We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
I had best post this live performance today, before it's taken down from YouTube. It's a rare performance, from last week, of his What Good Am I?, from his 1989 Oh Mercy! album.
What honest human has never asked himself such questions?
What good am I, if I'm like all the rest If I just turn away when I see how you're dressed If I shut myself off so I can't hear you cry What good am I ?
What good am I if I know and don't do If I see and don't say, if I look right through you If I turn a deaf ear to the thunderin' sky What good am I ?
What good am I while you softly weep And I hear in my head what you say in your sleep And I freeze in the moment like the rest who don't try What good am I ?
What good am I then to others and me If I had every chance and yet still fail to see If my hands are tied must I not wonder within Who tied them and why and where must I have been.
What good am I if I say foolish things And I laugh in the face of what sorrow brings And I just turn my back while you silently die What good am I ?
This is in Linz (home of the Linzer torte, and a place I will visit in August). That is Bob noodling on the organ.
Tight Connection to My Heart (Has Anybody Seen My Love?), from Empire Burlesque, 1985
Sample of the lyrics:
Well, they're not showing any lights tonight And there's no moon There's just a hot-blooded singer Singing 'Memphis in June' And they're beating the devil out of a guy Who's wearing a powder-blue wig Later he'll be shot For resisting arrest I can still hear his voice crying In the wilderness What looks large from a distance Close up ain't never that big.
I never could learn to drink that blood And call it wine I never could learn to hold you, love And call you mine.
Sony has been pulling all of the Bob YouTubes they can find, but I found an interesting (outtake?) of Tell Ol' Bill (with different lyrics) which I can link but cannot embed.
For those who feel that they do not have enough Bob Dylan in their lives, there is always Dylan Radio. All Dylan, all the time. A bit of an overdose, in my opinion. They never mix it up with any Schubert concertos.
It brought to mind an interview with the late great Lena Horne which Mark Simone replayed on the radio the other day. She was saying that she approached a song as a short play, and that she focused on telling the story more than on the music. She said she talked the song-story before she ever added the music. Simone told Horne that Sinatra had once told him something similar; that he wanted to distinguish himself from other singers by making the the words more important to him than the tune or the notes. He disparaged other pop singers as note-hitters wedded to the tune, rather than good story-tellers. Of course, Horne and Sinatra could do both.
You obviously cannot compare Dylan's singing to those two masters, but you can compare his phrasing, word-handling, and story-telling to anybody's. Plus he writes his songs himself. Writing a good song that sticks to the soul is lots tougher than writing a good poem - which is plenty tough itself.
But I don't know what I am talking about...I truly do not.
Is Bob Dylan a musical thief? Of course he is, to some extent. So what?
Sheesh, most singers don't even write the songs they sing.
Mrs. BD told me that Martha Graham said "If you're going to steal, steal from the best."
I remember flying home on Aer Lingus one time, listening to the Irish music. I thought to myself, "Damn. That's the tune of Boots of Spanish Leather. Where did Dylan hear that?" He's a human jukebox. Not the Second Coming, but a darned interesting jukebox, and he has gone the distance.
Smart, perceptive, and eccentric too, with or without a rhyming dictionary. He adds a "special sauce," as they say on Wall St.
I cannot find Bob's haunting solo version from his record, so I'll post a less impressive live version from '95.
The lyrics:
Oh, the gentlemen are talking and the midnight moon is on the riverside They're drinking up and walking and it is time for me to slide I live in another world where life and death are memorized Where the earth is strung with lover's pearls and all I see are dark eyes.
A cock is crowing far away and another soldier's deep in prayer Some mother's child has gone astray, she can't find him anywhere But I can hear another drum beating for the dead that rise Whom nature's beast fears as they come and all I see are dark eyes.
They tell me to be discreet for all intended purposes They tell me revenge is sweet and from where they stand, I'm sure it is But I feel nothing for their game, where beauty goes unrecognized All I feel is heat and flame, and all I see are dark eyes.
Oh, the French girl, she's in paradise and a drunken man is at the wheel Hunger pays a heavy prize to the falling gods of speed and steel Oh, time is short and the days are sweet and passion rules the arrow that flies A million faces at my feet but all I see are dark eyes.
It goes against against my instinct, judgement, taste, and sense of proportion to do a Christmas post before Thanksgiving, but I couldn't resist this bizarro Dylan offering. (All money from Dylan's Christmas record goes to charity.)
Remain strange and unpredictable, Bob. We like you that way. This is a good Minnesota Polka:
A friend of mine was on the set for that 1973 movie, Pat Garret and Billy the Kid. He asked somebody who the weird, silent guy on the set was with his head covered with a sweatshirt hood or a hat, always sitting under a tree with a guitar. He was told "Oh, that's Bob Dylan." My friend, a Dylan fan, decided to leave the guy alone because he did not exactly appear to welcome interaction.
The first live performance of "Billy," March 2009. I like the age in this old voice:
Several views of the Bob Dylan Christmas album at Walking. I think Bob just does what he feels like doing, with a healthily quirky, inner-directed take it or leave it attitude. But I might be wrong.
In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed There's a dying voice within me reaching out somewhere Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair.
Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break In the fury of the moment I can see the master's hand In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand.
Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer The sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay.
I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame And every time I pass that way I always hear my name Then onward in my journey I come to understand That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand.
I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.
I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other time it's only me I am hanging in the balance of the reality of man Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.
