For Bob Dylan *“Tangled Up In Blue”- Up Close And Personal With Bob Dylan’s “Blood On The Tracks” Album-The Trans-Atlantic View

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Bob Dylan performing "Tangled Up In Blue' From The 'Blood On The Tracks" Album.

DVD Review

Bob Dylan: Changing Tracks, Edgehill, 2006

Most of the review below was used in a review of the film documentary “Bob Dylan:1966-1978: After The Crash”, which covers much of the same material, as background, to an up close and personal discussion among Trans-Atlantic professionals music critics about what is, perhaps, Bob Dylan’s master work “Blood On The Tracks”. There should be no question that the lushness and profuseness of the lyrics of more than a dozen songs presented under one album cover may be unequaled in music history. Maybe something of the Beatles, maybe of the Stones or that one of Elvis’ in 1956 but not much else is even in the competition:

“Okay, okay I have gone on and one over the past year or so about the influence of Bob Dylan’s music (and lyrics) on me, and on my generation, the Generation of ’68. But, please, don’t blame me. Blame Bob. After all he could very easily have gone into retirement and enjoyed the fallout from his youthful fame and impressed one and all at his local AARP chapter. But, no, he had to go out on the road continuously, seemingly forever, keeping his name and music front and center. Moreover, the son of a gun has done more reinventions of himself than one could shake a stick at (folk troubadour, symbolic poet in the manner of Rimbaud and Verlaine, heavy metal rocker, blues man, etc.) So, WE are left with forty or so years of work to go through to try to sort it out. In short, can I (or anyone else) help it if he is restless and acts, well, …. like a rolling stone?”

Frankly, I have covered so much Bob Dylan material, early, middle and late, over the past year I am beginning to feel like the guy interviewed in the “After The Crash” DVD who made something of a ‘journalistic’ career (if also a nuisance) of going through Dylan’s garbage to see if he could find the “Rosetta Stone” to decode the meaning of his lyrics. Whew! At least I am not that bad off. I “merely” write reviews of what, as is the case here, Trans-Atlantic (meaning from the British Isles and their environs) professional music reviewers think Dylan was up to and his place in the folk/rock/pop pantheons.

I will just quickly run through the main points that are presented here as the “talking heads’ who dominate this documentary are fully capable of taking you through the technical/musical/cultural/personal highlights of this lyrically beautiful and poetically dense album from a very productive period in Dylan’ career. The center of the documentary revolves around a serious discussion of the first song “Tangled Up In Blue”, its meaning in Dylan ‘s personal life (he was having marital difficulties), his movement away from the starkness of some of his earlier American roots roots-oriented music ("John Wesley Harding") and his desire to develop a “concept” album heading back to a more folk/rock look than some of his just previous work. Additional highlights center on the bittersweet” Idiot Wind” and the ambivalent “Shelter From The Storm”. Less time is spent on my favorite, “If You See Her, Say Hello’ and my now up and coming favorite (after I heard Dave Van Ronk do a version) “Buckets Of Rain”. If you have to chose though between this one hour presentation and the other two hour, “After The Crash”, DVD mentioned above go for the latter, it is more complete story of this period in Dylan’s musical evolution.


"Tangled up in Blue"

Early one mornin the sun was shinin,
I was layin in bed
Wondrin if shed changed at all
If her hair was still red.
Her folks they said our lives together
Sure was gonna be rough
They never did like mamas homemade dress
Papas bankbook wasnt big enough.
And I was standin on the side of the road
Rain fallin on my shoes

Heading out for the east coast
Lord knows Ive paid some dues gettin through,
Tangled up in blue.

She was married when we first met
Soon to be divorced
I helped her out of a jam, I guess,
But I used a little too much force.
We drove that car as far as we could
Abandoned it out west
Split up on a dark sad night
Both agreeing it was best.
She turned around to look at me
As I was walkin away
I heard her say over my shoulder,
Well meet again someday on the avenue,
Tangled up in blue.

I had a job in the great north woods
Working as a cook for a spell
But I never did like it all that much
And one day the ax just fell.
So I drifted down to new orleans
Where I happened to be employed
Workin for a while on a fishin boat
Right outside of delacroix.
But all the while I was alone
The past was close behind,
I seen a lot of women
But she never escaped my mind, and I just grew
Tangled up in blue.

She was workin in a topless place
And I stopped in for a beer,
I just kept lookin at the side of her face
In the spotlight so clear.
And later on as the crowd thinned out
Is just about to do the same,
She was standing there in back of my chair
Said to me, dont I know your name?
I muttered somethin underneath my breath,
She studied the lines on my face.
I must admit I felt a little uneasy
When she bent down to tie the laces of my shoe,
Tangled up in blue.

She lit a burner on the stove and offered me a pipe
I thought youd never say hello, she said
You look like the silent type.
Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an italian poet
From the thirteenth century.
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burnin coal
Pourin off of every page
Like it was written in my soul from me to you,
Tangled up in blue.

I lived with them on montague street
In a basement down the stairs,
There was music in the cafes at night
And revolution in the air.
Then he started into dealing with slaves
And something inside of him died.
She had to sell everything she owned
And froze up inside.
And when finally the bottom fell out
I became withdrawn,
The only thing I knew how to do
Was to keep on keepin on like a bird that flew,
Tangled up in blue.

So now Im goin back again,
I got to get to her somehow.
All the people we used to know
Theyre an illusion to me now.
Some are mathematicians
Some are carpenters wives.
Dont know how it all got started,
I dont know what theyre doin with their lives.
But me, Im still on the road
Headin for another joint
We always did feel the same,
We just saw it from a different point of view,
Tangled up in blue.

Once Again Haunted By The Question Of Questions-Who Represented The “Voice” Of The Generation Of ’68 When The Deal Went Down-And No It Was Not One Richard Millstone, Oops, Milhous Nixon

By Seth Garth

I have been haunted recently by various references to events in the early 1960s brought to mind by either seeing or hearing those references. First came one out of the blue when I was in Washington, D.C. on other business and I popped in as is my wont to the National Gallery of Art to get an “art bump” after fighting the dearies at the tail-end of the conference that I was attending. I usually enter on the 7^th Street entrance to see what they have new on display on the Ground Floor exhibition areas. This time there was a small exhibit concerning the victims of Birmingham Sunday, 1963 the murder by bombing of a well-known black freedom church in that town and the death of four innocent young black girls and injuries to others. The show itself was a “what if” by a photographer who presented photos of what those young people might have looked like had they not had their precious lives stolen from them by some racist KKK-drenched bastards who never really did get the justice they deserved. The catch here, the impact on me, was these murders and another very disturbing viewing on television at the time, in black and white, of the Birmingham police unleashing dogs, firing water hoses and using the ubiquitous police billy-clubs to beat down on peaceful mostly black youth protesting against the pervasive Mister James Crow system which deprived them of their civil rights.

Those events galvanized me into action from seemingly out of nowhere. At the time I was in high school, in an all-white high school in my growing up town of North Adamsville south of Boston. (That “all white” no mistake despite the nearness to urban Boston since a recent look at the yearbook for my class showed exactly zero blacks out of a class of 515. The nearest we got to a black person was a young immigrant from Lebanon who was a Christian though and was not particularly dark. She, to my surprise, had been a cheer-leader and well-liked). I should also confess, for those who don’t know not having read about a dozen articles  I have done over the past few years in this space, that my “corner boys,” the Irish mostly with a sprinkling of Italians reflecting the two major ethic groups in the town I hung around with then never could figure out why I was so concerned about black people down South when we were living hand to mouth up North. (The vagaries of time have softened some things among them for example nobody uses the “n” word which needs no explanation which was the “term of art” in reference to black people then to not prettify what this crowd was about.)

