Brush with Greatness: Bob Dylan signs his autograph!

 

A brush with greatness! I am sure this impromptu autograph was pre-planned, but that's OK. Since Dylan barely gives any interviews, this is like having glimpses of a rare bird (or maybe Bigfoot?). The show is totally lame, so this is a one-minute clip, just the good part.

Ballad in Plain D: the sin of love's false security

I once loved a girl, her skin it was bronze
With the innocence of a lamb, she was gentle like a fawn
I courted her proudly but now she is gone
Gone as the season she's taken

In a young summer's youth, I stole her away
From her mother and sister, though close did they stay
Each one of them suffering from the failures of their day
With strings of guilt they tried hard to guide us

Of the two sisters, I loved the young
With sensitive instincts, she was the creative one
The constant scrapegoat, she was easily undone
By the jealousy of others around her

For her parasite sister, I had no respect
Bound by her boredom, her pride to protect
Countless visions of the other she'd reflect
As a crutch for her scenes and her society

Myself, for what I did, I cannot be excused
The changes I was going through can't even be used
For the lies that I told her in hopes not to lose
The could-be dream-lover of my lifetime

With unseen consciousness, I possessed in my grip
A magnificent mantelpiece, though its heart being chipped
Noticing not that I'd already slipped
To the sin of love's false security

From silhouetted anger to manufactured peace
Answers of emptiness, voice vacancies
'Till the tombstones of damage read me no questions but, "Please
What's wrong and what's exactly the matter?"

And so it did happen like it could have been foreseen
The timeless explosion of fantasy's dream
At the peak of the night, the king and the queen
Tumbled all down into pieces

"The tragic figure", her sister did shout
"Leave her alone, god damn you, get out!"
And I in my armor, turning about
And nailing her in the ruins of her pettiness

Beneath a bare light bulb the plaster did pound
Her sister and I in a screaming battleground
And she in between, the victim of sound
Soon shattered as a child to the shadows

All is gone, all is gone, admit it, take flight
I gagged in contradiction, tears blinding my sight
My mind it was mangled, I ran into the night
Leaving all of love's ashes behind me

The wind knocks my window, the room it is wet
The words to say I'm sorry, I haven't found yet
I think of her often and hope whoever she's met
Will be fully aware of how precious she is

Ah, my friends from the prison, they ask unto me
"How good, how good does it feel to be free?"
And I answer them most mysteriously
"Are birds free from the chains of the skyway?"

This song has a history with me. Way back in the mid-'60s, I would listen to Dylan with my brother Arthur (5 years older than me, already in university, and he'd bring a little weed when he came home to visit). For some reason we had just fastened on to the Another Side of Bob Dylan album, having failed to bond with his first (though the next one, The Freewheeling Bob Dylan, was getting closer). 

Another Side was loaded with gems, not the least of which is the blazing glory of Chimes of Freedom. But Ballad in Plain D was the one we both loved. We would smoke up when the parents were at choir practice and listen to this song almost obsessively, mostly because it seemed to be a very rare glimpse of the inner Dylan. He was for the most part pretty defended by his own brilliance, with his slashing, crashing, flashing imagery protecting the hypersensitive soul within. 

We had all sorts of conjecture about this song: who was it about, anyway? (We know nothing of Suze Rotolo at the time, though her picture was right there on the cover of Freewheeling). Arthur seemed to think it was the same girl from Spanish Harlem Incident ("your pearly eyes so fast and slashin'/And your flashin' diamond teeth"). The fact that "her skin it was bronze" seemed to point that way, though I was later to realize Suze was more blonde-ish. 

But whoever it was about, this was a romantic obsession of Byronic proportions, a grand drama of love and destruction played out beneath a bare light bulb with plaster from the walls sifting down. It was just so naked, so flat-out ("her sister and I in a screaming battle-ground"), so near-violent, with poor Suze (though we didn't know it was Suze) cowering in the shadows. 

Her mother and sister were the villains of the piece, the ones who ruined everything and finally sundered their romance. They seemed to come straight out of a bad fairy tale, with Suze an innocent Cinderella-figure in the thrall of this heartless wickedness.  The ending, with Dylan blinded with tears and running into the night, was heartbreaking, but also completely unlike the folk hipster we knew and loved. So vulnerable, so devastated! To have lost "the could-be dream lover of my lifetime" due to other people's narrowness and cruelty.

And the denouement, with Dylan lying on the bed in a dark room with tree branches knocking on the window and rain coming in. "Are birds free from the chains of the skyway?" More than vivid, this song grabs you by the guts and pulls you right in. I don't know why so many people don't like it. I believe Dylan, a man of conscience who is truly remorseful when he hurts anyone, regrets demonizing Suze's family this way, when surely, his own behaviour was what triggered the split.

But I wouldn't figure that out until much later, when I read several Dylan biographies and put the pieces of his life together I still weaken and read another one every now and then, though most of them are pretty terrible. The only one I really like is Down the Highway by Howard Sounes, the most vilified and hated of all Dylan biographies because it contains some highly personal details which seem to sully the great master's reputation. 

My brother's denouement is much sadder. Arthur lived on the streets of Toronto for several years, coping with severe mental illness before dying in a fire in 1980. I wasn't able to listen to Dylan for ten years, until caving in and buying Desire ("Your pleasure knows no limits, your voice is like a meadowlark/But your heart is like an ocean, mysterious and dark"). I was back on again.

