Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Bob Dylan: "Just Suck Your Glasses"*
No Direction Home reminded me of how much & why I loved Bob Dylan when he was a young rocker. There was no one in rock & roll comparable, or quite as beautiful, in 1965 & 66. I was in high school. I didn't care about Dylan the folk protest singer, I was just a bit too young for him to matter. Had I been a few years older, I'm certain I would've enjoyed that manifestation also. Dylan was telling the truth when he said to his disappointed critics, "They're all protest songs. "
Young Dylan clearly loved working with a band behind him. He was the leader & frontman, it was his band, his songs, he had the spotlight, yet it all sounded so loosely collaborative. It comes across even on the Nashville studio Blonde On Blonde recordings. The live performances are a treasure. This was magic of the highest order. Only a handful of artists & records of all the many thousands I have heard reach that lofty a category. Allen Ginsberg accurately called him a shaman, describing a "column of air" completely focused on breath.
Even as I became uninterested in Bob's later recordings, he held on to my respect. Music traveled on & so did I. Whether or not he wanted to put all of himself into it again was his business & his decision. I assumed he was doing what he was moved to do. Nor did I expect him to explain himself in whatever way it was people kept demanding from him. Because, naively perhaps, I've always thought of him as a friend I met as a teenager. He spoke to me, it wasn't necessary that he also speak for me. I write my own words. The cypher qualities of his art & personality didn't put me off, & they still don't. They didn't put off Martin Scorsese, either.
Fine old poets are uncommon. Poets go crazy. They commit various forms of suicide. They find they prefer growing roses in the backyard. They get paid for showing up somewhere at a certain time & everyone applauds. They become prosaic reactionaries trying to pass themselves off as honest journalists. One can hardly bring oneself to blame them. A few poets keep working at it right to the end.
* Photographer's request for a pose.
Steven Hart takes a balanced look at the documentary at Salon.com
Young Dylan clearly loved working with a band behind him. He was the leader & frontman, it was his band, his songs, he had the spotlight, yet it all sounded so loosely collaborative. It comes across even on the Nashville studio Blonde On Blonde recordings. The live performances are a treasure. This was magic of the highest order. Only a handful of artists & records of all the many thousands I have heard reach that lofty a category. Allen Ginsberg accurately called him a shaman, describing a "column of air" completely focused on breath.
Even as I became uninterested in Bob's later recordings, he held on to my respect. Music traveled on & so did I. Whether or not he wanted to put all of himself into it again was his business & his decision. I assumed he was doing what he was moved to do. Nor did I expect him to explain himself in whatever way it was people kept demanding from him. Because, naively perhaps, I've always thought of him as a friend I met as a teenager. He spoke to me, it wasn't necessary that he also speak for me. I write my own words. The cypher qualities of his art & personality didn't put me off, & they still don't. They didn't put off Martin Scorsese, either.
Fine old poets are uncommon. Poets go crazy. They commit various forms of suicide. They find they prefer growing roses in the backyard. They get paid for showing up somewhere at a certain time & everyone applauds. They become prosaic reactionaries trying to pass themselves off as honest journalists. One can hardly bring oneself to blame them. A few poets keep working at it right to the end.
* Photographer's request for a pose.
Steven Hart takes a balanced look at the documentary at Salon.com
Labels: music
Comments:
<< Home
"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." Thomas Jefferson
The only living artist who ever inspired an almost cultic devotion from me (not counting the artist I lived with at the time) was a poet. Fortunately, he wasn't leading a cult. He wasn't even a famous poet, although many more prominent poets listened to him. He taught me a lot about the uses, usefulness, & dangers of masks.
"Who was that masked man?" Oh, that was the President of the United States disguised as a fighter pilot declaring victory in Iraq.
"Who was that masked man?" Oh, that was the President of the United States disguised as a fighter pilot declaring victory in Iraq.
Shop at your favorite stores 24 hours a day. Why go to the mall when you can shop online and avoid the traffic
Post a Comment
# posted by 
: 4:19 AM
: 4:19 AM<< Home