In many ways I think I only survived by the good graces of Scribe who everybody deferred to on social matters. Not for any heroic purpose but because Scribe was the key to intelligence about what girls were interested in what guys, who was “going” steady, etc. a human grapevine who nobody crossed without suffering exile. What was “heroic” if that can be used in this context was that as a result of those Birmingham images back then I travelled over to the NAACP office on Massachusetts Avenue in Boston to offer my meager services in the civil rights struggle and headed south to deadly North Carolina one summer on a voting drive. I was scared but that was that. My guys never knew that was where I went until many years later long after we had all gotten a better gripe via the U.S. Army and other situations on the question of race and were amazed that I had done that.         

The other recent occurrence that has added fuel to the fire was a segment on NPR’s Morning Edition where they deal with aspects of what amounts to the American Songbook. The segment dealt with the generational influence of folk-singer songwriter Bob Dylan’s The Times They Are A-Changin’ as an anthem for our generation (and its revival of late in newer social movements like the kids getting serious about gun control). No question for those who came of political age early in the 1960s before all hell broke loose this was a definitive summing up song for those of us who were seeking what Bobby Kennedy would later quoting a line of poetry from Alfred Lord Tennyson call “seeking a newer world.” In one song was summed up what we thought about obtuse indifferent authority figures, the status quo, our clueless parents, the social struggles that were defining us and a certain hurried-ness to get to wherever we thought we were going.

I mentioned in that previous commentary that given his subsequent trajectory while Bob Dylan may have wanted to be the reincarnation Plus of Woody Guthrie (which by his long life he can rightly claim) whether he wanted to be, could be, the voice of the Generation of ’68 was problematic. What drove me, is driving me a little crazy is who or what some fifty plus years after all the explosions represented the best of what we had started out to achieve (and were essentially militarily defeated by the ensuing reaction before we could achieve most of it) in those lonely high school halls and college dormitories staying up late at night worrying about the world and our place in the sun.

For a long time, probably far longer than was sensible I believed that it was somebody like Jim Morrison, shaman-like leader of the Doors, who came out of the West Coast winds and headed to our heads in the East. Not Dylan, although he was harbinger of what was to come later in the decade as rock reassembled itself in new garb after some vanilla music hiatus but somebody who embodied the new sensibility that Dylan had unleashed. The real nut though was that I, and not me alone, and not my communal brethren alone either, was the idea that we possessed again probably way past it use by date was that “music was the revolution” by that meaning nothing but the general lifestyle changes through the decade so that the combination of “dropping out” of nine to five society, dope in its many manifestations, kindnesses, good thought and the rapidly evolving music would carry us over the finish line. Guys like Josh Breslin and the late Pete Markin, hard political guys as well as rabid music lovers and dopers, used to laugh at me when I even mentioned that I was held in that sway especially when ebb tide of the counter-cultural movement hit in Nixon times and the bastinado was as likely to be our home as the new Garden. Still Jim Morrison as the “new man” (new human in today speak) made a lot of sense to me although when he fell down like many others to the lure of the dope I started reappraising some of my ideas -worried about that bastinado fate.  

So I’ll be damned right now if I could tell you that we had such a voice, and maybe that was the problem, or a problem which has left us some fifty years later without a good answer. Which only means for others to chime in with their thoughts on this matter.         

For Bob Dylan -Bringing It All Back Home, Indeed- Bob Dylan’s Later Work -"Time Out Of Mind"

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip (Actually A Very Interesting Series Of Still Photos) Of Bob Dylan Doing "Highlands".

CD Review

Time Out Of Mind, Bob Dylan, Columbia Records, 1997

The first paragraph of this review has been used to review other later Bob Dylan CDs.

Okay, okay I have gone on and one over the past year or so about the influence of Bob Dylan’s music (and lyrics) on me, and on my generation, the Generation of ’68. But, please, don’t blame me. Blame Bob. After all he could very easily have gone into retirement and enjoyed the fallout from his youthful fame and impressed one and all at his local AARP chapter. But, no, he had to go out on the road continuously, seemingly forever, keeping his name and music front and center. Moreover, the son of a gun has done more reinventions of himself than one could shake a stick at (folk troubadour, symbolic poet in the manner of Rimbaud and Verlaine, heavy metal rocker, blues man, etc.) So, WE are left with forty or so years of work to go through to try to sort it out. In short, can I (or anyone else) help it if he is restless and acts, well, ….like a rolling stone?

All of this is by way of introduction to the latest group of CDs from the vaults of one Bob Dylan’s vast repertoire of musical interests. I note that there is a touch of going back, way back, and a life times’ summing up driving the music. I also note the increased emphasis on the music that influenced him early on in his rise to fame and many tips of the hat to the so-called American Songbook that he seemingly knows by heart. While we are all familiar with the various periodizations of the Dylan musical trajectory- folk troubadour a la Woody Guthrie, hard rockster, semi-Christian evangelical, old vaudeville showman and sentimental (for him) songster it is good to see him return ever more to his beginnings. “Bringing It All Back Home”, “Blonde On Blonde” and “Blood On The Tracks” will probably be his monuments in the folk/rock/pop pantheons but some of the late work, especially some of the covers of the early blues men like Skip James and Blind Willie McTell will endure as well.

Stick outs here include; "Love Sick', a pathos-filled (excuse the expression) homage to a life time of 'gone wrong' love; the ode to aging children "Trying To Get To Heaven": and, the "Desolation Row" long, highly poetic "Highlands". This is a darkly beautiful aging Dylan album. So what else is new, right?

Once Again Haunted By The Question Of Questions-Who Represented The “Voice” Of The Generation Of ’68 When The Deal Went Down-And No It Was Not One Richard Millstone, Oops, Milhous Nixon

By Seth Garth

I have been haunted recently by various references to events in the early 1960s brought to mind by either seeing or hearing those references. First came one out of the blue when I was in Washington, D.C. on other business and I popped in as is my wont to the National Gallery of Art to get an “art bump” after fighting the dearies at the tail-end of the conference that I was attending. I usually enter on the 7^th Street entrance to see what they have new on display on the Ground Floor exhibition areas. This time there was a small exhibit concerning the victims of Birmingham Sunday, 1963 the murder by bombing of a well-known black freedom church in that town and the death of four innocent young black girls and injuries to others. The show itself was a “what if” by a photographer who presented photos of what those young people might have looked like had they not had their precious lives stolen from them by some racist KKK-drenched bastards who never really did get the justice they deserved. The catch here, the impact on me, was these murders and another very disturbing viewing on television at the time, in black and white, of the Birmingham police unleashing dogs, firing water hoses and using the ubiquitous police billy-clubs to beat down on peaceful mostly black youth protesting against the pervasive Mister James Crow system which deprived them of their civil rights.