Then came another long dry period, and realizing YouTube wasn't gonna post any Dylan - you had to try to find bootlegs by someone called Elston Gunn. This changed a few years ago, and we hit the jackpot with his entire life's work right there in front of us, for free. And like everyone else, I felt like Rough and Rowdy Ways was what enabled me to survive the pandemic. I'd sit there very late at night and listen to it and listen to it and cry my guts out.

Best of all, he is as faithful to his genius now as when he escaped middle America and sought his fortune in the Village. When you go on the official Dylan YouTube channel now, his tour itinerary appears in the description, where and when, and how to get tickets. To quote one of his own songs, Minstrel Boy: he's still on that road.

   

Bob Dylan - Up to Me (with lyrics)

Everything went from bad to worse, money never changed a thing
Death kept followin', trackin' us down, at least I heard your bluebird sing
Now somebody's got to show their hand, time is an enemy
I know you're long gone
I guess it must be up to me

If I'd thought about it I never would've done it, I guess I would've let it slide
If I'd pay attention to what others were thinkin', the heart inside me would've died
Well, I was just too stubborn to ever be governed by enforced insanity
Someone had to reach for the risin' star
I guess it was up to me

Oh, the Union Central is pullin' out, the orchids are in bloom
I've only got me one good shirt left and it smells of stale perfume
In 14 months I've only smiled once and I didn't do it consciously
Somebody's got to find your trail
I guess it must be up to me

It was like a revelation when you betrayed me with your touch
I'd just about convinced myself, nothin' had changed that much
The old Rounder in the iron mask, he slipped me the master key
Somebody had to unlock your heart
He said it was up to me

Now, I watched you slowly disappear down into the officer's club
I would've followed you in the door but I didn't have a ticket stub
So I waited all night 'til the break of day, hopin' one of us could get free
Ho, when the dawn came over the river bridge
I knew it was up to me

The only decent thing I did when I worked as a postal clerk
Was to haul your picture down off the wall near the cage where I used to work
Was I a fool or not to protect your real identity?
You looked a little burned out, my friend
I thought it might be up to me

I met somebody face to face, I had to remove my hat
She's everything I need and love but I can't be swayed by that
It frightens me, the awful truth of how sweet life can be
But she ain't gonna make a move
I guess it must be up to me

Now, we heard the Sermon on the Mount and I knew it was too complex
It didn't amount to anything more than what the broken glass reflects
When you bite off more than you can chew, you got to pay the penalty
Somebody's got to tell the tale
I guess it must be up to me

Dupree came in pimpin' tonight to the Thunderbird Cafe
Crystal wanted to talk to him, I had to look the other way
Now, I just can't rest without you, love, I need your company
But you ain't a-gonna cross the line
I guess it must be up to me

There's a note left in the bottle, you can give it to Estelle
She's the one you been wonderin' about, but there's really nothin' much to tell
We both heard voices for a while, now the rest is history
Somebody's got to cry some tears
I guess it must be up to me

So go on, boys, and play your hands, life is a pantomime
The ringleaders from the county seat say you don't have all that much time
And the girl with me behind the shades, she ain't my property
One of us has got to hit the road
I guess it must be up to me

If we never meet again, baby, remember me
How my lone guitar played sweet for you that old-time melody
And the harmonica around my neck, I blew it for you, free
No one else could play that tune
You know it was up to me

JOKERMAN

 

Jokerman

Standing on the water, casting your bread

While the eyes of the idol with the iron head are glowing

Distant ships sailing into the mist

You were born with a snake in both of your fists while a hurricane was blowing

Freedom just around the corner for you

But with truth so far off, what good will it do.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

So swiftly the sun sets in the sky

You rise up and say goodbye to no one

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread

Both of their futures, so full of dread, you don't show one

Shedding off one more layer of skin

Keeping one step ahead of the persecutor within.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

You're a man of the mountains, you can walk on the clouds

Manipulator of crowds, you're a dream twister

You're going to Sodom and Gomorrah

But what do you care ? Ain't nobody there would want marry your sister

Friend to the martyr, a friend to the woman of shame

You look into the fiery furnace, see the rich man without any name.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

Well, the Book of Leviticus and Deuteronomy

The law of the jungle and the sea are your only teachers

In the smoke of the twilight on a milk-white steed

Michelangelo indeed could've carved out your features

Resting in the fields, far from the turbulent space

Half asleep near the stars with a small dog licking your face.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

Well, the rifleman's stalking the sick and the lame

Preacherman seeks the same, who'll get there first is uncertain

Nightsticks and water cannons, tear gas, padlocks

Molotov cocktails and rocks behind every curtain

False-hearted judges dying in the webs that they spin

Only a matter of time 'til the night comes stepping in.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman.

It's a shadowy world, skies are slippery gray

A woman just gave birth to a prince today and dressed him in scarlet

He'll put the priest in his pocket, put the blade to the heat

Take the motherless children off the street

And place them at the feet of a harlot

Oh, Jokerman, you know what he wants

Oh, Jokerman, you don't show any response.

Jokerman dance to the nightingale tune

Bird fly high by the light of the moon

Oh, oh, oh, Jokerman

Visit Margaret's Amazon Author Page!

Nobel PRIZE? . . . Weird, man.

Kind of a cool clip. Short, too.

Invisible, like the wind: the divine feminine in Bob Dylan's Mother of Muses

 

Mother of Muses

Mother of Muses, sing for me

Sing of the mountains and the deep dark sea

Sing of the lakes and the nymphs of the forest

Sing your hearts out, all you women of the chorus

Sing of honor and faith and glory be

Mother of Muses, sing for me.

