pontiac, Michigan, and

got a job working in

Fisher Body, making those 1951 Pontiacs.

I worked there three weeks, got really sick of it, went back home and joined the Air Force.

You have such a wonderful, deep voice.

Did you start singing before your voice changed?

Oh, yeah.

I got no deep voice today.

I've got a cold.

But when I was young, I had a high-tenor voice.

I used to sing Bill Monroe songs, And

I sing Dennis Day songs, like

songs that he sang on the

Jack Benny show.

Wow.

Every week he sang an old Irish folk song.

And

next day in the fields, I'd be singing that song if I was working in the fields.

And I always loved those songs.

And

with my high tenor, I thought I was pretty good, you know, almost as good as Dennis Day.

But when I was 17, 16, my father and I cut wood all day long, and I was swinging that cross-cut saw and hauling wood.

And when I walked in the back door late that afternoon, I was singing, everybody gonna have religion and glory, everybody going to be singing a story.

I sang those old gospel songs to my mother, and she said, is that you?

And I said, yes, ma'am.

And she came over and put her arms around me and said, God's got his hands on you.

I still think of that, you know.

She realized you had a gift.

That's what she said, yeah.

She called it the gift.

Well, how did you feel about your voice changing?

It must have stunned you.

If you were singing like Dennis O'Day and then suddenly you were singing like Johnny Cash.

Well, yeah.

I don't know.

I guess when I was a tenor, I just, and when it changed, I thought, well, it goes right along with these hormones and everything's working out really good, you know.

I felt like my voice was becoming a man's voice.

Right, right.

So did you start singing different songs as your voice got deeper?

Mm-hmm.

Lucky old son.

Memories are made of this.

16 tons.

I developed a pretty unusual style, I think.

If I'm anything, I'm not a singer, but I'm a song stylist.

What's the difference?

Well,

I say I'm not a singer, so that means I can't sing, but

doesn't it?

Well, but I mean, that's not true.

I understand you're making a distinction, but you certainly can sing.

Yeah, go ahead.

Thank you.

Well, a song stylist.

It's like to take an old folk song like Didi's Gone and do a modern white man's version of it.

A lot of those I did that way, you know, I would take songs that I'd

loved as a child and redo them in my mind for the new voice I had, the low voice.

I know that you briefly took singing lessons and you say in your new book that your singing teacher told you, you know, don't let anybody change your voice.

Don't even bother with the singing lessons.

How did you end up taking lessons in the first place?

My mother did that and

she was determined that I was going to leave the farm and do well in life and she thought with the gift I might be able to do that.

So she took in washing.

She got a washing machine in 1942 as soon as they got electricity.

And she took in washing, she washed the school teachers' clothes and

anybody she could and sent me for singing lessons for $3 per lesson.

And that's how she made the money to send me.

What was your reaction when the teacher told you, don't let anybody change what you're doing.

Don't, you know, I'm not going to teach you anymore.

I was pretty happy about that.

I didn't really want to change, you know.

I felt good about my voice.

You left home when you were about 18.

And then how old were you when you actually went to Memphis?

Well, I went to Memphis after I finished the Air Force in 1954.

I lived on that farm until I went to the Air Force.

I was in there four years and when I came back, I got married and moved to Memphis.

Got an apartment, started trying to sell appliances at a place called Home Equipment Company.

But I couldn't sell anything and didn't really want to.

All I wanted was the music and if somebody in the house was playing music

when I would go come, I would stop and sing with them.

Like one time, Gus Cannon, the man who wrote

Walk Right In,

which was a hit for the rooftop singers.

And

I sat on the front porch with him day after day

when I found him and sang those songs.

When you got to Memphis, Elvis Presley had already recorded That's All Right.

Sam Phillips had produced him for his label Sun Records.

You called Sam Phillips and asked for an audition.

Did it take a lot of nerve to make that phone call?

No, it just took the right time.

I was fully confident that I was going to see Sam Phillips and to record for him.

That when I called him, I thought I'm going to get on Sun Records.

So I called him, and he turned me down flat.

Then two weeks later, I

turned down again.

He told me over the phone that he couldn't sell gospel music, so

it was independent, not a lot of money, you know.

So I didn't press that issue, but one day I just decided I'm ready to go, so I went down with my guitar and sat on the front steps of his recording studio and met him when he came in.

And I said, I'm John Cash.

I'm the one that's been calling.

And if you'd listen to me, I believe you'd be glad you did.

And he said, come on in.

That was a good lesson for me, you know, to believe in myself.

So what did Phillips actually respond to most of the songs that you played him?

He responded most to a song of mine called Hey Porter,

which was on the first record.

But he asked me to go write a love song, or maybe a bitter weeper.

So, I wrote a song called Cry, Cry, Cry, went back in and recorded that for the other side of the record.

Well, why don't we hear Cry, Cry, Cry, which was on the first single that Sun Records released by you?

Okay.

Everybody knows where you go when the sun goes down.