Those events galvanized me into action from seemingly out of nowhere. At the time I was in high school, in an all-white high school in my growing up town of North Adamsville south of Boston. (That “all white” no mistake despite the nearness to urban Boston since a recent look at the yearbook for my class showed exactly zero blacks out of a class of 515. The nearest we got to a black person was a young immigrant from Lebanon who was a Christian though and was not particularly dark. She, to my surprise, had been a cheer-leader and well-liked). I should also confess, for those who don’t know not having read about a dozen articles  I have done over the past few years in this space, that my “corner boys,” the Irish mostly with a sprinkling of Italians reflecting the two major ethic groups in the town I hung around with then never could figure out why I was so concerned about black people down South when we were living hand to mouth up North. (The vagaries of time have softened some things among them for example nobody uses the “n” word which needs no explanation which was the “term of art” in reference to black people then to not prettify what this crowd was about.)

In many ways I think I only survived by the good graces of Scribe who everybody deferred to on social matters. Not for any heroic purpose but because Scribe was the key to intelligence about what girls were interested in what guys, who was “going” steady, etc. a human grapevine who nobody crossed without suffering exile. What was “heroic” if that can be used in this context was that as a result of those Birmingham images back then I travelled over to the NAACP office on Massachusetts Avenue in Boston to offer my meager services in the civil rights struggle and headed south to deadly North Carolina one summer on a voting drive. I was scared but that was that. My guys never knew that was where I went until many years later long after we had all gotten a better gripe via the U.S. Army and other situations on the question of race and were amazed that I had done that.         

The other recent occurrence that has added fuel to the fire was a segment on NPR’s Morning Edition where they deal with aspects of what amounts to the American Songbook. The segment dealt with the generational influence of folk-singer songwriter Bob Dylan’s The Times They Are A-Changin’ as an anthem for our generation (and its revival of late in newer social movements like the kids getting serious about gun control). No question for those who came of political age early in the 1960s before all hell broke loose this was a definitive summing up song for those of us who were seeking what Bobby Kennedy would later quoting a line of poetry from Alfred Lord Tennyson call “seeking a newer world.” In one song was summed up what we thought about obtuse indifferent authority figures, the status quo, our clueless parents, the social struggles that were defining us and a certain hurried-ness to get to wherever we thought we were going.

I mentioned in that previous commentary that given his subsequent trajectory while Bob Dylan may have wanted to be the reincarnation Plus of Woody Guthrie (which by his long life he can rightly claim) whether he wanted to be, could be, the voice of the Generation of ’68 was problematic. What drove me, is driving me a little crazy is who or what some fifty plus years after all the explosions represented the best of what we had started out to achieve (and were essentially militarily defeated by the ensuing reaction before we could achieve most of it) in those lonely high school halls and college dormitories staying up late at night worrying about the world and our place in the sun.

For a long time, probably far longer than was sensible I believed that it was somebody like Jim Morrison, shaman-like leader of the Doors, who came out of the West Coast winds and headed to our heads in the East. Not Dylan, although he was harbinger of what was to come later in the decade as rock reassembled itself in new garb after some vanilla music hiatus but somebody who embodied the new sensibility that Dylan had unleashed. The real nut though was that I, and not me alone, and not my communal brethren alone either, was the idea that we possessed again probably way past it use by date was that “music was the revolution” by that meaning nothing but the general lifestyle changes through the decade so that the combination of “dropping out” of nine to five society, dope in its many manifestations, kindnesses, good thought and the rapidly evolving music would carry us over the finish line. Guys like Josh Breslin and the late Pete Markin, hard political guys as well as rabid music lovers and dopers, used to laugh at me when I even mentioned that I was held in that sway especially when ebb tide of the counter-cultural movement hit in Nixon times and the bastinado was as likely to be our home as the new Garden. Still Jim Morrison as the “new man” (new human in today speak) made a lot of sense to me although when he fell down like many others to the lure of the dope I started reappraising some of my ideas -worried about that bastinado fate.  

So I’ll be damned right now if I could tell you that we had such a voice, and maybe that was the problem, or a problem which has left us some fifty years later without a good answer. Which only means for others to chime in with their thoughts on this matter.         

For Bob Dylan *One More For The Aficionados- The Soundtrack From "No Direction Home"

Click On Title To Link To YouTube"s Film Clip Of Bob Dylan Performing The Classic Symbolist Effort "Desolation Row".

One More For The Aficionados

Bob Dylan: The Bootleg Series, Volume 7 (2CD set), soundtrack to “No Direction Home”, Bob Dylan and others, Columbia Records, 2005.

I have spilled no little ink on the question of the value of various bootleg products, genuine basement tapes, fake basement tapes, etc. that have come out of over the years detailing the career of the premier folk troubadour of his times, Bob Dylan. The core of my argument is that if you have limited cash resources, time or energy (or, heaven forbid, aren't all that into him) then getting copies of his earlier albums rather than some of the more esoteric compilations is the way to go. That said, I recently touted the virtues of Volumes 1-3 (in one set) of this bootleg series for those with a little extra money to spend. While the current bootleg volume, the soundtrack to "No Direction Home", is certainly historically important it does not measure up in importance to the previously mentioned set. If you have to make a choice here get the DVD rather than the CD.

Of course the problem with the DVD is that, as with most documentaries the music is incidental so that while you get a feel for the music of early Dylan, only occasionally do you get to see a clip that runs through the whole song. Thus, if the DVD whets your appetite to hear more then you need to decide on getting the early albums or this CD. So it will really depend on whether you are an aficionado or not. However, for those who already have the early albums this is a pleasant addition to the collection. Plenty of alternate versions of classics like "Desolation Row", "Visions Of Johanna", "Just Like Tom Thumbs Blues", "Masters Of War", and some early things that round out the CD and DVD like an early tribute to Woody Guthrie's "This Land Is Your Land" and a very early Dylan song "I Got Troubles". What is not to like, right?

The Times They Are A-Changin'

Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone.
If your time to you
Is worth savin'
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'.

Come writers and critics
Who prophesize with your pen
And keep your eyes wide
The chance won't come again
And don't speak too soon
For the wheel's still in spin
And there's no tellin' who
That it's namin'.
For the loser now
Will be later to win
For the times they are a-changin'.

Come senators, congressmen
Please heed the call
Don't stand in the doorway
Don't block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There's a battle outside
And it is ragin'.
It'll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin'.

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.

The line it is drawn
The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is
Rapidly fadin'.
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'.

Copyright ©1963; renewed 1991 Special Rider Music

Blowin' In The Wind

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many years can a mountain exist
Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Copyright ©1962; renewed 1990 Special Rider Music


Like A Rolling Stone

Once upon a time you dressed so fine
You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you?
People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall"
You thought they were all kiddin' you
You used to laugh about
Everybody that was hangin' out
Now you don't talk so loud
Now you don't seem so proud
About having to be scrounging for your next meal.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

You've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street
And now you find out you're gonna have to get used to it
You said you'd never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but now you realize
He's not selling any alibis
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes
And ask him do you want to make a deal?