Mother of Muses, sing for my heart

Sing of a love too soon to depart

Sing of the heroes who stood alone

Whose names are engraved on tablets of stone

Who struggled with pain so the world could go free

Mother of Muses, sing for me.

 

Sing of Sherman, Montgomery and Scott

And of Zhukov, and Patton, and the battles they fought

Who cleared the path for Presley to sing

Who carved the path for Martin Luther King

Who did what they did and they went on their way

Man I could tell their stories all day

 

I’m falling in love with Calliope

She don’t belong to anyone, why not give her to me

She’s speakin’ to me, speakin’ with her eyes

I’ve grown so tired of chasing lies

Mother of Muses, wherever you are

I’ve already outlived my life by far.

Mother of Muses, unleash your wrath

Things I can’t see, they’re blocking my path

Show my your wisdom, tell me my fate

Put me upright, make me walk straight

Forge my identity from the inside out

You know what I’m talking’ about.

 

Take me to the river, release your charms

Let me lay down a while in your sweet lovin’ arms

Wake me shake me, free me from sin

Make me invisible, like the wind

Got a mind to ramble, got a mind to roam

I’m travellin’ light, and I’m slow comin’ home

In Greek mythology, Mnemosyne is the goddess of memory, and the mother of the nine Muses. The term Mnemosyne is derived from the same source as the word mnemonic, that being the Greek word mnēmē, which means "remembrance, memory".
A titaness, Mnemosyne was the daughter of Uranus and Gaia. Mnemosyne was the mother of the nine Muses, fathered by her nephew, Zeus:

 
Calliope (epic poetry)
Clio (history)
Euterpe (music and lyric poetry)
Erato (love poetry)
Melpomene (tragedy)
Polyhymnia (hymns)
Terpsichore (dance)
Thalia (comedy)
Urania (astronomy)

BLOGGER'S COMMENTARY. I have fallen in love, not with Calliope, but with Bob Dylan, all over again. Only now he's an 80-year-old phenomenon once more in the thick of a year-long world tour, a task which would be daunting to a man half that age. Yes, and that tour likely features mostly new material, including songs we have not even heard yet. Through the wonders of YouTube, we are now able to hear and even SEE him perform only a day or so after the show. Entire performances are popping up that only took place last week.

Mother of Muses is one of my favorite songs on Rough and Rowdy Ways (released last year, and considered by many to be the finest album he has ever produced). It's both tender and haunting, with an undertone of flinty defiance as he rhymes off the names of the heroes he so admires. (Only Dylan could mention Elvis Presley and Martin Luther King in almost the same breath, and still make it work.) Initially, this post was going to be "the divine feminine in Rough and Rowdy Ways", but there were so many references to women, divine in one way or another (like the "transparent woman in a transparent dress"), that I had to cut it down and focus on one song which seemed like the concentrated essence of all the others.

Yes, Mother of Muses is a lovely and poetic title for a sighingly beautiful song -  but until I did a little bit of digging, I had no idea what it really meant. My Greek mythology is rusty, but Dylan's isn't. His knowledge of mythology, literature, and (most especially) the Bible is legendary. Not only that - his knowledge has both tremendous breadth and spooky, mysterious depth.  In fact, I believe Bob Dylan is one of the greatest minds of our time. Who else has won the Nobel Prize for writing what is so erroneously labelled as "popular music"?

So what I found, and maybe it should not have astonished me as much as it did, is that there WAS an actual "mother of Muses" named Mnemosyne. I had heard the name before, of course, and the term "mnemonic" as a device for remembering things. But Mnemosyne is not only the mother of memory, but the mother of NINE muses, the first one being Calliope (the one Bob Dylan is falling in love with), who is responsible for EPIC POETRY.

Which is why this song completely knocks me over.

It's perhaps no mistake that in calling on his "muse", Dylan chooses the "mother of all Muses", one who has the power to transform and redeem. She is not unlike the female face of Jesus. This verse especially spells out the extent of her power:

Mother of Muses, unleash your wrath

Things I can’t see, they’re blocking my path

Show my your wisdom, tell me my fate

Put me upright, make me walk straight

Forge my identity from the inside out

You know what I’m talking’ about.

The line "put me upright, make me walk straight" has made me weep more than once. Dylan is 80 years old, looks as old as time, and seems small, slight and frail.  I know very well from my own deteriorating body about the ravages of age and the slipping away of mobility. This line describes a power which can literally lift him up bodily and set him down on a purposeful path, guiding each step along the way.

But the spookiest line of all in this richly-laden poem is, "Forge my identity from the inside out/You know what I'm talkin' about." No, we don't, Bob - we are gasping in awe at the way in which an ancient Greek goddess can become your own mother, with the relationship close enough that she seems to have literally given birth to you. I've worked my way through many a Dylan biography, and the one I am reading now (a 1,000-page tome by a Scottish writer named Ian Bell) focuses mainly on the fact that Dylan's identity as an artist is in a constant state of flux, as if he doesn't really have one. I hope he is listening to this song right now.

Just think of it: those "women of the chorus", the nine Muses who call Mnemosyne their mother, are almost literally Dylan's backup singers. But this primal mother-figure also has a son, and as we trudge through the travesty of a season originally meant to honor the Son of Man, I am immensely grateful that our greatest living poet has found yet another way to be born again.

