Big bad John

Cash's March 7 performance, in snow that was six inches deep and risin', was as much a celebration of his status as a pop-culture icon as a concert. After 40 years of writing hits and, at least in the past decade, making albums that would have spawned hits if we didn't live in a transparent, ageist culture (and if country programmers had ears and respect for a man who help create their jobs in the first place), his legacy crosses all age groups. Gray-haired grandmas and tattoo'd alterna-rockers shared space in the sold-out Lansdowne Street club. And when Cash sang "I shot a man in Reno/Just to watch him die" in his classic "Folsom Prison Blues," everyone hollered.

Okay, maybe the rockers cheered louder than the grandmas because that line is so goddamn rock-and-roll badass. And that's the side of Cash his last CD, 1994's American Recordings (on the hip American Recordings label), best illuminated thanks to savvy producer and label chieftain Rick Rubin. Rubin knew cutting tunes like the Glenn Danzig-penned "Thirteen" and Cash's "Delia's Gone" -- in which he graphically snuffs a mistreating lover with a pair of bullets ("First time I shot her/Shot her in the side/Hated to watch her suffer/But on the second shot she died") -- would tap the outlaw appeal within modern rock culture. (Step aside, Snoop.) Still, there's something entrancing in that for the grandmas, too. After all, they're young or old enough to remember James Dean, and to have been part of the first generation to swoon over Elvis and Jerry Lee, even if they were no longer teenagers when the Beatles came along. And lest we ageist youngsters forget, Elvis, Jerry Lee, and James were very bad boys. So was Johnny. When he sang about popping those "little patent pills" in "Blistered" a few decades back, he was wailing from experience.

Nonetheless, this was the first time at Avalon I've ever seen an entire band of silverhairs on stage, including Carl Perkins/Sun Recording Co. session drummer W.S. Howard, sporting a Kenny Rogers-style one-piece mane and beard. Which meant it was safe to stand in front of the PA speakers without earplugs . . . which meant that every word of Cash's tunes, many of which have helped define what we think of as the singer/songwriter's craft today, was crisp. And what a joy it was to linger over his stories of floods and trains and jailbreaks and angst and pain and the kind of people who've become legendary examples of what America does to its best and its oppressed -- like Ira Hayes, the Iwo Jima hero who's the subject of a ballad Cash played at the request of a fan whose parents probably weren't old enough to breed during World War II.

The concert itself was a family affair, albeit to a lesser extent than when his legendary mother-in-law, Maybelle Carter, was alive and all of her daughters were in tow. June Carter Cash, his wife of nearly 30 years, came out to belt along with her hubby-in-black on their smash duets "Jackson" and Tim Hardin's "If I Were a Carpenter." Cash also performed Kris Kristofferson's beautiful morning-after ballad "Sunday Mornin' Coming Down." Hearing those songs was a reminder of how Cash helped launch an entire generation of American singer-songwriters into the mainstream. Via guest appearances on his '60s television show, he gave the first widespread national exposure to Kristofferson, Joni Mitchell, and even Bob Dylan.

At Avalon, June and Johnny's son John Carter Cash was also along, strumming acoustic rhythm guitar and providing a pit stop with a few lightweight folk tunes at mid set. June's own solo spot, where she performed a song she wrote about her days in New York City's Actors Studio hanging with James Dean and Elvis, was more affecting. It shared a glimpse into her own once-fervent aspirations as an actress, and a sense of loss not only for her late friends but for the opportunities she might have missed by sticking to the musical path blazed by her family, who were among the trailblazers of country music. (Mother Maybelle wrote "Will the Circle Be Unbroken," for starters.) That June accompanied herself with autoharp while she sang also underscored her family tradition. Maybelle Carter and her autoharp had always seemed inseparable.

Cash told the assembled faithful that he's currently working on a new album with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, and he played a song from the Dead Man Walking soundtrack that was as penetrating a look into the recesses of the human soul as anything on American Recordings. Making vital music at 64. That's a feat few artists have accomplished outside the realms of jazz and blues. But there's something in Cash's spirit that transcends all genres and times. And that speaks to everyone, as do the voices of good and evil. Cash's music comes from our own personal Twilight Zones.