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns
When they all come down and did tricks for you
You never understood that it ain't no good
You shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you
You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat
Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat
Ain't it hard when you discover that
He really wasn't where it's at
After he took from you everything he could steal.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people
They're drinkin', thinkin' that they got it made
Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things
But you'd better lift your diamond ring, you'd better pawn it babe
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls you, you can't refuse
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

Copyright ©1965; renewed 1993 Special Rider Music

CHIMES OF FREEDOM

Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1964 Warner Bros. Inc
Renewed 1992 Special Rider Music

Far between sundown's finish an' midnight's broken toll
We ducked inside the doorway, thunder crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing
Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight
An' for each an' ev'ry underdog soldier in the night
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

In the city's melted furnace, unexpectedly we watched
With faces hidden while the walls were tightening
As the echo of the wedding bells before the blowin' rain
Dissolved into the bells of the lightning
Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an' forsaked
Tolling for the outcast, burnin' constantly at stake
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail
The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder
That the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze
Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder
Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind
Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind
An' the unpawned painter behind beyond his rightful time
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Through the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales
For the disrobed faceless forms of no position
Tolling for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts
All down in taken-for-granted situations
Tolling for the deaf an' blind, tolling for the mute
Tolling for the mistreated, mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute
For the misdemeanor outlaw, chased an' cheated by pursuit
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Even though a cloud's white curtain in a far-off corner flashed
An' the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An' for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An' we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing.

Starry-eyed an' laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an' we watched with one last look
Spellbound an' swallowed 'til the tolling ended
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.

MASTERS OF WAR

Words and Music by Bob Dylan
1963 Warner Bros. Inc
Renewed 1991 Special Rider Music

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead

Once Again Haunted By The Question Of Questions-Who Represented The “Voice” Of The Generation Of ’68 When The Deal Went Down-And No It Was Not One Richard Millstone, Oops, Milhous Nixon

By Seth Garth

I have been haunted recently by various references to events in the early 1960s brought to mind by either seeing or hearing those references. First came one out of the blue when I was in Washington, D.C. on other business and I popped in as is my wont to the National Gallery of Art to get an “art bump” after fighting the dearies at the tail-end of the conference that I was attending. I usually enter on the 7^th Street entrance to see what they have new on display on the Ground Floor exhibition areas. This time there was a small exhibit concerning the victims of Birmingham Sunday, 1963 the murder by bombing of a well-known black freedom church in that town and the death of four innocent young black girls and injuries to others. The show itself was a “what if” by a photographer who presented photos of what those young people might have looked like had they not had their precious lives stolen from them by some racist KKK-drenched bastards who never really did get the justice they deserved. The catch here, the impact on me, was these murders and another very disturbing viewing on television at the time, in black and white, of the Birmingham police unleashing dogs, firing water hoses and using the ubiquitous police billy-clubs to beat down on peaceful mostly black youth protesting against the pervasive Mister James Crow system which deprived them of their civil rights.

Those events galvanized me into action from seemingly out of nowhere. At the time I was in high school, in an all-white high school in my growing up town of North Adamsville south of Boston. (That “all white” no mistake despite the nearness to urban Boston since a recent look at the yearbook for my class showed exactly zero blacks out of a class of 515. The nearest we got to a black person was a young immigrant from Lebanon who was a Christian though and was not particularly dark. She, to my surprise, had been a cheer-leader and well-liked). I should also confess, for those who don’t know not having read about a dozen articles  I have done over the past few years in this space, that my “corner boys,” the Irish mostly with a sprinkling of Italians reflecting the two major ethic groups in the town I hung around with then never could figure out why I was so concerned about black people down South when we were living hand to mouth up North. (The vagaries of time have softened some things among them for example nobody uses the “n” word which needs no explanation which was the “term of art” in reference to black people then to not prettify what this crowd was about.)

In many ways I think I only survived by the good graces of Scribe who everybody deferred to on social matters. Not for any heroic purpose but because Scribe was the key to intelligence about what girls were interested in what guys, who was “going” steady, etc. a human grapevine who nobody crossed without suffering exile. What was “heroic” if that can be used in this context was that as a result of those Birmingham images back then I travelled over to the NAACP office on Massachusetts Avenue in Boston to offer my meager services in the civil rights struggle and headed south to deadly North Carolina one summer on a voting drive. I was scared but that was that. My guys never knew that was where I went until many years later long after we had all gotten a better gripe via the U.S. Army and other situations on the question of race and were amazed that I had done that.         

The other recent occurrence that has added fuel to the fire was a segment on NPR’s Morning Edition where they deal with aspects of what amounts to the American Songbook. The segment dealt with the generational influence of folk-singer songwriter Bob Dylan’s The Times They Are A-Changin’ as an anthem for our generation (and its revival of late in newer social movements like the kids getting serious about gun control). No question for those who came of political age early in the 1960s before all hell broke loose this was a definitive summing up song for those of us who were seeking what Bobby Kennedy would later quoting a line of poetry from Alfred Lord Tennyson call “seeking a newer world.” In one song was summed up what we thought about obtuse indifferent authority figures, the status quo, our clueless parents, the social struggles that were defining us and a certain hurried-ness to get to wherever we thought we were going.

I mentioned in that previous commentary that given his subsequent trajectory while Bob Dylan may have wanted to be the reincarnation Plus of Woody Guthrie (which by his long life he can rightly claim) whether he wanted to be, could be, the voice of the Generation of ’68 was problematic. What drove me, is driving me a little crazy is who or what some fifty plus years after all the explosions represented the best of what we had started out to achieve (and were essentially militarily defeated by the ensuing reaction before we could achieve most of it) in those lonely high school halls and college dormitories staying up late at night worrying about the world and our place in the sun.

For a long time, probably far longer than was sensible I believed that it was somebody like Jim Morrison, shaman-like leader of the Doors, who came out of the West Coast winds and headed to our heads in the East. Not Dylan, although he was harbinger of what was to come later in the decade as rock reassembled itself in new garb after some vanilla music hiatus but somebody who embodied the new sensibility that Dylan had unleashed. The real nut though was that I, and not me alone, and not my communal brethren alone either, was the idea that we possessed again probably way past it use by date was that “music was the revolution” by that meaning nothing but the general lifestyle changes through the decade so that the combination of “dropping out” of nine to five society, dope in its many manifestations, kindnesses, good thought and the rapidly evolving music would carry us over the finish line. Guys like Josh Breslin and the late Pete Markin, hard political guys as well as rabid music lovers and dopers, used to laugh at me when I even mentioned that I was held in that sway especially when ebb tide of the counter-cultural movement hit in Nixon times and the bastinado was as likely to be our home as the new Garden. Still Jim Morrison as the “new man” (new human in today speak) made a lot of sense to me although when he fell down like many others to the lure of the dope I started reappraising some of my ideas -worried about that bastinado fate.  

So I’ll be damned right now if I could tell you that we had such a voice, and maybe that was the problem, or a problem which has left us some fifty years later without a good answer. Which only means for others to chime in with their thoughts on this matter.         

For Bob Dylan Bringing It All Back Home, Indeed- Bob Dylan’s Later Work- "World Gone Wrong"

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Bob Dylan Covering Blind Willie McTells' "Delia".