POST-POST-OBSERVATIONS. You knew there had to be more! I noticed that in the Wikipedia entry, Mnemosyne was called a "titaness", which is a half-assed way of saying she was a bloody TITAN (why not just come out and say it?). This means, among other things, that she really kicks ass, with considerable mythological clout behind her motherly legend. I knew nothing of titans, and found way too much when I looked it up, but here is the gist of it for those who are interested:

In Greek mythology, the Titans were the pre-Olympian gods. They were the twelve children of the primordial parents Uranus (Sky) and Gaia (Earth), with six male Titans: Oceanus, Coeus, Crius, Hyperion, Iapetus, and Cronus, and six female Titans, called the Titanides or Titanesses: Theia, Rhea, Themis, Mnemosyne, Phoebe, and Tethys. Cronus mated with his older sister Rhea and together they became the parents of the first generation of Olympians – the six siblings Zeus, Hades, Poseidon, Hestia, Demeter, and Hera. Some descendants of the Titans, such as Prometheus, Helios, and Leto, are sometimes also called Titans.

So if we got the whole clan together for Christmas, we'd need more than one turkey.

I Contain Multitudes: the songs seem to know themselves

 

Bob Dylan   

On writing "I Contain Multitudes"

I didn’t really have to grapple much. It’s the kind of thing where you pile up stream-of-consciousness verses and then leave it alone and come pull things out. In that particular song, the last few verses came first. So that’s where the song was going all along. Obviously, the catalyst for the song is the title line. It’s one of those where you write it on instinct. Kind of in a trance state. Most of my recent songs are like that. The lyrics are the real thing, tangible, they’re not metaphors. The songs seem to know themselves and they know that I can sing them, vocally and rhythmically. They kind of write themselves and count on me to sing them.

HIERONYMUS BOB (Bob Dylan animation)!

Time for yet another Bob Dylan animation! Made by me. Cuz I loves that Bob.

Why I think this Bob Dylan song is all about Joan Baez

One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)

Bob Dylan

I didn't mean
To treat you so bad
You shouldn't take it so personal
I didn't mean
To make you so sad
You just happened to be there, that's all

When I saw you say "goodbye" to your friend and smile
I thought that it was well understood
That you'd be comin' back in a little while

I didn't know that you were sayin' "goodbye" for good

But, sooner or later, one of us must know
That you just did what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That I really did try to get close to you

I couldn't see
What you could show me
Your scarf had kept your mouth well hid
I couldn't see
How you could know me
But you said you knew me and I believed you did

When you whispered in my ear
And asked me if I was leavin' with you or her
I didn't realize just what I did hear
I didn't realize how young you were

But, sooner or later, one of us must know
That you're just doin' what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That I really did try to get close to you

I couldn't see
When it started snowin'
Your voice was all that I heard
I couldn't see
Where we were goin'
But you said you knew an' I took your word

And then you told me later, as I apologized
That you were just kiddin' me, you weren't really from the farm
An' I told you, as you clawed out my eyes that I
Never really meant to do you any harm

But, sooner or later, one of us must know
That you just did what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That I really did try to get close to you

This song appears on Dylan's second-to-best album, Blonde on Blonde (1966), the best (of course!) being Rough and Rowdy Ways, which he released only last year. My analysis of this song, line-by-line, attempts to prove my thesis:  though never recognized as such, it is a shockingly detailed, almost literal re-telling of his stormy, complicated and often sado-masochistic relationship with Joan Baez.

I didn't mean
To treat you so bad
You shouldn't take it so personal

The song starts off with this heartless and cynically dismissive assertion. In essence, he's saying to Joan, "Hey, I demolished you emotionally, but stop being so touchy about it. It didn't mean anything to me."

I didn't mean
To make you so sad
You just happened to be there, that's all

That glimmer of compassion ("I didn't mean to make you so sad") is then negated, if not stomped into the ground, by the cruelly casual "you just happened to be there, that's all". This is beyond dismissive - it borders on contempt, as if a figure as crucial to his career as Baez was just a bystander or a piece of furniture in his path (if not in his  way).

When I saw you say "goodbye" to your friend and smile
I thought that it was well understood
That you'd be comin' back in a little while

I didn't know that you were sayin' "goodbye" for good

Now, this MAY be related to a scene from the infamous 1966 documentary Dont Look Back (apostrophe omitted on purpose, for reasons unknown). Cameras followed Dylan around on his London tour, and though the concert performances are outstanding, the really fascinating part  takes place in Dylan's hotel room, filled with hangers-on (including a then-unknown Donovan, soon to eclipse Dylan on the hit parade) and media people hanging about like vultures. But one of these hangers-on was Baez, who came along with Dylan on tour (inviting herself, I believe) as a tag-along. Though Baez generously gave Bob's fledgling career a boost in 1961 by bringing him up onstage with her (when he was "a complete unknown" - sorry!), Dylan even more famously did NOT return the favor. It's as if she wasn't even considered. Was she asking too much, or did she have a hidden agenda all along, boosting her OWN career by giving the meteoric "unwashed phenomenon" a leg-up which he didn't actually need? 

In any case, the dynamics here are tangled and complex. The thwarted Joan was left strumming a stray guitar in the hotel room and singing in an ear-splitting voice that is really meant to be heard from  a distance. I don't remember the song, but it sure wasn't anything original. She was still singing archaic, traditional folk ballads like Mary Hamilton and Silver Dagger, with Dylan having long passed and surpassed her several years before.

