First thoughts on Bob Dylan’s ‘Chronicles’.

I just read ‘Chronicles’, part 1 of 3 in the memoirs of Bob Dylan. Read it in about 3 days, too fast to truly retain much, I had an understanding with myself that I would have to revisit the book soon, maybe even immediately after finishing to soak it all in and lock his verbiage in the back of my head. I wanted to document my thoughts here before I read it again, before the immediate excitement wears off…

It was captivating, Dylan’s attention to detail and his poetic nuances made the stories come alive and jump off the page. He must kept amazing  journals along the way, no way could I remember a what the shape and make of a rug on the floor 30+ years removed was. Never thought I’d want to, I’d like to nowadays. Because it puts you in the story, in the room with him with no heat, home-made furniture, wood-floors, you can see it all with pristine detail. His perception of  a simple brush of air after meeting his future girlfriend is something that puts you in his shoes, puts his feelings on you. Everybody knows that breeze, it could be the dead of winter and if for the right girl could warm you like June night  in the Caribbean.

His stories are inspiring, mainly his  belief that ‘something’ would happen. He never really knew how it would all fall into place, he just started at the end and worked his way to it. That’s what all the new-age guru’s and preachers tell you too. I believe ’em, I just believe Bob more. He’s more authentic and has no reason to lie to me.

I found it endearing, his admiration for Woody Guthrie. I had gathered Bob was influenced by the late folk-singer/renaissance man I didn’t know how truly consumed Dylan was. He said he played and listened to nothing but Woody for a long while, even started dressing like him. Dylan even felt like the torch was being passed to him through the records, he knew he had to pick up where Woody left off – and he did. Surpassed everybody, including the Ramblin’ Jacks and Joan Baez’s of the world who early on were thought of as untouchable. Dylan understands that he had a destiny, maybe not sure of what it was, but understood he was living one out. It’s admirable and inspiring, leaves a good taste on your soul.

If you are a real out n’ out Dylan-Head than he gives a lot of new twists on major parts of his life to wrestle with, he also gives you the opportunity to seek out new writers and artists that he was digging at various periods of his life. Now that I know more about what he was listening to and who his contemporaries were, Dylan’s earlier records take on new shapes to my ears, as if they are now more capable of comprehension. It”ll be cut as apart of the fabric of my life, a sanctified anthology.

Memphis Blues, Again. (Touring with Michale Graves, Part 1)

Newark, NJ; flying into Memphis, Tennessee, spring 2010. There was a feeling of accomplishment before we even left the terminal to board our plane, pride in the fact that we were flying, that felt like the big time to me. We’d get to Memphis later in the day and spend 2 weeks in the south doing some club dates, Michale was doing his solo-acoustic thing and that was fine by me. No hassles, no politics, lighter load. This whole trip was in contrast  to the first time I went out with him. That dubious first run was dubbed the PUNK ROCK IS DEAD TOUR, a clever euphemism…which seemed to go over the heads of almost his entire audience. The tour reminded me of Bob Dylan’s last tour of Europe as solo-folk musician…giving the audience a virtual farewell of the songs the way they wanted to hear them…but not, necessarily how the artist is wanting to play them. Songs age and become relics, anchors, heavy and a nuisance. The audience wants them to played as they first heard them. They don’t grow, they don’t feel the need for growth, scares ’em too much. Life is change – they want songs to stay the same, consistency, mediocrity is easier to swallow. Truth is songs shift, they say “a rolling stone grows no moss”, well, maybe but songs do. They are rolling’ and tumblin’ down the hills and valleys of life and through the decade[s], they get muddled and stale. If not in the hands of a intelligent and artistic Captain, well the ship could be run right onto the shore. A true artist, can decipher when the proverbial ‘well has run dry’ and can then make arrangements to correct it. Bob made them, Michale did too and unlike before the audience was ready and receptive to his new sound. 

