8 p.m., Robinson Center Music Hall. $48-$60.
Listen, John Prine is the closest thing to a songwriting god that America has; I mean that with all sincerity. In 21 albums released over four decades, the man hasn't wasted a lyric nor played through a dry patch. He's spent his career mumbling up witty, transcendent lyrics that have challenged any and every songwriter since. He inspired thousands, challenged other songwriters with his delicately written albums and, I'm convinced, made even more throw down their guitars and hang up their folksy aspirations after being intimidated by the man. (I certainly did.) Cash held him in the highest of regards and Dylan compares him to Proust. Doubtless, he's the songwriter's songwriter with a massive discography just waiting to be piled through, loved on and obsessed over by the uninitiated. He's impossible to dislike and certainly hard not to place on a pedestal like I just did. In short: GO.