|
|||||
| Hey boys and girls and freak show loving geeks of all ages! The increased traffic in front of my house can only mean two things: One, that the men in white coats will be a bit delayed in taking me away; and two that it is State Fair time. Fair time means many different things to different people. For some it is about mini donuts, cheese curds and all the milk you can drink. For others it's about half priced rides before noon. Still others see it as a traditional rite of passage- the end of summer. For Mr. Max it is the freak out booming artillery sound of fireworks every night at ten. Me? I'm just a little teapot, short and stout. Here is my handle here is my spout. When I get all steamed up hear me shout. Just tip me over and pour me out. | |||||
| I heard a very beautiful soul sing this familiar song to her niece this past week and as is her ever admirable ability- she put her own voice to the ditty. My oh my. I was reminded of the response I was formulating in my head to the challenge issued in last week's newsletter (at least I took it as a challenge- maybe it is just my growing paranoia) by Jan, one of our best writers. Said writer said in her fine article, "Controversy is the grit of all good gun fights... so I'm going to start one now: Vic Chesnutt is as good a lyricist as Bob Dylan on a good day..." I have a lot of secrets from you people but I don't exactly think I've kept hidden my respect of Mr. Dylan's abilities and work. And despite to me that obviously deliberate provocative statement, I can't even begin to counter argue. First because I'm not familiar enough with Mr. Chesnutt's work, but more importantly because I don't consider Mr. Dylan's true skills to be in his lyric writing. Sure his use of words is unique in the rock world but his real ability, as I see it, is in his ability to perform his songs in such a truly inscrutable and evocative manner unlike any other. | |||||
| The beauty of Bob's writing isn't so much his skill at writing language that is masterful in its imagery. Most of his songs do not pinpoint a specific feeling; rather his skill is in writing songs with remarkable elasticity. He writes organic songs that change and grow depending on where he is at when he is performing the song, where his listener is at, and the space between that is ever changing. | |||||
| So I'm sitting here enjoying the perfect end of summer CD, Bob's Hard Rain, the live 1976 compilation of the soundtrack to an NBC TV special recorded at Fort Collins, Colorado. The CD is a wonderful snapshot of the end of Bob's Rolling Thunder Revue, his attempt at an early non-gender Lilith Fair. | |||||
| Things were not going well for Mr. Dylan at the time of this recording. His marriage was nearing an end. The idea of the Revue, a constantly touring minstrel show featuring whatever artists were in the area and available, never took off as he wanted. He was feuding with both the TV network and his record label who wanted him to deliver their pre-conceived notion of what a Bob Dylan product should be. The forecast for the day of the taping called for rain all day. Adding to the tension, his wife showed up in the audience at the last moment. So what does he do amongst the incredible tension and chaos? He pulls out all stops and offers a truly remarkable concert. | |||||
| The CD opens with one of his most defiant cries of independence and freedom, a searing definitive version of Maggie's Farm. "I wake up in the morning fold my hands and pray for rain. I've got a head full of ideas driving me insane. It's a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor... OHHH I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm NO MORE..." The song segues into an extremely angry and anguished version of One Too Many Mornings where he improvises the lyrics, "I've no right to be here, if you've no right to stay. We're both one too many mornings and a MILLION miles away..." Scanning those words, they don't make a lot of sense. But when you hear him sing them, the howl of his voice makes it crystal clear what is in his broken heart. The resigned version of Lay Lady Lay one of his sexiest songs, rips up any expected notion of what the song is about- romance. "Let's take a chance who really cares?" | |||||
| The penultimate performance however is on Shelter from the Storm, which in its original "Blood on the Tracks" version is a gentle and loving ballad, a tribute to a woman who was kind enough to take the singer in during a period of personal turbulence and helped nurse him back to health. This is a near punk like performance seething in anger and hurt. Dylan shouts out the words as if each one strips down more of the walls, each one wounds both the singer and the listener. The band races the singer toward the end. "Not a word was spoke between us, there was no risk involved. Everything up to the point had been left unresolved. Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm. 'Come in,' she said I'll give ya shelter from the storm..." It is a bitter, resentful, sorry she even cared, man singing these once tender words. | |||||
| The whole thing comes off as a one off, yet true to form performance that proves the man is unmatched in his use of language of the heart. | |||||