Man cannot live on politics alone; that’s why today’s column isn’t devoted to the election, terrorism or Sept. 11. It’s about Sept. 12 – the date on which country singer Johnny Cash passed away a year ago.

In this time of partisan enmity, it’s good to remind ourselves that there are things we all share as Americans. Democrats have pointed to Cash’s sympathetic songs about the downtrodden as proof of his liberalism, while Republicans have claimed him for themselves because he performed for former President Richard Nixon. The truth is, Johnny Cash is too iconic a figure to belong to anyone, as emblematic of the United States as Old Glory.

Born to dirt-poor Arkansan sharecroppers, Cash grew up picking cotton and singing spirituals. The vocal practice paid off: No other single musician has had more success or influence on American music than he has. His credits include: 1,500 songs on 500 albums; ten Grammys; 50 million albums sold; and more hit singles than Michael Jackson. He’s one of only two people inducted into both the Country and the Rock and Roll Halls of Fame. The other was Elvis Presley.

Aside from fulfilling the American dream of going from rags to riches, Cash also upheld the equally important ideal that excess should accompany success. As Americans, each of us feels deep in our hearts an urgent need for our Marilyns to be pill-poppers, our Hemingways to be grizzled drunks, our Old Dirty Bastards to be strutting thugs. For years, Cash was all three – a hard-drinking, cocaine-snorting outlaw who was hauled in for possession and drunk-and-disorderlies. Looking back, Cash acknowledged he was on the fast track to self-destruction, until he found Jesus and the love of a good woman. Redeemed by marriage and religion, he went on to record his magnum opus, the genre-bending live “At Folsom Prison.” Go buy it today.

Even in death, Cash holds a strong sway over music. Bands such as Wilco and Michelle Shocked cite him as a major influence. Ice-T called him “the original gangsta rapper.” On U2’s album “Zooropa,” he even appeared as a featured soloist.

But throughout it all, the most remarkable thing about Cash was his humility in the face of his own success, his sincerity in an age of cynical posturing. And that was the reason that he was popular for three generations: his ability to connect with people through the force and truth of his music. He was a spiritual tsunami, a repentant sinner preaching a gospel of absolution and faith in the guise of a gunslinging ne’er do well.

Johnny Cash. J.C. Sure, it’s religious symbolism at its ham-fisted best, but so what? Cash was sent to save American music by combining the honest folksiness of country with the sneering defiance of rock and roll. He’s the wayfaring stranger who toured only when his wife came along, the would-be outlaw turned family man. Cash was big enough for these paradoxes – he is great; he contains multitudes. As Kris Kristofferson famously sang, “He’s a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction.”

But aren’t we all.

Columns reflect the opinion of the author and not necessarily that of the Northern Star staff.