"When I saw you say goodbye to your friend and smile" - that whole verse actually, literally happened. A particularly obnoxious sycophant named Bobby Neuwirth, supposedly Joan's good friend, attacked her verbally on-camera for no reason, claiming she was nothing but a flat-chested has-been (!). Joan tried to laugh it off, but you could see how devastated she was as she slipped out the door to catch the nearest plane home. Goodbye for good. But Dylan attempts to yank the yo-yo string by assuming she'd be "coming back in a little while" - an arrogant assertion if ever there was one.

But, sooner or later, one of us must know
That you just did what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That I really did try to get close to you

Again, this is so back-handed! "You just did what you're supposed to do" may be a reference to the way Baez proudly displayed the still-wet-behind-the-ears Dylan on stage during HER concert performances. After singing Masters of War or With God on Our Side, she'd get the audience all stirred up by asking the crowd, "Would you like to meet the young man who wrote  that song?", prompting screams of adulation.  And "I really did try to get close to you" can be taken at least two ways. It echoes the story of the disgusting sycophant Richard Farina, who, shockingly, married Joan's teenaged sister Mimi just to "get close to" Joan. For career reasons only.

I couldn't see
What you could show me
Your scarf had kept your mouth well hid
I couldn't see
How you could know me
But you said you knew me and I believed you did

More enigmatic statements, but "your scarf it kept your mouth well hid" may be a shockingly direct detail (in the way Dylan can throw in shockingly direct details, even in the middle of the most surrealistic song). In Dont Look Back, Joan attempts to attract some attention by covering her mouth with a gauzy scarf and doing a sort of seductive harem dance in the hotel room. For no apparent reason, Neuwirth casually, mockingly rips into her. She dances around like Mata Hari, trying  desperately to look as if she's just goofing around and having a good time, as Dylan coldly ignores her and Neuwirth gores her in her most vulnerable places. "Look, there's Fang Baez, wearing one of those see-through blouses that you don't even wanna!" Ignoring all this, Dylan is as self-absorbed as always.  "But you said you knew me and I believed you did" seems to hint that HE felt (bizarrely) betrayed by HER. Today we'd call that "gaslighting".

When you whispered in my ear
And asked me if I was leavin' with you or her
I didn't realize just what I did hear
I didn't realize how young you were

Oh, now THIS one! This is very direct. At the time of the London tour, Dylan  was secretly married to Sara Lownds, a figure who is  to this day mysterious because she has never spoken to the media about Dylan or anyone/anything else. Baez knew nothing of her or of his secret marriage, but was to find out in a shocking, hurtful way. She came to his hotel room after hearing a rumor that he was sick, bringing him a shirt she had picked out for him. Sara answered the door, took the shirt, thanked her nicely, and closed the door again. "You or her" is sung with such vitriol that it can only be for real. "I didn't realize just what I did hear/I didn't realize how young you were" is a bit mysterious, since Baez is half a year older. And why is he playing so innocent with that "I didn't realize" business? "How young you were" is a bit of a puzzle, but it's known that Dylan was attracted to the 17-year-old Mimi Baez (then still in high school) before he took up with Joan.

I couldn't see
When it started snowin'
Your voice was all that I heard
I couldn't see
Where we were goin'
But you said you knew an' I took your word

Am I reaching here? Not by much. In the lyrics of Baez' melancholy anthem to Dylan, Diamonds and Rust, there appear these lines: 

Now I see you standing

With brown leaves falling around
And snow in your hair
Now you're smiling out the window
Of that crummy hotel over Washington Square

Our breath comes out white clouds
Mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me

We both could have died then and there

Yes, SNOW. But the snow falling all around them and lighting on his famous nimbus of hair was blinding his view. Can't see in front of me, Joanie, it's SNOWING outside. And "your voice was all that I heard" - well, that's a bit obvious. What else does he care about 'cept what she (meaning her voice) can do for his career? "Couldn't see where we were goin'" might be literal (Dylan is blind as a bat without his glasses, and too vain to wear them in public), but it can also mean where the relationship was going. It was inseparable from the complicated dynamics of their briefly-intertwining careers. It seems to me he  (at least initially) liked and admired her, but SHE was madly, passionately in love with him. "But you said you knew an' I took your word" seems to suggest  Baez wanted to retain sort of share in Dylan for "discovering" him, and the direction she was taking him in (a sort of creative partnership) wasn't what he wanted at all. He was too proud to receive help from anyone, and by that time he was already more famous than Baez would ever be. So, once again, the line has a flavour of accusation, as if he trusted HER and she somehow betrayed him.

And then you told me later, as I apologized
That you were just kiddin' me, you weren't really from the farm
An' I told you, as you clawed out my eyes that I
Never really meant to do you any harm

This may just be a Dylanesque detail thrown in for drama. Hmmmm, did he really apologize to her, how sincerely, and exactly for what? For shooting down her floating hopes with a poisoned arrow? "Clawed out my eyes" and "never meant to do you  any harm" both seem like fiction to me. But years later, in answer to a sappy song Dylan recorded called Oh, Sister (which most felt was a sort of backhanded, even chastising love song for Baez - he  wasn't quite through with her yet), Baez wrote a song right back at him, called Oh, Brother! In it she clearly refers to the nasty triangle of Dylan, Baez and Sara Lowndes. But all this came much later. Could Dylan see (even with his blind eyes)  "where we were going", after all?