Oh, so we are at Newark International Airport. Once we touch down we would drive a few 100 miles and meet up with Rick Dunsford, and his wife Ashley once we got over near Tupelo. Rick is somebody who embodies the American spirit, he’s a pioneer. I’m serious. He had a vision, he set goals, he achieved them. When we first met him he was keeping punk shows together with duct-tape and now he was putting on major festivals and getting national attention for it. He was always good for laughs and good places to eat, this time wouldn’t be any different. He and his wife were expecting a baby, Michale had a baby too, really puts life in perspective. Time stands still on the road but at home it goes by a million miles an hour.

My head was throbbing from the pressure of the cabin for hours after the plane touched down in Memphis. It made me wanna cry, hurt that bad. Nuthin’ a joint wouldn’t cure…I think.  It was the dawn of spring time in the south, we were on the ground and moving toward Tupelo (birth place of Elvis by the way). That feeling that only the Highwaymen can call ‘theirs’ was once again ours. The smell of freshly-smuggled marijuana burning in our car which had floor mats that read no-uncertain verbiage “NO SMOKING“, the white-tinge of the hot Tennessee highway careening beneath our wheels. Instantly in work-mode, perspectives adjusted with the rear-views. Simple as that.

Party times in Birmingham Town.

My first act of tour was to try and play some Dylan to set the mood, some late-bluesy stuff. Maybe ‘Love and Theft’. I didn’t make it a secret that I was trying to turn Michale onto some deeper stuff that Dylan had done.  I wanted to plant some seeds and see if they’d grow, widen his palette further – that’s what a good friend should do anyway. I always saw parallels and thought Michale might dig the scope of Bob’s work. We didn’t have an ipod cable though, scrap that…mother fuckers.

I liked Mike playing acoustic, actually I’d prefer it over the stuff he does in ‘band’ format. Just how I matured, how I started to tune in. Mike’s got a good voice, a great voice actually and it out to be clear, precise, center of attention. Shouldn’t have to fight over guitars or drums or anything like that, waste of time for these songs. His playing slows people down, makes ’em think, it’s like xanex for the ears. He’s saying a lot, playing simply, singing like a soul on fire. It’s hard not to pay attention, you’d have to make an effort.

Michale had wanted to play in the south and I knew why, it just feels different, You know you are in the presence of ghosts, melodic ones, ya kinda hope they’ll rub up against ya and give you some kind of paranormal music ability. Michale was talking about moving down there, talking about politics. I was starting to get what he was talking about, slowing down, living a simpler way of life. Right Wing politics preaches that way of life, that’s what I get from it. Black & white,  good & evil, hard work, pulling yourself up by your boot straps. Like the old days, I could get in on that way of thinking. This trip would cement it…

Part 2 coming soon!

My Ramblin’ Jack Elliott post.

Ramblin’ Jack is, by my account one of the coolest men ever to walk this earth. Forget Sean Connery, James Dean, hell forget Elvis. None of them have the miles or the cool that Jack Elliott had, and actually maintains at his age of 75. What is so cool about Jack is that he in an authentic flat pickin’, cowboy hat wearin’, talks with a certain drawl cowboy. But he didn’t start out that way, he started out in New York City. A jewish boy from Brooklyn who ran a way from home and joined the rodeo and became somebody different. Simple as that. He learned how to play from the one and only, Woody Guthrie. He even taught Woody’s son Arlo how to play guitar after Woody had passed away.

Jack’s music roots are deep and he sings a bluesy, Woody-esq style of song. It’s roots music, it’s real. It’s stories – and as much as the stories in the song are important, so is Jack’s banter in between songs. ‘Ramblin Jack is named that not as a result of his vast travels, but rather the way the rambles on story after story. Those stories though, are almost always interesting and entertaining and you get the feeling when your watching him play that your learning really important parts of not just Jack’s history – but America’s. He was a big influence on Bob Dylan and that alone should get him the Nobel Peace Prize.

To sum up why I look up to Ramblin’ Jack Elliott so much is because he is a person, who knew his lot in life didn’t have to be what was in front of him. He got out, he traveled, he gambled on his ‘future’ and made the most of what he had. All of us should be more like Jack, willing to for go the easy life for the good life.

Johnny Cash said of Jack that he has a song and a friend for every mile he traveled. I think that is the nicest damn thing that could be said about anyone.