I think you only live to see the lights uptown.

I wasted my time when I would try, try, try.

Cause when the lights have lost a glow, you'll cry, cry, cry.

Soon your sugar teddies will all be gone.

You wake up some cold day and find you're alone.

You'll call for me, but I'm gonna tell you bye, bye, bye.

When I turn around and walk away, you'll cry, cry, cry.

You're gonna cry, cry, cry, and you cry alone.

When everyone's forgotten and you're left on your own, you're gonna cry,

cry, cry.

We're listening to my 1997 interview with Johnny Cash.

We'll hear more after a break.

This is Fresh Air.

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What was it like when you started to go on tour?

You know, after coming from the cotton fields, it's true, I mean, you'd been in the Army and you'd been abroad, you know, with the Army, but what was it like for you in the early days of getting recognized, you know, traveling around the country?

Well,

when I started playing concerts, I went out from Memphis to Arkansas, Louisiana, and Tennessee, played the little towns there that I would go out myself in my car and set up the show or get the show booked in those theaters.

And then along about three months later, Elvis Presley asked me to sing with him at the Overton Park Shell in Memphis.

And I sang Cry, Cry, Cry, and Hay Porter.

And from that time on, I was on my way, and I knew it, I felt it, and I loved it.

So Elvis asked me to go on tour with him, and I did.

I worked with Elvis four or five tours tours in the next year or so.

And I was always intrigued by his charisma.

You can't be in the building without Elvis, with Elvis without looking at him, you know.

And he inspired me so with his fire and energy that I guess

that inspiration from him really helped me to go.

What were the temptations like for a young married man like yourself on the road, you know, slowly becoming a star?

Fame was pretty hard to handle, actually.

The country boy and me tried to break loose and take me back to the country, but the music was stronger.

The urge to go out and do the gift was a lot stronger.

And

the temptations were women.

girls, which I loved, and

then amphetamines,

not very much later,

from running all night, you know, in our cars on tour.

And the doctors got these nice pills that give us energy and keep us awake.

So I started taking those, and I liked them so much I got addicted to them.

And then

I started taking downers or sleeping pills to come down and rest after two or three days.

So it became a cycle.

I was taking the pills for a while, and then the pills started taking me.

I want to play what I think was your first big hit, I Walk the Line.

That was my third record.

And

you wrote the song.

Tell me the story of how you wrote it and what you were thinking about at the time.

In the Air Force, I had an old Wilcox K recorder, and

used to hear

guitar runs on that recorder going

like the chords on I Walk the Line.

And

I always wanted to write a love song using that theme, you know, that tune.

And so I started to write the song.

And I was in Gladewater, Texas one night with Carl Perkins.

And I said, I've got a good idea for a song.

And I sang the first verse that I had written.

And I said, it's called Because You're Mine.

And he said, I walk the line's a better title.

So I changed it to I Walk the Line.

Now, were you thinking of your own life when you wrote this?

Mm-hmm.

It was kind of a prodding to myself to play it straight, Johnny.

And was this, I think I read that this was supposed to be a ballad.

I mean, it was supposed to be slow when you first wrote it.

That's the way I sang it, yeah, at first.

But Sam wanted it up, you know, up tempo, and

I put paper in the strings of my guitar to get the mch, mmch, mmch, mmch sound, and with a bass and a lead guitar.

There it was, bare and stark, that song was when it was released.

And I heard it on the radio, and I really didn't like it.

And I called Sam Phillips and asked him, please not send out any more records of that song.

Why?

But he laughed at me.

I just didn't like the way it sounded to me.

I didn't know I sounded that way.

And I didn't like it.

I don't know.

But he said, let's give it a chance.

And it was just a few days until that's all it took to take off.

That's funny.

I mean, you'd heard your voice before, hadn't you?

But so it was something in your own singing you weren't liking when you heard it?

Well, the music and my voice together, I just felt like it was really weird.

But I got used to it very quickly.

I don't know if that I didn't, I didn't hate it, but I just didn't like it.

I thought I could do better.

Well, let's hear our walking line.

This is a great record.

It was great then, and it still is.

This is Johnny Cash.

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine.

I keep my eyes wide open all the time.

I keep the ends out for the tide that fine.

Because you're mine,

I walk the line.

I find it very, very easy to be true.

I find myself alone when each day's through.

Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you

because you're mine.

I walk the line.

We're listening to the interview I recorded with Johnny Cash in 1997.

We'll hear more after a break.

This is fresh air.

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I think it was in the late 1950s that you started doing prison concerts, which you eventually became very famous for.

What got you started performing in prison?

Well, I had a song called Foolsome Prison Blues that was a hit just before I walked the line.

And

the people in Texas heard about it at the state prison and got to writing me letters asking me to come down there.

So I responded and then the warden called me and asked if I would come down and do a show for the prisoners in Texas.

And

so we went down and there's a rodeo at all these shows that the prisoners have there.