The line about "from the farm" makes no sense to me at all, unless it's a reference to Maggie's Farm. Upon which Dylan ain't going to work no more. Oh, or it could be this - on the same album, there's a line in Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands (known to be a paean to Sara): "They wish you'd accepted the blame for the farm." I can't make this one out either, except her "streetcar visions" may be a reference to A Streetcar Named Desire and Blanche Dubois losing the family plantation, Belle Rive. OK, I know, it's far-fetched, but so is Dylan, sometimes.

But, sooner or later, one of us must know
That you just did what you're supposed to do
Sooner or later, one of us must know
That I really did try to get close to you

Sooner or later, and he  doesn't seem to care too much if it IS sooner or later, "one of  us" must know (and in Diamonds and Rust, Baez talks about Dylan's talent for "keeping things vague") that she served her purpose - what she was "supposed to do", which is to make him famous. But did he really try to get close to her, and what exactly does that mean? In the Richard Farina sense? Though Dylan's famous, probably fictional "motorcycle accident" in 1966 gave him  the massive time-out he needed to survive, ironically, Farina died at the same time in an actual motorcycle accident. Richard Farina, who was married to Joan Baez's 17-year-old sister. Oh, what a tangled web, and how skillfully and ruthlessly Dylan weaves fiction and fact together! But this is one nasty song, and I can't  see how to read it any other way.

In subsequent years - MUCH later - Dylan praised Baez to the  skies, even rhapsodizing about her in a bizarre 30-minute award acceptance speech in the early 2000s. Too little, too late? Though  Baez generously and publicly congratulated Dylan for his 2020 masterpiece, Rough and Rowdy Ways, she has also said she has no desire to meet up with him again. Sooner or later, one of them (meaning HIM) must know just what he did to her, and how wounds that deep and devastating can never heal.

 

False Prophet

This is the Summer of Bob, but then again, it has been that way for 50 years. This song is actually helping me to walk. My pace has slowed way down due to pain and disability, but I find if I get in the swing of this one, I go at exactly the right pace and don't feel I'm tottering along. The burlesque-house bomp-bompa-bomp helps, too. Meantime, here is the kind of casually brilliant lyric Dylan still turns out at 80.

False Prophet
Bob Dylan

Another day that don't end
Another ship goin' out
Another day of anger, bitterness, and doubt
I know how it happened
I saw it begin
I opened my heart to the world and the world came in

Hello Mary Lou
Hello Miss Pearl
My fleet-footed guides from the underworld
No stars in the sky shine brighter than you
You girls mean business, and I do too

Well I'm the enemy of treason
Enemy of strife
I'm the enemy of the unlived meaningless life
I ain't no false prophet
I just know what I know
I go where only the lonely can go

I'm first among equals
Second to none
The last of the best
You can bury the rest
Bury 'em naked with their silver and gold
Put them six feet under and I pray for their souls

What are you lookin' at?
There's nothing to see
Just a cool breeze that's encircling me
Let's go for a walk in the garden
So far and so wide
We can sit in the shade by the fountain-side

I've search the world over
For the Holy Grail
I sing songs of love
I sing songs of betrayal
Don't care what I drink
I don't care what I eat
I climbed the mountain of swords on my bare feet

You don't know me, darlin'
You never would guess
I'm nothing like my ghostly appearance would suggest
I ain't no false prophet
I just said what I said
I'm just here to bring vengeance on somebody's head

Put out your hand
There's nothing to hold
Open your mouth
I'll stuff it with gold
Oh, you poor devil, look up if you will
The city of God is there on the hill

Hello stranger
A long goodbye
You ruled the land
But so do I
You lusty old mule
You got a poison brain
I'll marry you to a ball and chain

You know darlin'
The kind of life that I live
When your smile meets my smile
A something's got to give
I ain't no false prophet
No, I'm nobody's bride
Can't remember, when I was born
And I forgot when I died

FOLK ROT: Something is happening, but you don't know what it is

As I chop my way through YET ANOTHER Bob Dylan biography, this time by his longtime cheerleader/groupie/apologist Robert Shelton, the going is thicker and sludgier than last year's oatmeal left crusted in the pot. Still I make my way, relentlessly, because the book helps me go to sleep better than taking a couple of Seroquel, and there's no hangover the next day because I've forgotten what I've read. 

What interests me, aside from the fact that Shelton inserts himself into practically every paragraph (it's written in the first person, so that Shelton is the subject of the book and Dylan merely the object) are the bits and pieces out of the folk archives of those early times, when no one quite knew what to make of the skinny little kid from Minnesota who had a voice like a howling coyote and a fast-slashing wit that slipped unnoticed between the ribs of pundits and critics, creating bafflement, confusion, resentment, and even a degree of fear.

The way these indignant, insulted, obviously threatened stuffed shirts blathered on and on about how Dylan knew nothing and was stomping all over the folk tradition with muddy work boots makes for mighty embarrassing reading today. Which is why this is the most enjoyable part of this lumpy, bumpy, really-not-very-well-written-at-all biography-cum-memoir. Shelton knew Dylan like Dick Cavett knew Groucho and does not let us forget that fact for a moment, which nearly sinks the book in a sea of pretentious tedium. He also commits the most unforgiveable sin for a Dylan purist, or even a casual fan: HE GETS THE TITLE OF HIS MOST ICONIC MOVIE WRONG, spelling it "Don't Look Back" - when the filmmaker purposely left out the apostrophe. It is on every poster, in every review, and in the film itself, which makes you wonder if he even watched it.