Here is one of my favorites from Jack, Driving Nails in My Coffin:

Can you please crawl out your window?

For all of the bad Dylan covers on youtube (and there are MANY), there are quite a few gems to be found. Here is one of those gems; Sean Nelson, who from what I gather was in the middle of a Blonde on Blonde set and threw this version of ‘Can you please crawl out your window?’ as a break in the set.

Their version has really got some feelin’ to it. His band makes this a rock n” roll song with some real energy behind it. The guitar player is playing what I think is a Les Paul Jr. which is what Johnny Thunders played. This guy has some of Johnny’s moves – bet he’s a fan.

Sean Nelson has a striking resemblance to the man of the same name who sings for Harvey Danger. I checked out the Harvey Danger Sean Nelson’s wikipedia page and found no mention of him being in a Bob Dylan cover band though. Who ever this guy is, kudos. To whomever posted the youtube video…add some info!

Milk crates of wax & potential.

Record collecting excites me. It let’s me know that I’m alive. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s truth! I liken it to meditation – I am completely in the moment and aware when I’m russlin’ through bargain bins and milk crates full of wax and potential. It’s very Zen. On good days I have an almost sixth sense, and yes; you know the feeling. It’s the ‘let me just look through this bin, there might be some ______ in there’-feeling.

Some of my fondest memories involves getting a new piece of music, the details of the day always etch themselves into my lobe’. I can tell you that I was in Jacksonville, FL in 2002 when I got Social Distortion’s Prison Bound, on that day I saw the tribute to Johnny Thunders on CD and passed it up – blunder. it was Alabama in 2007 that I got Dylan’s Infidels, we played a record store and the owner gave it to me – wish I could thank him again! I could even tell you the weather on those days. Days of great music are integral parts of my back story.

For a few years though I didn’t have any music in my life that excited me, the stuff that I was into Danzig, Misfits – they rarely released anything new, and when they did I couldn’t relate to it. I started to need more out of songs, some depth, some story. My taste has matured, but my passion for collecting is younger than it’s ever been.

I’ve been discovering some really great stuff from the 60’s and 70’s and it has me feeling a lot more like I used to (young). I’ got the passion again! I’m on the prowl now, always looking for Nilsson or Dylan, maybe even a Donovan LP. Music is new to me again, via stuff that was put out way before I was born. That is magical, if you ask me

So here is my first attempt at documenting these soul-searching trips…hope you enjoy!

Black Friday. I have to pick up my check in the center of town, here we go. Got in the car, put the stereo on, took a whack off the bowl and headed downtown at a relaxed speed. Get my check, hit the bank up, onto the record store. Yeah this is more like it, more like me – it’s been awhile since I came to the record store prepared to spend some real money. I scour the vinyl section and grab some real finds. David Johansen’s Sweet Revenge is there, $2 for a record I’ve never heard. I put it under my left arm and continue on. David Jo again! His debut lp Here comes the Night, I’ve heard it via mp3 – but not like this. It’s a $1, under my arm it goes. I’m a sucker for anything New York Dolls related, David Johansen can be kind of hit or miss with his solo stuff. Sometimes I really dig the contemporary 80’s feel and sometimes the dated sound is just too much for me to handle. When I got home I spun Sweet Revenge and didn’t really hear anything earth-shattering. It’ll most likely grow on me – love the dudes voice.

I reach the new release records, I’d been eye-balling this 180 gram edition of Bob Dylans Christmas in the Heart for weeks. today IS my day, LIVE TO WIN. I head to the counter where my limited edition Times They Are A Changin’ 45rpm single waits. It’s RED vinyl. Times… is taken from the Witmark Demo’s and sounds AWESOME on vinyl. The b-side is Like A Rolling Stone from the newly remastered mono collections. Mono is awesome. Music makes me feel good.

Happy Thanksgiving

This Thanksgiving is all about relaxing, regrouping. Also about gettin’ that sweet potato pie.I’m at a pretty pivotal point in my life, about to really start going towards a career, getting things in order – the ducks in a row if you will.

