Man in Black, Johnny Cash (1971)

Well, we're doing mighty fine, I do suppose / In our streak-of-lighting cars and fancy clothes / But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back / Up front there ought to be a Man in Black.

I was hoping after I finished watching the 2-DVD release of an anthology of Johnny Cash's TV show from 1969-1971 last week that I would have a better handle on what it was about the man that made him the icon he was.

Aside from the fact that he had the most incandescent smile I've ever seen on any man, which in itself would draw people to him, his love of all forms of music and musicians - and seemingly, of humanity in general - was returned in spades by everyone who encountered him.

Guests on his show ranged from a very young Bob Dylan, Kris Kristofferson, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Linda Ronstadt, Roy Orbison, Creedence Clearwater Revival and Ray Charles to Conway Twitty, Merle Haggard, Loretta Lynn, Hank Williams, Jr. and Chet Atkins. It was clear he was tickled to the bone to host every one of these artists, and the feeling was mutual. There's one segment with Derek and the Dominos where Eric Clapton looks sidelong at Cash as though he can barely believe he's actually in the man's presence. It's quite something to watch when you consider that many people since have looked at Clapton the same way.

For baby boomers, Johnny Cash was the first recording artist who made it cool to examine country music. Because he gave voice to social justice concerns at a time when that mattered profoundly to young people, he crossed over in ways that other country singers did not. A prime example of this was Man in Black, a simple yet powerful song that he performed for the first time before a rapt college audience.

Cash used his prodigious talents as a singer, songwriter and guitar player to engage on the highest possible level with the full spectrum of society, whether it was with hardened inmates at Folsom Prison or students only just starting to become aware of the world around them. It was as though he alchemicalized his own considerable personal pain into an art form anyone could tap into and that connected us all to each other. He was our generation's Everyman.

A Case of You, Joni Mitchell (1971)

"At that period of my life, I had no personal defenses. ... I felt like I had absolutely no secrets from the world and I couldn't pretend in my life to be strong. Or to be happy. But the advantage of it in the music was that there were no defenses there either."

- Cameron Crowe's 1979 Rolling Stone interview with Joni Mitchell, speaking of the period in which she produced the Blue album

If ever there was an artist who embodies for me the Feminine, it is Joni Mitchell. Her musical poetry and her unearthly voice had the singular ability to wash away any pretensions I might ever have made in my college years to being invulnerable to men.

Firmly in touch with her muse and uncompromising in her honesty, Joni described as well as anyone ever could - though we were in the throes of the women's liberation movement - that it didn't matter how strong we thought we were, when it came to the men we loved, we were anything but. But of course in those days, it was easier to regain one's equilibrium ...

A Case of You is thought by many to be about Leonard Cohen, one of the many high-profile musicians with whom she had relationships (Rolling Stone once called her the Old Lady of the Year and actually diagrammed all of her romances). But its universal appeal is that it's a shimmering ode to all of those someones who caused us excruciating pain, and yet ... the bloodletting was so worth it. Oh I could drink a case of you darling / Still I'd be on my feet / I would still be on my feet