You’ll Never Believe It, But John Prine is In Hell
It’s true — John Prine, one of the greatest songwriters in American history, is in hell. The clerical error that landed him there is expected to be resolved shortly. “We’ve got a bit of a back up,” says Satan, via the otherworldly monotone of a child stuck in a nightmare who called this reporter. “With the novel coronavirus we’ve had to really hustle,” he says, “to make room for the people not taking it seriously. Lots of crossed wires.”
It’s a case of mistaken identity, according to Prine. Devilish sources, off the record, confirm the bureaucratic snafu; apparently a man with a similar name, a “Jonathan Q. Prine” from Oklahoma, threw a hot dog at a child who was allergic and later died.
“To be fair,” our Prine says, looking serene while surrounded by the wailing and gnashing of a million demonic teeth, “that first part does kinda sound like me.”
How does the “Fish and Whistle” singer pass the time? He watches the news. He barbecues. He meets a few fellow musicians for card games: Elvis (sex stuff) and Bobby “Borris” Picket (monster mashing) are frequent visitors.
“We play poker, we play canasta. I don’t know what that second one is but I keep winning. I think it’s because they like my songs.” He takes a fifteen minute drag off a cigarette and smiles. “At least I can smoke down here.”
According to divine law every soul in hell must serve eternal penance — Prine negotiated that down to a few guitar lessons for a tone-deaf teenaged Luftwaffe pilot until the paperwork sending him Above goes through.
“He’s pretty good,” he says, and gives that famous John Prine grin. “He thinks so, anyway.”
John Prine will be playing this Tuesday in the Comcast Hell Coliseum with opener Dave Matthews (his music). “We had to book him while we still had him,” says Satan, in words burned into pigeon corpses left on this reporter’s pillow. “He’s John fucking Prine.”
