Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Dylan of the Week, Mk. 14
So much good music right now! New Dylan record is a very solid effort. New Wilco album sounding very mature and interesting. And Radiohead is in the studio! But, without further ado...
Bob Dylan
“Farewell, Angelina”
The Bootleg Series, Vols. 1-3 - 1965
So, this is it. The best Dylan song. Which means its in contention for the best song ever written. Okeh, maybe not the best but at least my favorite. And its discarded from Freewheelin'?! Who made that decision? Listen to the way he sings with such deliberation. Like Tambourine Man, but less druggy and with more clarity. His images are ecstatic and apocalyptic, working more for guidance than substance. He conveys the feeling – we construct the story. Why am I writing about this? This is the type of shit that makes you waltz with yourself in a room in Minneapolis. The heat is unbearable, but the body keeps moving. “What cannot be imitated perfect must die” “Machine guns are roaring / Puppets heave rocks” I will break the surface and it will be delicious. This is my reverie. This is my heart and my stomach. So ridiculous. Does anyone else hear severe hope and it's denial? The table is empty, but its next to a stream. His strings fake ecstasy. His voice, old before its time, moves like the cherubim. Who needs drugs when you've got these fingers? “Call me any name you like / I will never deny it” This sky spoken of is too many things, just like her. Just like me. Too wonderful for speech. Too superior. Too good to me. I need a parrot to speak for me.
Bob Dylan
“Farewell, Angelina”
The Bootleg Series, Vols. 1-3 - 1965
So, this is it. The best Dylan song. Which means its in contention for the best song ever written. Okeh, maybe not the best but at least my favorite. And its discarded from Freewheelin'?! Who made that decision? Listen to the way he sings with such deliberation. Like Tambourine Man, but less druggy and with more clarity. His images are ecstatic and apocalyptic, working more for guidance than substance. He conveys the feeling – we construct the story. Why am I writing about this? This is the type of shit that makes you waltz with yourself in a room in Minneapolis. The heat is unbearable, but the body keeps moving. “What cannot be imitated perfect must die” “Machine guns are roaring / Puppets heave rocks” I will break the surface and it will be delicious. This is my reverie. This is my heart and my stomach. So ridiculous. Does anyone else hear severe hope and it's denial? The table is empty, but its next to a stream. His strings fake ecstasy. His voice, old before its time, moves like the cherubim. Who needs drugs when you've got these fingers? “Call me any name you like / I will never deny it” This sky spoken of is too many things, just like her. Just like me. Too wonderful for speech. Too superior. Too good to me. I need a parrot to speak for me.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Dylan of the Week, Mk. 13
“When I Paint my Masterpiece”
Bob Dylan
Greatest Hits Vol. II, Disc 2 – 1976?
Well the streets aren't lined with rubble no more. “I've got carte blanch!” There's nothing except blank psychological states. Drums held under arms walking down the streets of NYC. Staring despondently out the window at a snow covered field. “Dodging lions and wasting time”. But here it comes – the smooth shit! The hot shit! The shit! Summation of experience will one day yield something. The mundane divined! Is there anything else we can do? This isn't realism, this is euphoria. (Unless you confuse the two.) Break me in, Botticelli. Smother me in unwanted history, Brussels. Gladiotors, caesars, and kings of the jungle be damned (included) - “Someday everything will be smooth like a rhapsody”.
This is a song about hope coming from a place of sadness. Good coming out of Evil? Where else is it supposed to come from? If you believe in anything, you better be listening.
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