Dylan has been an integral part of my new found motivation. His music, his life, his spirituality – it’s all had such a profound influence on me this year. I admire his intelligence, his will to create, to think and grow. It seems his whole life has been spent in motion, something I can relate to a great deal. I just never had the ambition Dylan had, not till’ lately anyway.

My mind has been able to settle with how I see the world, the music I hear, my clothes, it all has locked in with each other. No more conflict. Thankful, for that too.

Oh, by the way – I scored a copy of this new Springsteen record, The Promise. From what I’ve gathered it’s a collection of b-sides – but I never would have known that if I didn’t read about it. The songs are…perfect and they flow together, if they are from different decades I am none the wiser. This is a perfect album. I’ve had it playing while I write this – gonna have to go out and pick this one up…it’s that good.

Make everyday about thanks and giving, live life.

Visions of Johanna; Bob Dylan circa 2000

I really dig this version, done in the latter years of Bob’s career. His voice has matured, or been blown out – depends on your perspective. I prefer matured, I dig the sound, the texture of how he now sings. His limitations lend for interesting renditions of those back-catalog numbers we are so familiar with.

Here is ‘Visions of Johanna’ – watch Bob widdle away at the guitar and croon this song home. I dig how after a good run through on a lead he does a little cocky head move that reminds me of Johnny Thunders, although it’s more likely John got it from Bob. The lyric: “…Little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously…” has always stuck out for me. A reminder that we in effect are only what we are perceived to be…ya dig?

Anyway’s enjoy. I’m getting up early to hit up a flea market, on a hunt for some Dylan vinyl. My collection as it stands now is quite weak; only Infidels & Hard Rain respectively.

This means a lot to me; Last Thoughts on Woody

Dylan was asked to write about Woody for a book that was coming out, he was asked to put his response in 25 words or less – this is what he wrote.

The power of this poem is not completely in Bob’s admiration for Woody Guthrie but is shared with the philosophy of Guthrie’s songs themselves. A never say quit kind of attitude in the face of monster adversity. Dylan captured that with this:

Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie – By Bob Dylan

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think you’re too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin’ behind an’ losin’ yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life’s busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin’ up
If the wine don’t come to the top of yer cup
If the wind’s got you sideways with with one hand holdin’ on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood’s easy findin’ but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin’ and the street gets too long
And you start walkin’ backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow’s mornin’ seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin’
And yer rope is a-slidin’ ’cause yer hands are a-drippin’
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe’s a-pourin’
And the lightnin’s a-flashing and the thunder’s a-crashin’
And the windows are rattlin’ and breakin’ and the roof tops a-shakin’
And yer whole world’s a-slammin’ and bangin’
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
“I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn’t they tell me the day I was born”
And you start gettin’ chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you’re lookin’ for somethin’ you ain’t quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world’s a-watchin’ with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she’s long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they’re fryin’
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell’s bangin’ loudly but you can’t hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes’ve turned filthy from the sight-blindin’ dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an’ fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin’ three queens
And it’s makin you mad, it’s makin’ you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin’ around a pinball machine
And there’s something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin’
But it’s trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin’ in bed
And no matter how you try you just can’t say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion’s mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you’d never taken that last detour sign
And you say to yourself just what am I doin’
On this road I’m walkin’, on this trail I’m turnin’
On this curve I’m hanging
On this pathway I’m strolling, in the space I’m taking
In this air I’m inhaling
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I’m playing, on this banjo I’m frailin’
On this mandolin I’m strummin’, in the song I’m singin’
In the tune I’m hummin’, in the words I’m writin’
In the words that I’m thinkin’
In this ocean of hours I’m all the time drinkin’
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know why they’re around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
“Cause sometimes you hear’em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin’
And you can’t remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that it’s something special you’re needin’
And you know that there’s no drug that’ll do for the healin’
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding
And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin’ train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That’s been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don’t bar no race
That won’t laugh at yer looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin’ long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it’s you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you’re sitting
That the world ain’t got you beat
That it ain’t got you licked
It can’t get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked
You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope’s just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner ’round a wide-angled curve

