Even so, the rough second-show performances of "Greystone Chapel" might just surpass Cash's first-show take. The liners suggest that Cash was simply tired, but it seems more likely that the worst of it was over and he knew he had nothing left to prove at that point. The first performance sounds tense and immediate, the second somewhat relieved, less energetic and therefore less urgent. While previous editions of At Folsom Prison have reproduced the bulk of the first show while drawing one or two tracks from the second, the Columbia/Legacy edition presents both performances uncut and remastered, which gives the set a documentary feel as well as some historical weight. "How does that grab you, Bob?" he asks, referring to producer Bob Johnston.Ĭash played two shows that day, one at 9:40 in the morning and another at 12:40 in the afternoon. Playing off their excitement, he slyly portrays himself as a rebel: Before "I Still Miss Someone", Cash explains, "This show is being recorded for an album release on Columbia Records, and you can't say 'hell' or 'shit' or anything like that." Previously the latter has been bleeped out, but this reissue reinstates the expletive. Furthermore, the definitive versions of several of his hits are here, including the raucous "Cocaine Blues" and "Folsom Prison Blues", but the show is equally remarkable for the banter he maintains with the prisoners. It's an ideal setlist, with every song playing to the prisoners: "25 Minutes to Go" and "Dark As a Dungeon" of course, but also "Green, Green Grass of Home" and "I Still Miss Someone", which evoke a more general sense of yearning. When Cash and his crew arrived to play this show, he had been playing prisons routinely and had even serenaded the rowdy crowds at Folsom before, but this was the first time anyone had seen any commercial benefit in recording a show.ĭescribed as worried but determined before the show, Cash gives a superlative performance, feisty and playful and a bit maudlin. This edition of At Folsom Prison is a companion piece of sorts to Columbia/Legacy's 2006 reissue of At San Quentin, but it's easily the greater of the two, if only because it was both such a risky endeavor and such a rewarding payoff. His countercultural appeal during the late 1960s and his abiding popularity throughout the 1970s are grounded in the rough-and-tumble energy he exudes on stage. And it's justified by Cash's notoriously volatile performance, which made this concert the foundation of his mid-career resurgence and the framing device for the 2005 biopic Walk the Line. Welcome him after he says, "Johnny Cash." I'll have my hands up, and you just follow me.Ĭall it staged if you want, but the moment comes across as genuine, as if the emcee had told the prisoners what they had planned to do anyway. I'm Johnny Cash." When he says that, then you respond. When John comes out here, he will say- and which will be recorded- "Hi there. Here it's revealed to be a rehearsed moment: On all previous editions of this concert, whether vinyl, cassette, eight-track, or CD, have begun with that four-word intro, but Columbia/Legacy's new set relegates it to the actual moment in the show, well after Carl Perkins and the Statler Brothers have warmed up the crowd.
His signature introduction- as if he actually needed to tell an audience who he was- is one of the best moments in recorded rock history, rendered in his immediately recognizable robust baritone and prompting unabashed applause. It's odd not hearing "Hello, I'm Johnny Cash" at the very beginning of this 2xCD/1xDVD set of the Man in Black's infamous show at Folsom Prison.
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