But the sycophantic Shelton DOES provide us with, very likely, the last remaining documentation of one of the most stupid-ass periods in folk music history. Nobody else kept any of those shitty old copies of Sing Out! anyway, did they? But like back issues of TV guide piling up in an old boomer's attic, Shelton kept every issue and obsessively quotes from them for the book's entire 573 pages.

So I transcribed some of the juicier bits, which reflect just how CLUELESS these folkie pundits were, how stodgily encrusted their beliefs, and what a freaking strait-jacket they wanted to put Dylan in, probably because he scared the hell out of them:

Since 1950, when the folk audience was small, Sing Out!, under editor Irwin Silber, had laid down the "correct line" on folk song. Trumpeted by these men, the folk aesthetic denounced show business and mass culture, and advocated that Leftist, humanist views always be reflected in folk song. Deviation from belief in "art as a weapon in the social and class struggle" meant a sellout to commercial forces. Small wonder that Dylan's freewheeling exploration was apostasy.

Silber's "Open Letter to Bob Dylan", published in Sing Out! in November 1964, was particularly sharp: "I saw at Newport how you had somehow lost contact with people. . . some of the paraphernalia of fame were getting in your way." Dylan was outraged that Silber was telling him in public how to write and behave. Why didn't he telephone or write a personal letter? Silber was just using him to sell his magazine.

In September 1965, singer Ewan MacColl scourged Dylan again in Sing Out!:
“. . . our traditional songs and ballads are the creations of extraordinarily talented artists, working inside disciplines formulated over time. . . the present crop of contemporary American songs has been made by writers who are either unaware or incapable of working inside the disciplines, or are at pains to destroy them. ‘But what of Bobby Dylan?’ scream the outraged teenagers of all ages. . . a youth of mediocre talent. Only a completely non-critical audience, nourished on the watery pap of pop music, could have fallen for such tenth-rate drivel. ‘But the poetry?’ What poetry? The cultivated illiteracy of his topical songs or the embarrassing fourth-grade schoolboy attempts at free verse? The latter reminds me of elderly female schoolteachers clad in Greek tunics rolling hoops across lawns at weekend theatre school. . .”

Izzy Young’s Sing Out! column for November 1965: “Dylan has settled for a liaison with the music trade’s Top-Forty Hit Parade. . . the charts require him to write rock-and-roll and he does. . . Next year, he’ll be writing rhythm and blues songs. . . the Polish polka will make it, and then he’ll write them, too. . .”

Animosity reached its high-water mark in the Sing Out! of January 1966. Tom Paxton lashed out in a column headed “Folk Rot” “. . . it isn’t folk, and if Dylan hadn’t led, fed and bred it, no one would ever have dreamed of confusing it with folk music.” Josh Dunson complained: “There is more protest and guts in one minute of good ‘race music’ than in two hours of folk-rock. . .”

May I say at this point that Josh, Tom, Izzy, Ewan and Irwin are so full of shit they are overflowing, and can in fact "sit on this and rotate" through all eternity. Most of them are dead now anyway, and weren`t particularly alive even while they were walking the planet. Meantime, 80-year-old Dylan lounges on the porch with his dogs on his property in Key West, sipping a glass of Heaven`s Door whiskey and quietly working on the lyrics for his next album.

CODA. Yes, Dylan DID answer his critics. The song is legendary enough that anyone remotely a fan of Dylan will know it. But I want to say it for him again, this time DIRECTLY to "that other Bob", Robert Shelton, and all the hangers-on as well as the detractors who wound up being SO WRONG about the whole thing, and dissed a man who would later go on to win the Nobel Prize while they sat around turning into alcoholic wanna-be/has-beens-who-never-were in some dingy 4th Street bar.

Positively 4th Street

You've got a lotta nerve to say you are my friend
When I was down you just stood there grinnin'
You've got a lotta nerve to say you got a helping hand to lend
You just want to be on the side that's winnin'

You say I let you down, you know it’s not like that
If you're so hurt, why then don't you show it?
You say you've lost your faith, but that's not where it’s at
You have no faith to lose, and you know it

I know the reason that you talked behind my back
I used to be among the crowd you're in with
Do you take me for such a fool, to think I'd make contact
With the one who tries to hide what he don't know to begin with?

You see me on the street, you always act surprised
You say "how are you?", "good luck", but you don't mean it
When you know as well as me, you'd rather see me paralyzed
Why don't you just come out once and scream it

No, I do not feel that good when I see the heartbreaks you embrace
If I was a master thief perhaps I'd rob them
And now I know you're dissatisfied with your position and your place
Don't you understand, it’s not my problem?

I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes
And just for that one moment I could be you
Yes, I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes
You'd know what a drag it is to see you

Bob Dylan

 

💙 A River that Sings 💙

          

Just Like Dylan's Mr. Jones

Ballad Of A Thin Man

You walk into the room with your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked and you say, "Who is that man?"
You try so hard but you don't understand
Just what you will say when you get home
Because something is happening here but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?

You raise up your head and you ask, "Is this where it is?"
And somebody points to you and says, "It's his"
And you say, "What's mine?" and somebody else says, "Well, what is?"
And you say, "Oh my God, am I here all alone?"
But something is happening and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?

You hand in your ticket and you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you when he hears you speak
And says, "How does it feel to be such a freak?"
And you say, "Impossible!" as he hands you a bone
And something is happening here but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?