Once Again Haunted By The Question Of Questions-Who Represented The “Voice” Of The Generation Of ’68 When The Deal Went Down-And No It Was Not One Richard Millstone, Oops, Milhous Nixon

By Seth Garth

I have been haunted recently by various references to events in the early 1960s brought to mind by either seeing or hearing those references. First came one out of the blue when I was in Washington, D.C. on other business and I popped in as is my wont to the National Gallery of Art to get an “art bump” after fighting the dearies at the tail-end of the conference that I was attending. I usually enter on the 7^th Street entrance to see what they have new on display on the Ground Floor exhibition areas. This time there was a small exhibit concerning the victims of Birmingham Sunday, 1963 the murder by bombing of a well-known black freedom church in that town and the death of four innocent young black girls and injuries to others. The show itself was a “what if” by a photographer who presented photos of what those young people might have looked like had they not had their precious lives stolen from them by some racist KKK-drenched bastards who never really did get the justice they deserved. The catch here, the impact on me, was these murders and another very disturbing viewing on television at the time, in black and white, of the Birmingham police unleashing dogs, firing water hoses and using the ubiquitous police billy-clubs to beat down on peaceful mostly black youth protesting against the pervasive Mister James Crow system which deprived them of their civil rights.

Those events galvanized me into action from seemingly out of nowhere. At the time I was in high school, in an all-white high school in my growing up town of North Adamsville south of Boston. (That “all white” no mistake despite the nearness to urban Boston since a recent look at the yearbook for my class showed exactly zero blacks out of a class of 515. The nearest we got to a black person was a young immigrant from Lebanon who was a Christian though and was not particularly dark. She, to my surprise, had been a cheer-leader and well-liked). I should also confess, for those who don’t know not having read about a dozen articles  I have done over the past few years in this space, that my “corner boys,” the Irish mostly with a sprinkling of Italians reflecting the two major ethic groups in the town I hung around with then never could figure out why I was so concerned about black people down South when we were living hand to mouth up North. (The vagaries of time have softened some things among them for example nobody uses the “n” word which needs no explanation which was the “term of art” in reference to black people then to not prettify what this crowd was about.)

In many ways I think I only survived by the good graces of Scribe who everybody deferred to on social matters. Not for any heroic purpose but because Scribe was the key to intelligence about what girls were interested in what guys, who was “going” steady, etc. a human grapevine who nobody crossed without suffering exile. What was “heroic” if that can be used in this context was that as a result of those Birmingham images back then I travelled over to the NAACP office on Massachusetts Avenue in Boston to offer my meager services in the civil rights struggle and headed south to deadly North Carolina one summer on a voting drive. I was scared but that was that. My guys never knew that was where I went until many years later long after we had all gotten a better gripe via the U.S. Army and other situations on the question of race and were amazed that I had done that.         

The other recent occurrence that has added fuel to the fire was a segment on NPR’s Morning Edition where they deal with aspects of what amounts to the American Songbook. The segment dealt with the generational influence of folk-singer songwriter Bob Dylan’s The Times They Are A-Changin’ as an anthem for our generation (and its revival of late in newer social movements like the kids getting serious about gun control). No question for those who came of political age early in the 1960s before all hell broke loose this was a definitive summing up song for those of us who were seeking what Bobby Kennedy would later quoting a line of poetry from Alfred Lord Tennyson call “seeking a newer world.” In one song was summed up what we thought about obtuse indifferent authority figures, the status quo, our clueless parents, the social struggles that were defining us and a certain hurried-ness to get to wherever we thought we were going.

I mentioned in that previous commentary that given his subsequent trajectory while Bob Dylan may have wanted to be the reincarnation Plus of Woody Guthrie (which by his long life he can rightly claim) whether he wanted to be, could be, the voice of the Generation of ’68 was problematic. What drove me, is driving me a little crazy is who or what some fifty plus years after all the explosions represented the best of what we had started out to achieve (and were essentially militarily defeated by the ensuing reaction before we could achieve most of it) in those lonely high school halls and college dormitories staying up late at night worrying about the world and our place in the sun.

For a long time, probably far longer than was sensible I believed that it was somebody like Jim Morrison, shaman-like leader of the Doors, who came out of the West Coast winds and headed to our heads in the East. Not Dylan, although he was harbinger of what was to come later in the decade as rock reassembled itself in new garb after some vanilla music hiatus but somebody who embodied the new sensibility that Dylan had unleashed. The real nut though was that I, and not me alone, and not my communal brethren alone either, was the idea that we possessed again probably way past it use by date was that “music was the revolution” by that meaning nothing but the general lifestyle changes through the decade so that the combination of “dropping out” of nine to five society, dope in its many manifestations, kindnesses, good thought and the rapidly evolving music would carry us over the finish line. Guys like Josh Breslin and the late Pete Markin, hard political guys as well as rabid music lovers and dopers, used to laugh at me when I even mentioned that I was held in that sway especially when ebb tide of the counter-cultural movement hit in Nixon times and the bastinado was as likely to be our home as the new Garden. Still Jim Morrison as the “new man” (new human in today speak) made a lot of sense to me although when he fell down like many others to the lure of the dope I started reappraising some of my ideas -worried about that bastinado fate.  

So I’ll be damned right now if I could tell you that we had such a voice, and maybe that was the problem, or a problem which has left us some fifty years later without a good answer. Which only means for others to chime in with their thoughts on this matter.         

CD Review

World Gone Wrong, Bob Dylan, Columbia Records, 1993

The first paragraph of this review has been used to review other later Bob Dylan CDs.

Okay, okay I have gone on and one over the past year or so about the influence of Bob Dylan's music (and lyrics) on me, and on my generation, the Generation of '68. But, please, don't blame me. Blame Bob. After all he could very easily have gone into retirement and enjoyed the fallout from his youthful fame and impressed one and all at his local AARP chapter. But, no, he had to go out on the road continuously, seemingly forever, keeping his name and music front and center. Moreover, the son of a gun has done more reinventions of himself than one could shake a stick at (folk troubadour, symbolic poet in the manner of Rimbaud and Verlaine, heavy metal rocker, blues man, etc.) So, WE are left with forty or so years of work to go through to try to sort it out. In short, can I (or anyone else) help it if he is restless and acts, well, ...like a rolling stone?

All of this is by way of introduction to the latest group of CDs from the vaults of one Bob Dylan's vast repertoire of musical interests. I note that there is a touch of going back, way back, and a life time's summing up driving the music in this later work. I also note the increased emphasis on the music that influenced him early on in his rise to fame and many tips of the hat to the various genres that make up the so-called "American Songbook" that he seemingly knows by heart. While we are all familiar with the various periodizations of the Dylan musical trajectory- folk troubadour a la Woody Guthrie, hard rockster, semi-Christian evangelical, old vaudeville showman and sentimental retro (for him) songster it is good to see him return once more to his beginnings. "Bringing It All Back Home", "Blonde On Blonde" and "Blood On The Tracks" will probably be his monuments in the folk/rock/pop pantheons but some of the late work, especially some of the covers of the early blues men like Skip James and Blind Willie McTell will endure as well. Kudos, Bob.

"World Gone Wrong" represents the highest expression in this later work of Dylan's return to his roots as he "merely" rearranges (as he has always done with covers) many old traditional ballads and songs that "spoke" to him in the early 1990's when he was making yet another "endless tour" comeback. Stick outs here include a couple of Mississippi Sheiks tunes ( a group, by the way, that will be reviewed on its own merits separately in this space at a later date). Blind Willie McTell (a seminal influence in the Dylan old days) also rates a cover with "Delia".