And in between the rodeo things, they asked me to set up and do two or three songs.

So that was what I did.

I did Folsom Prison Blues, which they they thought was their song, you know.

And I walked the line, ring

pay porter, cry, cry, cry.

And then the word got around on the grapevine that Johnny Cash was all right and that you ought to see him.

So the request started coming in from other prisoners all over the United States.

And then the word got around.

So I always wanted to record that, you know, to record the show.

Because of the reaction I got, it was far and above anything I had ever had in my life.

The complete explosion of noise and reaction that they gave me with every song.

So then I came back the next year and played The Prison again, the New Year's Day show.

Came back again the third year and did the show.

And then I kept talking to my producers at Columbia about recording one of those shows.

It was so exciting, I said, that The people out there ought to share that, you know, and feel that excitement too.

So a preacher friend, a friend of mine named named Floyd Gressett,

set it up for us, and

Lou Robin, and a lot of other people involved at Folsom Prison.

So, we went into Folsom on February 11th, 1968, and recorded the show live.

Why don't we hear Folsom Prison blues from your Live at Folsom Prison record?

This is Johnny Cash.

Hello, I'm Johnny Cash.

I hear the train a coming, it's rolling round a bend,

and I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when.

I'm stuck in folsome prison, and time keeps dragging on,

but the train keeps rolling

on down the sand and so on.

When I was just a baby, my mama told me, son,

always be a good boy, don't ever play with guns.

But I shot a man in Reno

just to watch him die.

When I hear that whistle blowing,

I hang my head and cry.

That's Johnny Cash live at Folsom Prison, and Johnny Cash has a new autobiography that's just been published.

I guess Merle Haggard was in the audience for one of your San Quentin concerts.

Must have been pretty exciting to find that out.

That was before he had recorded, I think, that he was in there.

Yeah, 68 and 69, right on the front row was Merle Haggard.

Yeah, and who knew?

I didn't know that until about 1963 or 62.

He told me all about it.

He saw every show that I did there.

And, of course, the rest is history for Merle.

He came out and immediately had success himself.

You know, it's interesting.

You've always or almost always worn black during your career.

And I was interested in reading that your mother hated it too.

See, yeah.

See, we have something in common.

Our mothers don't like black.

I love it.

Me too.

But you gave in for a while.

She started making you bright, flashy outfits, even a nice white suit.

What did it feel like for you to be on stage in bright colors or all in white?

Well, that was 1956, and I hadn't been wearing the black for very long.

It was okay.

I would wear anything my mother made me, you know.

I just couldn't afford to turn her down.

But before long, I decided to start with the black and stick with it because it felt good to me on stage that a figure there in black and everything coming out of his face.

That's the way I wanted to do it.

A few years ago, you started making records with Rick Rubin.

It seemed initially like a very improbable match.

He had produced a lot of rap records and produced the Beastie Boys and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

You know, it would seem like a surprising match.

It ended up being a fantastic match.

How did he approach you?

Lou Robin, my manager, came to me and talked to me about a man called Rick Rubin that he had been talking to that wanted me to sign with his record company.

It was American Recordings.

I said, I like the name.

Maybe it'd be okay.

So

he said, I would like you to go with me and sit in my living room with a guitar and two microphones and just sing to your heart's content everything you ever wanted to record.

I said, That sounds good to me.

Why don't we hear Delia's Gone from Johnny Cash's American Recordings CD?

And Johnny Cash, I want to thank you so much for talking with us.

I want to say you're really good at what you do, and I appreciate you.

Thank you.

Delia,

oh, delia,

dear, all my life.

If I hadn't shot poor Delia,

I'd have had her for my wife.

Delia's gone, one more round, delia's gone.

My interview with Johnny Cash was recorded in 1997.

He died in 2003.

Tomorrow, we continue our archive series, RB, ⁇ B, Rockabilly, and Early Rock and Roll.

We'll hear from Johnny Otis, who had the hits Harlem Nocturne and Willie and the Handjive, and discovered Little Esther, Jackie Wilson, Big Mama Thornton, Hank Ballard, and Etta James.

We'll also hear my interview with Etta James, who's now best known for her recording of At Last.

Hope you'll join us.

Fresh Air's executive producer is Danny Miller.

Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham.

Our managing producer is Sam Brigher.

Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Anne-Mey Baldonato, Lauren Krenzel, Teresa Madden, Monique Nazareth, Thea Challener, Susan Yucundi, Anna Bauman, and John Sheehan.

Our digital media producer is Molly Sevi Nesper.

Our consulting visual producer is Hope Wilson.

Roberta Shorrock directs the show.

Our co-host is Tanya Mosley.

I'm Terry Gross.

But jailer, oh, jailer,

jailer, I can't sleep.

Cause all around the bedside, I hear the patter of Delia's feet.

Delia's gone, one more round.

Delia's gone.

So if your woman's devilish,

you can let her run.

Or you can bring her down and do her like Delia got done.

Delia's gone.

One more.

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