You have many contacts among the lumberjacks
To get you facts when someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect, anyway they already expect you to all give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations

Ah, you've been with the professors and they've all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have discussed lepers and crooks
You've been through all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books
You're very well-read, it's well-known
But something is happening here and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?

Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you and then he kneels
He crosses himself and then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice, he asks you how it feels
And he says, "Here is your throat back, thanks for the loan"
And you know something is happening but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?

Now, you see this one-eyed midget shouting the word "Now"
And you say, "For what reason?" and he says, "How"
And you say, "What does this mean?" and he screams back, "You're a cow!
Give me some milk or else go home"
And you know something's happening but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?

Well, you walk into the room like a camel, and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket and your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law against you comin' around
You should be made to wear earphones
'Cause something is happening and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?

I've wanted to write a commentary on this song for so long, it's hard for me to even remember. Even when I first heard it, when I was maybe 15 years old and stoned out of my mind on alcohol and hashish, I found it kept pushing me away even as it dragged me into its dark and dysphoric core. Its effect is that magnetic, and that frightening. Maybe it can't even be analyzed, but since it's been haunting me so much lately, I will give it a try.

People have debated endlessly about who Mr. Jones is, whether it's Albert Grossman (the manager who boosted Dylan's fame, then took him for a ride that didn't end until the 1980s, when Dylan found out he'd  been swindling him for years), or the journalists who kept asking him lame questions like "Why don't you write protest songs any more?", or the "over-30s" who were then seen as the enemy (Dylan was, after all, only 24 when he recorded this dire masterpiece) - or - or - 

I've always believed, almost from first listening, that this song is autobiographical. It's an attempt to capture the chaotic nightmare he found himself trapped in, bizarrely self-created by an almost grotesque level of fame, the kind that eats people raw.  Dylan by this time looked terrible, was underweight, pale as a ghost, smelled bad (according to the many bios I've read, he's not much of a bather), had hair like a wild bird's nest, didn't eat, slept even less, and was fuelled mainly by cocaine, LSD and speed. The famed "motorcycle accident" that brought this hell to a screeching halt may well have been a planned exit from a lifestyle that was sucking him down into a hellish vortex. Had he continued, he might not even had made it to age 27, when so many rock legends were cruelly harvested.

I don't need to say that Dylan is one of the great minds of our time, but the fact that he squeaked through this drug-soaked period, dragged down by sycophants and hangers-on, attests to both his inner strength and the stable, happy childhood that launched his confoundingly unique artist's life. Say what else you will about him, Dylan is a family man, and it is this solid foundation that has kept him from flying off the edge of the world, both then and now. 

Of all the songs in this particularly fruitful period, when his creativity was in constant overdrive, this one gets closest to expressing the horrifying dystopia he found himself in: the queasy shifting and lurching of reality, the draining and soul-sucking parasitic "relationships" which he knew were false and phony (and LORD how Bob Dylan hates a phony!), and the dissolving of a real sense of self, a lapsing of identity which must be the most frightening experience there is. It is a hollowing-out, a stealing of one's humanity, and Mr. Jones is enmeshed in it, with no idea who, what or where he is at any given moment. Or how to get out.

You raise up your head and you ask, "Is this where it is?"
And somebody points to you and says, "It's his"
And you say, "What's mine?" and somebody else says, "Where what is?"
And you say, "Oh my God, am I here all alone?"
But something is happening and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?

It isn't just the words, which are harrowing enough, but the delivery, which is so full of pain that it's hard to listen to now that I hear Dylan so differently. I'm noticing aspects of his voice in listening to pristine re-released/cleaned-up recordings on a quality headset in the middle of the night, especially when I've had a wee nip of cannabis oil (purely medicinal, but my how it brings those songs into focus). People would complain he was a lousy singer, but particularly at this time in his career, when he was riding out on the far fringes of existence, his voice is so raw that it grabs you where you don't even know you live.

This isn't just dada or nonsense or surrealism or anything else that can be labelled. This is writing on the level of T. S. Eliot's The Wasteland, brought up to date for 1965. Dylan lays heavy on the keyboard on this one - I can tell it's him because he's not a very sophisticated pianist, but wrings the guts out of it anyway, each chord reverberating with a sense of  doom. 

I still haven't gotten it, have I? How can you begin to analyze a song that contains the lines, "You put your eyes in your pocket and your nose on the ground"? This is why I kept not writing about it, though I have analyzed the hell out of Desolation Row and a few others. If Ballad of a Thin Man (and Dylan was practically transparent at this point) were a painting, it would be by Hieronymus Bosch, dismembered human body parts crazily rearranged and reality disassembled and shot all to shit.

I still find it hard to listen to, and that moan at the end seems almost like a last gasp. We know it isn't true, that right at this moment he's probably lounging in one of his many mansions (he owns property all over the world, and why shouldn't he? Who has worked harder to attain what he has and who he is?), coming up to his eightieth birthday, maybe hanging out with some of his family (and at this point we know he has at least six kids and multiple grandkids) - the genius has come full circle and is now living comfortably with people who love him. 

But the shadow remains. This man's eyes are haunted, incandescent with knowledge of things we probably were never supposed to know. The realm of genius is lonely, and at such high altitude the air is rarefied and very thin. He came in with this near-freakish gift, I'm convinced, will go out with it, and never chose it. He has no idea where the songs come from, but knows it's his duty to write them down, work them through, refine them and give them back to the world.