Finally, a song (also covered by Hazel Dickens and Alice Gerrard and, I believe, from which Dylan is taking his cover)from back in the depths of time, "Two Soldiers", explores the pathos and futility of war from a personal perspective. I should also note here that Dylan provides a very interesting, if sometimes cryptic, set of liner notes filled with symbolic meanings that a generation of devotees will spend plenty of time trying to decipher. Nice.

*Who Will Keep The Lamp Light Burning? - The Folk Music Of Caroline Herring

Click on title to link to YouTube's film clip of Caroline Herring performing from her "Lantana" CD.

CD Review

Golden Apples Of The Sun, Caroline Herring, Signature Sounds, 2009

Okay, today I am under the influence of the children of the moon. Or is it that this weekend I went to a folk music concert (featuring the jug music of Maria Muldaur of the old time 1960s Jim Kweskin Jug Band and sidekick John Sebastian of The Lovin’ Spoonful) and noticed that the ages of the majority of the patrons could have permitted the session to double up as an AARP meeting. This brings me to the subject at hand. Who will, if anyone, carry on the old folk traditions that we helped revive in the 1960s?

Every musical genre needs its revivalists, or it will merely past out of history. Folk (or, more properly, traditional music) has always had boosts: sometimes from surprising sources like Francis Child and his incessant ballad collecting in the 19th century, the father and son Lomaxes, John and Alan, the father, sons and daughter Seeger, Charles, Pete, Mike and Peggy. They, and others, carried the tradition through to the 1960s (and beyond) but I do not now see, and that concert audience's composition kind of confirmed a long held suspicion of mine, the younger blood that will preserve the tradition.


We know, however, that it will continue as long as people want to make ad hoc music for themselves and their circle. Moreover, that future folk music will, maybe, sound unlikely to our ears. That has always been the case though. Who would have thought that, let’s say, Harry Smith’s “Anthology Of American Folk Music” with its eclectic mishmash of styles and forms like mountain music, gospel, country blues and the like would have the seminal influence that it had on an urban, educated, for the most part upscale and upwardly mobile population that came of age in the 1960s.

That said, I have no answer about whom, or what whirlwind, will ultimately set the new agenda for folk music but I would take time here to point out one candidate whose CD I am reviewing as part of this commentary, Caroline Herring. Her latest CD "Golden Apples Of The Sun” seems to be me to set the right tone for what the future of folk might look like. Obviously it will continue to depend on guitars, fiddles, mandolins and whatever low or high tech instrumental developments come along. But it will, like the revival of the 1960s, depend as well on the mix of old time music with some new, fresh material that will response to the needs of a new audience.

In that sense this CD fits a right balance. Three excellent compositions on this CD “Tale of The Islander”, “The Dozens”, and “Abuelita” (as well as a couple of others) are Ms. Herring’s own work, and influenced by ideas that stem from her experiences and worldview. “See See Rider”, a classic old time tune that I first heard Mississippi John Hurt do back in the days, the much covered mournful ballad “Long Black Veil”, and the poem by William Butler Yeats set to music “Song Of The Wandering Aengus” reflect that tip of the hat to tradition. Of course in this space anyone who has the forethought to set a Yeats poem to music will have me eating out of their hand, no question. But that is a story for another day. What is for today is that this is what the future of folk looks like.

See See Rider Lyrics

Oh see, See See Rider
Girl see, what you've done
Oh, oh, oh See See Rider
See what you've done now
You've gone away and left me,
Lord, now and now the blues have come, oh yes, they do

Oh, well I'm goin', goin' away baby
And I won't be back till fall
Oh yes I am, going away baby
And I won't be back till fall
If I get me a good lookin' woman
No, no, no, I won't be back at all, all right

And I see, See See Rider, I love you, yes I do
And there isn't one thing darlin'
I would not do for you
You know I want you See See
I need you by my side
See See Rider, ough, keep me satisfied

Oh See See Rider, See See Rider, See See Rider
See See Rider, See See Rider, See See Rider
You keep on ridin', keep on riding
Here I come baby, look out, beat it, all right
Don't lose it now, come one, come on, yeah

Here she comes, she's all right,
She's so fine, she's all mine
See See, come on, can we take a ride now, hey

Well, I'm goin, goin' away baby
And I won't be back till fall
Oh yes I'm goin', going away baby
And I won't be back till fall
If I find me a good lookin' woman
No, no, no, I won't be back at all
And that's the truth baby
Listen, I'm going, all right
Somebody told me, somebody told me
I'm Joe Jackson, I'm leavin'
All right, all right, ough!

Happy Birthday-*Tribute Album Potpourri- A Tip Of The Hat To Mississippi John Hurt- "Did You Hear John Hurt?"

Click On Title To Link To YouTube's Film Clip Of Mississippi John Hurt On Pete Seeger's Television Show "Rainbow Quest".

This Is Part Of A Four Artist Tribute Album Potpourri- A Tip Of The Hat To Hank Williams, Mississippi John Hurt, Bob Dylan and Greg Brown.

CD REVIEW

A musical performer knows that he or she has arrived when they have accumulated enough laurels and created enough songs to be worthy, at least in some record producer's eyes, of a tribute album. When they are also alive to accept the accolades as two out of the four of the artists under review are, which in these cases is only proper, that is all to the good. That said, not all tribute albums are created equally. Some are full of star-studded covers, others are filled with lesser lights who have been influenced by the artist that they are paying tribute to. As a general proposition though I find it a fairly rare occurrence, as I have noted in a review of the “Timeless” tribute album to Hank Williams, that the cover artist outdoes the work of the original recording artist. With that point in mind I will give my “skinny” on the cover artists here.


Did You, You Hear John Hurt?

Avalon Blues: A Tribute To The Music Of Mississippi John Hurt, various artists, Vanguard Records, 2001

If one were to ask virtually any fairly established folk music singer in, let’s say 1968, what country blues musician influenced them the most then the subject of this review would win hands down. The list would be long- Dave Van Ronk, Geoff Muldaur, Maria Muldaur, Phil Ochs, Chris Smithers, Joan Baez and on and on. Hell, Tom Paxton wrote a song about him-“Did You Hear John Hurt?” That song still gets airplay on the folk station around where I live.

So what gives? Why the praise? What gives is this- Mississippi John Hurt and his simple country blues were 'discovered' at a time when many young, mainly white urban musicians were looking for roots music. This search is not anything particularly new-John and Alan Lomax went on the hustings in the 1930’s and recorded many of the old country blues artists that were ‘discovered’ in the 1960’s. Hell, you can go back further to the 1920’s and the record companies themselves were sending out agents to scour the country looking for talent- they found the likes of the Carter Family and Blind Willie McTell along the way.

That is the tradition that the artists covering Brother Hurt’s songs are paying homage to in this CD. For the most part these are lesser known artists who, however, provide a sense of what old John was trying to convey in his slow, clear low-down style. Outstanding in that regard are Chris Smither’s interpretation of the super-classic 'man done wrong' story “Frankie and Johnnie”, Lucinda Williams’ sorrowful “Angels Lay Him Away”, Geoff Muldaur’s humorous “Chicken”, Taj Mahal’s eerily deep-throated “My Creole Belle” and Gillian Welch’s mournful “Beulah Land”. Listen on.

Did You Hear John Hurt?

Words and Music by Tom Paxton
It was a frosty night. It was beginning to snow,
And down the city streets, the wind began to blow.
We all came to the cellar. We all emptied the bar,
To hear a little fellow, play a shiny guitar.