But that’s what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good
“Cause you look an’ you start getting the chills

“Cause you can’t find it on a dollar bill
And it ain’t on Macy’s window sill
And it ain’t on no rich kid’s road map
And it ain’t in no fat kid’s fraternity house
And it ain’t made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain’t on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it’s funny
No you can’t find it in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain’t in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you’re bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain’t a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain’t in the rumors people’re tellin’ you
And it ain’t in the pimple-lotion people are sellin’ you
And it ain’t in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star’s blouse
And you can’t find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can’t tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain’t in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain’t in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain’t in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin’ and tappin’ in Christmas wrappin’
Sayin’ ain’t I pretty and ain’t I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can’t even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No you’ll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache¥
And inside it the people made of molasses
That every other day buy a new pair of sunglasses
And it ain’t in the fifty-star generals and flipped-out phonies
Who’d turn yuh in for a tenth of a penny
Who breathe and burp and bend and crack
And before you can count from one to ten
Do it all over again but this time behind yer back
My friend
The ones that wheel and deal and whirl and twirl
And play games with each other in their sand-box world
And you can’t find it either in the no-talent fools
That run around gallant
And make all rules for the ones that got talent
And it ain’t in the ones that ain’t got any talent but think they do
And think they’re foolin’ you
The ones who jump on the wagon
Just for a while ’cause they know it’s in style
To get their kicks, get out of it quick
And make all kinds of money and chicks
And you yell to yourself and you throw down yer hat
Sayin’, “Christ do I gotta be like that
Ain’t there no one here that knows where I’m at
Ain’t there no one here that knows how I feel
Good God Almighty
THAT STUFF AIN’T REAL”

No but that ain’t yer game, it ain’t even yer race
You can’t hear yer name, you can’t see yer face
You gotta look some other place
And where do you look for this hope that yer seekin’
Where do you look for this lamp that’s a-burnin’
Where do you look for this oil well gushin’
Where do you look for this candle that’s glowin’
Where do you look for this hope that you know is there
And out there somewhere
And your feet can only walk down two kinds of roads
Your eyes can only look through two kinds of windows
Your nose can only smell two kinds of hallways
You can touch and twist
And turn two kinds of doorknobs
You can either go to the church of your choice
Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital
You’ll find God in the church of your choice
You’ll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital

And though it’s only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You’ll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
At sundown

 
Woody Guthrie

 

Talkin’ Leavin Town Blues

Sat down with a cup of coffee and the first Bob Dyan LP, his song  ‘Talkin New York’ really inspired me to sit and write my own talkin’ blues.

I’ve been back in this rural Pennsylvania town for about 6 long months now and I really feel the itch to move on. As I sort out finances and career options I am for the most part, alone – something that provides inspiration and a touch of the grey skies…if you catch my meaning.

Pretty basic, one of my first foray’s in the folky sort of beat/blues word arrangements. The ‘genre’ proved to be a good outlet for me, after learning about Dylan and artists Woody Guthrie would write songs – often using a familiar, traditional melody with subtle or not so subtle changes.  I don’t feel so bad about borrowing a melody…that’s what American music is all about.

Talkin’ leavin town blues

I’m ready to move to Philladelphia town
Gotta a bunch of problems where I’m bound

Fixin’ to leave this town today
Got about a 100 miles in my way
I’ll dream n’ think, scrap n’ save
Do everything not to stay,

not one more day, no I am ready
Gonna leave this town today.

I got the message I read it clear,
Nobody wants my face around here

Yeah I got it, it’s time to go

My old lover, well she used to tell me
with her head peekin outta the covers
‘Just do it now, n not tomorrow’
So I slammed the door, don’t know how
It was hard, man I loved her
Don’t look back
Got no time for that

When I think about walkin on the southern street
It gets me smilin, I git’ warm in the feet
God I love it, gotta sing about it

Got a few days or months or a year
before I can get the hell outta here
All that time, well I can spend it wise
my days are numbered here, that ain’t no lie.