The Man in Black Ink

Today, September 12 is the second anniversary of the death of Johnny Cash. I am paying tribute by listening to every album on vinyl that I own, watching the "Hurt" video, which is sure to get teary, wearing my vintage 1980's Johnny Cash pin and posting this. Below is a column I wrote for, appropriately enough, a Column Writing class in 2003.

A Tattooed Tribute to Johnny Cash

A few months ago I decided it was time for a new tattoo. I wasn’t sure what I wanted, but I knew I wanted something. Anyone who has a tattoo knows the feeling. It starts small, you notice your old tattoo in the mirror, wish it was bigger, a little more elaborate. Then you begin to ask yourself what you would get now, where you would get it. Finally you find yourself with lubricant all over your arm and a vibrating needle inches away, wondering how you became such a damn rebel.

Prior to my latest tattoo, I had ink injected beneath my skin twice. Sure you can see them but I refuse to explain them. They’re mine. They don’t have to make sense to you, just me. But I want you to know about this tattoo.

I guess it was born on September 12, 2003. I was awoken that morning at 7:30 by a phone call from my mother. Despite the fact that it was a crusty-eyelash 5:30 am back home, she and my father were up drinking coffee and listening to the radio. As I wiped the dried saliva from my cheek and answered the phone eight octaves lower than normal, she broke the news: Johnny Cash had died.

I’m quite proud of the fact that in my family the death of the greatest country singer of all time is enough to warrant calls at sunrise. A few hours later, more calls began to come in from my friends throughout the country making sure I was stable. I toughened up and made it to work, which would prove to be more trying than I had expected.

It so happened that John Ritter died the same day. As I was trying to convey my grief to anyone who would stand still within earshot, the only response I received was, “and John Ritter died too.” No disrespect to Mr. Ritter or his family, but we’re talking about Three’s Company versus “I Walk the Line.” I doubt the former will ever be awarded a Kennedy Center Honor for Lifetime Contribution to American Culture, as Cash was in 1996.

In the weeks to follow, the magazine covers (Time no less) and tribute concerts came out. But that wasn’t enough; I needed a personal way to pay my respects. I also needed a new tattoo.

I ended up at Pino Bros. Ink in Cambridge, MA. After a brief discussion with the artist about the Man in Black, his influence on heavy metal, and, of course, price we set to work.

Once you go under the needle and the first inch of outline is done, you can do nothing but hold on and hope it turns out. Despite the fact that Slayer was playing at brain-jarring levels, all of Cash’s facial features ended up in the right place and his pompadour was fully fluffed, so I considered it a success. I now had Johnny Cash indelibly inked on my body.


That may sound absurd or slightly obsessive to you, so I will make an exception and try to explain. As much as I love Cash’s music, it is about more than that. More than just a great artist, he was a great person.

When current country superstars Brooks & Dunn were first starting out, Cash met Ronnie Dunn backstage. Seeing what Dunn intended to wear on stage, Cash took Dunn to his dressing room, and gave the young singer his own traditional black jacket. But Cash is also the man who told friend and Sun Records label mate, Roy Orbison, that if he ever wanted to have a hit, he would have to change his name and lower his voice. Regardless of effectiveness, Cash was always willing to help.

I have never seen a man more in love with his wife than Johnny Cash. When Cash first toured with his future wife, June Carter, they were both currently married. By the time the tour was over, they would be together for the rest of their lives. After she passed, everyone knew John would soon follow. They were only separated four months before John was buried beside her.

Cash also had a nasty amphetamine addiction during the height of his fame in the 1960’s and ran afoul of the law a few times during that period. But the thing is John never skirted those issues. He didn’t live a perfect life, but he was willing to admit his mistakes and move forward. He always had a clear sense of personal morality. He seemed to live each new day striving to be better than he was yesterday, and in the end what more can you ask?

Technically you could say I have an addict and rebel inked on my body. But it seems better to me to have an outlaw tattooed on your arm and not be one, than to be one with a tattoo of Jesus on your back. And despite what I said earlier, for those of you with new John Ritter tattoos, there’s no need to explain. I’ll try to understand.