[Cho:]
Did you hear John Hurt play the "Creole Bell,"
"Spanish Fandango" that he loved so well?
And did you love John Hurt? Did you shake his hand?
Did you hear him sing his "Candy Man?"

On a straight back chair, with his felt hat on,
He tickled our fancy with his "Avalon."
And everyone passing down on MacDougle Street,
Cocked their heads and listen to the tappin' feet.

[Cho:]

[Repeat first verse and Chorus]


Ain't no tellin

Don't you let my good girl catch you here.
Don't you let my good girl catch you here.
She might shoot you, may cut ya and starve you too.
Ain't no tellin, what, she might do.

I'm up the country where the col' sleet and snow.
I'm up the country where the col' sleet and snow.
Ain't no telling how much further I may go.

Eatin' my breakfast here, my dinner in Tennessee.
Eatin' my breakfast here, my dinner in Tennessee.
I tol' you I was comin', baby, won't you look for me.
Hey, hey, such lookin' the class.

The way I'm sleepin' my back and shoulders tired.
Way I'm sleepin' babe, my back and shoulders tired.
Gonna turn over, try it on the side.

Don't you let, my good girl catch you here.
She, might shoot you, may cut you and starve you too.
Ain't no tellin', what, she might do.
go to top of page


Avalon Blues

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

Got to New York this mornin', just about half-past nine
Got to New York this mornin', just about half-past nine
Hollerin' one mornin' in
Avalon
, couldn't hardly keep from cryin'
Avalon is my hometown, always on my mind
Avalon is my hometown, always on my mind
Pretty mama's in Avalon want me there all the time
When the train left Avalon, throwin' kisses and wavin' at me
When the train left Avalon, throwin' kisses and wavin' at me
Says, "Come back, daddy, and stay right here with me"
Avalon's a small town, have no great big range
Avalon's a small town, have no great big range
Pretty mama's in Avalon, they sure will spend your change
New York's a good town, but it's not for mine
New York's a good town, but it's not for mine
Goin' back to Avalon, near where I have a pretty mama all the time
go to top of page


Candy Man Blues

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

Well all you ladies gather 'round
That good sweet candy man's in town
It's the candy man
It's the candy man
He likes a stick of candy just nine inch long
He sells as fast a hog can chew his corn
It's the candy man...
All heard what sister Johnson said
She always takes a candy stick to bed
Don't stand close to the candy man
He'll leave a big candy stick in your hand
He sold some candy to sister Bad
The very next day she took all he had
If you try his candy, good friend of mine,
you sure will want it for a long long time
His stick candy don't melt away
It just gets better, so the ladies say
go to top of page


Casey Jones

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

Casey Jones was a brave engineer,
he told his fireman to not to fear
Says, "All I want, my water and my coal
Look out the window, see my drive wheel roll"
Early one mornin' came a shower of rain,
'round the curve I seen a passenger train
In the cabin was Casey Jones,
he's a noble engineer man but he's dead and gone
"Children, children, get your hat"
Mama, mama, what you mean by that?"
"Get your hat , put it on your head,
go down in town, see if your daddy's dead"
"Mama, mama, how can it be?
My daddy got killed on the old I.C.
"Hush your mouth and hold your breath,
you're gonna draw a pension after your daddy's dead"
Casey's wife, she got the news,
she was sittin' on the bedside,
she was lacin' up her shoes
I said, "Go away, children, and hold your breath,
you're gonna draw a pension after your daddy's dead"
Casey said, before he died,
fixed the
blinds so the boys can't ride
If they ride, let 'em ride the rod,
trust they lives in the hands of God"
Casey said again, before he died,
one more road that he wanted to ride
People wondered what road could that be?
The Gulf Colorado and the Santa Fe
Casey Jones was a brave engineer,
he told his fireman to not to fear
Says, "All I want, my water and my coal
Look out the window, see my drive wheel roll"
go to top of page


Coffee Blues

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

(spoken:
This is the "Coffee Blues", I likes a certain brand
- Maxwell's House - it's good till the last drop,
just like it says on the can. I used to have a girl
cookin' a good Maxwell House. She moved away.
Some said to
Memphis
and some said to Leland,
but I found her. I wanted her to cook me some
good Maxwell's House. You understand,
if I can get me just a spoonful of Maxwell's House,
do me much good as two or three cups this other coffee)
I've got to go to Memphis, bring her back to
Leland
I wanna see my baby 'bout a lovin'
spoonful
, my lovin' spoonful
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'
(spoken: I found her)
Good mornin', baby, how you do this mornin'?
Well, please, ma'am, just a lovin' spoon,
just a lovin' spoonful
I declare, I got to have my lovin' spoonful
My baby packed her suitcase and she went away
I couldn't let her stay for my lovin',
my lovin' spoonful
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'
Good mornin', baby, how you do this mornin'?
Well, please, ma'am, just a lovin' spoon,
just a lovin' spoonful
I declare, I got to have my lovin' spoonful
Well, the preacher in the pulpit, jumpin' up and down
He laid his bible down for his lovin'
(spoken: Ain't Maxwell House all right?)
Well, I'm just got to have my lovin'


Corrina, Corrina

traditional

Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Come in this morning, clothes ain't fittin' you right
I left Corrina, way across the sea
I left Corrina, way across the sea
She wouldn't write me no letter, she don't care for me
Oh Corrina, Corrina, where you been so long?
Oh Corrina, Corrina, where you been so long?
She wouldn't write me no letter, she don't care for me
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Corrina, Corrina, where'd you stay last night?
Come in this morning, clothes ain't fittin' you right



Got The Blues, Can't Be Satisfied

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

Got the blues, can't be satisfied
Got the blues, can't be satisfied
Keep the blues, I'll catch that train and ride
Yes, whiskey straight will drive the blues away
Yes, whiskey straight will drive the blues away
That be the case, I wants a quart today
I bought my baby a great big diamond ring
I bought my baby a great big diamond ring
Come right back home and caught her
shaking that thing
I said, "Babe, what make you do me this a-way?"
I said, "Babe, what make you do me this a-way?"
Well, that I bought, now you give it away
I took my gun and broke the barrel down
I took my gun and broke the barrel down
I put that joker six feet in the ground
You got the blues, and I still ain't satisfied
You got the blues, and I still ain't satisfied
Well, some old day, gonna catch that train and ride

I'm satisfied

I'm satisfied, tickled, too. Old enough to marry you.
I'm satisfied it's going to bring you back.
I'm satisfied, tickled, too. Old enough to marry you.
I'm satisfied it's going to bring you back.

First in the country, then in town. I'm a total old shaker from my navel on down.
I'm satisfied it's going to bring you back.
I'm satisfied, tickled, too. Old enough to marry you.
I'm satisfied it's going to bring you back.

I pull my dress to my knees, I give my total all to who please.
I'm satisfied it's going to bring you back.
I'm satisfied, tickled, too. Old enough to marry you.
I'm satisfied it's going to bring you back.

I'm satisfied, tickled, too. Old enough to marry you.
I'm satisfied it's going to bring you back.
I'm satisfied, tickled, too. Old enough to marry you.
I'm satisfied it's going to bring you back.
go to top of page



Louis Collins

Mrs Collins weeped, Mrs. Collins moaned
To see her son Louis leavin' home.
The angels laid him away.

