Few producers can boast a Midas touch comparable to that of Rick Rubin. From Run D.M.C. to Tom Petty to Slayer and beyond, Rubin has helped shape some of the most important albums by some of America’s best artists. But his most incredible collaboration thus far was with the great Johnny Cash. For nearly a full decade―from 1994 until Cash’s death in September 2003―Rubin assisted the legendary singer-songwriter in crafting some of the richest, most timeless music of the past half-century. In the following interview Rubin talks about his relationship with Cash, and how that music was made.
What originally drew you to Johnny Cash, and made you feel you were the person to produce him?
I think it came from the idea that, at that point in my career, I had worked pretty much exclusively with young artists, either making their first album or their second album. There might have been minor exceptions to that, but I felt like it would be an exciting challenge to work with an established artist, or a legendary artist who might not be in the best place at the moment. The first person who came to mind was Johnny, in terms of greatness and in terms of maybe, at that moment, not doing his best work.
How did you arrive at the decision that American Recordings, the first Cash album, would be as stripped down as it was?
That took some time. We didn’t go into it with any preconceived idea of what that first album should be. We recorded many different ways, with different bands and different players, and different styles. Many of those experiments are actually on the Unearthed boxed set―those songs that were recorded prior to the first American album. We were just trying to find our way. The first thing we did were acoustic demos, in my living room. And then we went into different studios, with different players, and tried songs in different ways. Ultimately, after many experiments, we kind of looked at each other and decided that we liked the acoustic stuff better than any of the other experiments we tried.
How comfortable was he with that approach―with being sort of out there, naked, in that way?
I think he had mixed feelings about that. I know there was a part of him that was excited about it, and that always wanted to do it. But there was another part of him that was insecure about it, and felt, “Well, if they don’t like this, I’m really in trouble, because this is really me.”
At what point did he start to feel validated?
I think he knew the music was good while we were doing it, but it wasn’t until it came out and got the kind of critical praise it received that it really sank in. And when young people started coming up to him, and telling him how much they liked the album, that’s when he really knew. It had more to do with other people’s reactions.
Both you and Cash brought songs to the table, but did the original method of choosing songs change, over time?
No. We both always brought in everything we had. I would send Johnny CDs that contained 30 songs, sometimes, and other times it might be one song. It was just whatever I could find that I thought he might like, or that I thought might be appropriate. And then he might call me back and say, “Well, I like four of these,” or “I like this one a lot.” And he would send me songs, and I would tell him which ones I liked, and why, and which ones I didn’t like, and why. It was a matter of finding common ground.
Did you have any strategies you put in play to get him to record something he might not otherwise have wanted to record? Soundgarden’s “Rusty Cage,” for instance?
As time went on, and as the trust in our relationship grew, if there was a song I really felt strongly about, I might pitch it a bit harder than the typical, “Here are all the songs that I like.” “Hurt” was one of those, where I was like, “This has the potential to be something great. I think it could be a really important song, and I really hope you do it.” But again, if he didn’t like something, we wouldn’t do it. It’s just that he might have listened a bit closer because of the pitch I made.
In the case of “Hurt,” which he viewed as an anti-drug song, did he consciously try to maneuver the song in a direction different from its original intent?
Well, I think he tried to make them all his own. I don’t think he was especially concerned with what the writer’s original intention was. It was a question of, “How does this song hit me, and how can I convey that mood, or the emotion that I feel, in my version of the song?" He was really a master at taking a song―even a song you might’ve heard many times in your life―and imbuing it with a kind of story-teller mentality. All of a sudden you understood the song, or thought about the words in a different way, or took the song more seriously.
Can you think of a particular example?
There are lots, but one, for me, is “Bridge Over Troubled Water” [video below]. I’ve heard that song my whole life, but until Johnny sang it I never thought about what it meant. All of a sudden the words took on a whole new seriousness. Some people have said they felt that way about “One” ―the U2 song. They’ve said that when Johnny sang it, the words rang true in a way that was different from what they had heard before.
What role did you play in helping him communicate in that way?
Most of the time he just had it. Sometimes, though, we had discussions about what the goal was, or about what was trying to be accomplished within a song. “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” which we recorded for the last album, is a love song, but I asked him to not sing it as a love song to a person, but as a love song to God. That idea really excited him, and it gave him a point of view. Sometimes, before starting a song, I would just say, “Think about this,” whatever that might be. The idea was to give something a new point of view, or give it a touchstone.
During the making of Unchained he began to show signs of becoming ill. You've said elsewhere that he was confused, because he didn’t understand what was happening to him. How did that manifest itself?
He wanted to be able to do more than he was physically able to do. He couldn’t understand why one day he would come in and be able to sing great, and the next day he would come in and not be able to catch his breath, or would have to lie down between takes. He was suffering a lot. He had suffered for years, actually, and yet he could still get the job done whenever he wanted to. Now, for the first time, he was experiencing times when he wasn't able to be mentally focused, or wasn't of strong voice. This was all new to him, and it was very difficult for him to deal with.
Given the changes that were happening to his voice, was he still able to be satisfied with a song, once the work was done?
He was, but I know there were times when he wished his voice was better. Sometimes he felt embarrassed, and it really took the people around him to say, “This is beautiful, and we love it.” And again, he trusted the people who were saying that, because we really did feel that way.
How was he able to inhabit other people's songs so completely?
I think part of it has to do with just what a bright and wise person he was. Putting aside singing songs, if he just told you a story, he was able to explain things in such a way that you really understood them. He had lived so much, in his life, the wisdom that came along with that showed up whenever he spoke. That transferred into his storytelling, and into the songs. When he said it, you believed it. It’s an unusual gift.
Was there anything that came out of your work with him that changed you, in a fundamental way?
I don’t know that I could quantify that. He played a huge role in my life, and of course we worked a lot together, for a long time. It was always fulfilling, and I always looked forward to it. I would have to say it affected me more in terms of quality of life than in terms of the way that I work. My life was definitely made better by having him as my friend. He was a beautiful man.