The horny, raunchy but appreciative Going to Acapulco, from the 1967 practice Basement Tapes with The Band (which were never meant to be publicly heard). Lyrics here, but he doesn't always stick to the lyrics - Dylan often invents new ones as he sings.
All profits from this record will go to charity. While I understand Dylan's respect for Christmas - and for the Great American Songbook in general, I'm not sure about this (h/t, Right Wing Bob, who has posted a bit about this record):
"Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an' worse An' for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing."
It's a heck of a line-up, but, still, Bob does it best alone. For you youngsters, this song was Bob's Goodbye to "causes," and his Hello to the heart and soul. McGuinn's guitar dominates.
'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form. "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."
And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured I'll always do my best for her, on that I give my word In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm. "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."
Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved Everything up to that point had been left unresolved. Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm. "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."
Here's a good version from the 1976 Rolling Thunder tour:
Dylan questioned by cops in NJ. Yes, the Jersey shore. Police said they had a report of "a stranger wandering around and looking into a vacant house in a rainstorm." Yup, that would be Bob. The mystery tramp.
Note that he did not say "Don't you know who I am?"
Oh, help me in my weakness I heard the drifter say As they carried him from the courtroom And were taking him away "My trip hasn't been a pleasant one And my time it isn't long And I still do not know What it was that I've done wrong.
Well, the judge he cast his robe aside A tear came to his eye "You failed to understand", he said "Why must you even try ?" Outside the crowd was stirring You could hear it from the door Inside the judge was stepping down While the jury cried for more.
"Oh, stop that cursed jury" Cried the attendant and the nurse "The trial was bad enough But this is ten times worse" Just then a bolt of lightning Struck the courthouse out of shape And while ev'rybody knelt to pray The drifter did escape.
Best version I've heard of the song, except for maybe the one Bob and Jerry did together. This from the mid-90s, no video.
I don't think we posted this already, but maybe we did. This interview was with MTV producer Bill Flanagan in anticipation of the release of Dylan's Together Through Life in April.
Bob is a smart man and always interesting, especially when discussing music.
BD: Well, no, not really. I'm coming out of the folk music tradition and that's the vernacular and archetypal aesthetic that I've experienced. Those are the dynamics of it. I couldn't have written songs for the Brill Building if I tried. Whatever passes for pop music, I couldn't do it then and I can't do it now.
BF:Does that mean you create outsider art? Do you think of yourself as a cult figure?
BD: A cult figure, that's got religious connotations. It sounds cliquish and clannish. People have different emotional levels. Especially when you're young. Back then I guess most of my influences could be thought of as eccentric. Mass media had no overwhelming reach so I was drawn to the traveling performers passing through. The side show performers - bluegrass singers, the black cowboy with chaps and a lariat doing rope tricks. Miss Europe, Quasimodo, the Bearded Lady, the half-man half-woman, the deformed and the bent, Atlas the Dwarf, the fire-eaters, the teachers and preachers, the blues singers. I remember it like it was yesterday. I got close to some of these people. I learned about dignity from them. Freedom too. Civil rights, human rights. How to stay within yourself. Most others were into the rides like the tilt-a-whirl and the rollercoaster. To me that was the nightmare. All the giddiness. The artificiality of it. The sledge hammer of life. It didn't make sense or seem real. The stuff off the main road was where force of reality was. At least it struck me that way. When I left home those feelings didn't change.
BF: But you've sold over a hundred million records.
High water risin' - risin' night and day All the gold and silver are being stolen away Big Joe Turner lookin' East and West From the dark room of his mind He made it to Kansas City Twelfth Street and Vine Nothing standing there High water everywhere
High water risin', the shacks are slidin' down Folks lose their possessions - folks are leaving town Bertha Mason shook it - broke it Then she hung it on a wall Says, "You'll dance with whom they tell you to Or you don't dance at all." It's tough out there High water everywhere
I got a cravin' love for blazing speed Got a hopped up Mustang Ford Jump into the wagon, love, throw your panties overboard I can write you poems, make a strong man lose his mind I'm no pig without a wig I hope you treat me kind Things are breakin' up out there High water everywhere
High water risin', six inches 'bove my head Coffins droppin' in the street Like balloons made out of lead Water pourin' into Vicksburg, don't know what I'm going to do "Don't reach out for me," she said "Can't you see I'm drownin' too?" It's rough out there High water everywhere
Well, George Lewis told the Englishman, the Italian and the Jew "You can't open your mind, boys To every conceivable point of view." They got Charles Darwin trapped out there on Highway Five Judge says to the High Sheriff, "I want him dead or alive Either one, I don't care." High Water everywhere
The Cuckoo is a pretty bird, she warbles as she flies I'm preachin' the Word of God I'm puttin' out your eyes I asked Fat Nancy for something to eat, she said, "Take it off the shelf - As great as you are man, You'll never be greater than yourself." I told her I didn't really care High water everywhere
I'm getting' up in the morning - I believe I'll dust my broom Keeping away from the women I'm givin' 'em lots of room Thunder rolling over Clarksdale, everything is looking blue I just can't be happy, love Unless you're happy too It's bad out there High water everywhere
The song is from 2001. This is London, April 26, 2009:
Sony has been pulling all of the Bob YouTubes they can find, but I found an interesting (outtake?) of Tell Ol' Bill (with different lyrics) which 
Is Bob Dylan a musical thief? Of course he is, to some extent. So what? 
Story 
The Dylanologist and I used to joke about the notion of a Bob Dylan Christmas album.
A soulful traditional song (lyrics 