The angels laid him away,
They laid him six feet under the clay.
The angels laid him away.

Oh kind friends, oh ain't it hard?
To see poor Louis in a new graveyard.
The angels laid him away.

Oh Bob shot once and Louis shot, too [two]
Shot pOor Collins, shot him through and through.
The angels laid him away.

The angels laid him away,
They laid him six feet under the clay.
The angels laid him away.

Mrs. Collins weeped, Mrs. Collins moaned
To see her son Louis leavin' home.
The angels laid him away.

The angels laid him away.
They laid him six feet under the clay.
The angels laid him away.

Oh, when they heard that Louis was dead,
All the people, they dressed in red.
The angels laid him away.

The angels laid him away,
They laid him six feet under the clay.
The angels laid him away.
go to top of page


Make me down a pallet on your floor


Make me down a pallet on your floor.
Make me down...
Make me down a pallet down, soft and low
Make me a pallet on your floor.

Up the country, 20 miles or more.
I'm going up the country where the cold, sleet and snow.
I'm going up the country, where the cold, sleet and snow.
No tellin' how much further I may go.

Just make me down ...
Make me down...
Make me a pallet, down, soft and low.
Make me a pallet on your floor.

Way I'm sleeping, my back and shoulders tired.
Way I'm sleeping, my back and shoulders tired.
The way I'm sleeping, my back and shoulders tired.
Goin' to turn over and try it on the side.

Repeat first verse.

Don't you let my good girl catch you here.
Don't let my good girl catch you here.
Oh she, might shoot you, liable to cut and starve you too.
No tellin' what she might do.

Repeat first verse.

Make it baby, close behind your door.
Make it baby, close behind the door.
Make me a pallet, close behind the door.
Make it where your good man will never go.

Repeat first verse.
go to top of page


Monday morning blues

I woke up this morning... I woke up this morning...
Woke up this morning, with the monday morning blues.

I couldn't hardly find... I couldn't hardly find...
I couldn't hardly find, my monday morning shoes.

Monday morning blues... Monday morning blues...
Monday morning blues, searched all through my bones.

Monday morning blues... Monday morning blues...
Monday morning blues, made me leave my home.

I've been laying in jail... I've been laying in jail...
I've been laying in jail, six long weeks today.

Lord, tomorrow morning... Lord, tomorrow morning...
Lord, tomorrow morning, gonna be my trial day.

Lord, I asked the judge... Well, I asked the judge...
Well, I asked the judge, what might be my crime.

Get a pick and shoveL.. Get a pick and shovel...
Get a pick and shovel, let's go down in the mine.

That's the only time... That's the only time...
That's the only time, I ever felt like cryin'.

Well, my heart struck sorrow... Well, my heart struck sorrow...
Well, my heart struck sorrow, tears come rolling down.

I woke up this morning... I woke up this morning...
Woke up this morning, with the monday morning blues.
go to top of page


My Creole Belle

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

My Creole Belle, I love her well,
my darlin' baby, my Creole Belle
When the stars shine I'll call her mine,
my darlin' baby, my Creole Belle
My Creole Belle, I love her well,
I love her more anyone can tell
My Creole Belle, I love her well,
my darlin' baby, my Creole Belle
When the stars shine I'll call her mine,
my darlin' baby, my Creole Belle
My Creole Belle, I love her well,
my darlin' baby, my Creole Belle
go to top of page


Oh Mary don't you weep

Oh, Mary don't you weep, don't you mourn.
Pharoah's army got drownded,
Oh, Mary don't you weep.

If I could, I surely would,
Stand on the rock where Moses stood.
Pharoah's army got drownded,
Oh, Mary don't you weep.

Mary weep, Martha moaned,
All around God's holy strong.
Pharoah's army got drownded,
Oh, Mary don't you weep.

Well, God told Noah about the rainbow sound.
No more water but the God makes...
Pharoah's army got drownded,
Oh, Mary don't you weep.

Repeat first verse.

Sinners don't come by the ...
No need to come when the train done gone.
Pharoah's army got drownded,
Oh, Mary don't you weep.

Repeat first verse.
One of these days about 12 o'clock,
This 0l' world gonna reel and rock.
Pharoah's army got drownded,
Oh, Mary don't you weep.

Repeat first verse.

Richland's Woman Blues

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

Gimme red lipstick and a bright purple rouge
A shingle bob haircut
and a shot of good boo'
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' your horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Come along young man, everything settin' right
My husbands goin' away till next Saturday night
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Now, I'm raring to go, got red shoes on my feet
My mind is sittin' right for a Tin Lizzie
seat
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
The red rooster said, "Cockle-doodle-do-do"
The Richard's' woman said, "Any dude will do"
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
With rosy red garters, pink hose on my feet
Turkey red bloomer, with a rumble seat
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Every Sunday mornin', church people watch me go
My wings sprouted out, and the preacher told me so
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
Dress skirt cut high, then they cut low
Don't think I'm a sport, keep on watchin' me go
Hurry down, sweet daddy, come blowin' you horn
If you come too late, sweet mama will be gone
go to top of page

Salty Dog

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

(spoken: "
Salty Dog
")
Hey-hey, you salty dog
Hey-hey-hey, you salty dog
Said, the little fish, big fish swimmin' in the water
Come back, man, and gimme my quarter
Hey-hey-hey, you salty dog
Said, the scaredest I ever was in my life
Uncle Bud like to caught me kissin' his wife
Hey-hey, you salty dog
Says, God made woman, made 'em mighty funny
The lips 'round her mouth, just as sweet as any honey
Hey-hey, you salty dog
Hey-hey, you salty dog
Hey-hey-hey, you salty dog
(spoken: Well!)
Well, little fish, big fish swimmin' in the water
Come back here, man, gimme my quarter
Hey-hey-hey, you salty dog
go to top of page


See See Rider

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

You see, see, rider, you see what you have done?
You made me love you
Made me love you, now your man done come
You made me love you, now your man have come
Ain't no more potatoes, the frost have killed the vine
Well, the blues ain't nothin' but a good woman on your mind
The blues ain't nothin' but a good woman on your mind
The blues ain't nothin' but a good woman on your mind
You see, see, rider, you see what you done?
You done made me love you
You made me love you
I've told you, baby and your mama told you, too
"You're three times seven, you know what you wanna do,
three times seven, you know what you wanna do,
you're three times seven, you know what you wanna do"
If I had-a listened to my second mind,
Lord, I wouldn't -a been sittin' here and wringin' my hands and cryin'
I wouldn't been sittin' here, wringin' my hands and cryin'
I wouldn't been sittin' here, wringin' my hands and cryin'
You see, see, rider, you see what you have done?
You done made me love you
You made me love you
go to top of page


Spike Driver Blues

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

Take this hammer and carry it to my captain, tell him I'm gone, tell him I'm gone, tell him I'm gone
Take this hammer and carry it to my captain, tell him I'm gone, just tell him I'm gone, I'm sure is gone
This is the hammer that killed John Henry, but it won't kill me, but it won't kill me, but it won't kill me
This is the hammer that killed John Henry, but it won't kill me, but it won't kill me, ain't gonna kill me
It a long ways from East Colarado, honey to my home, honey to my home, honey to my home
It a long ways to East Colarado, honey to my home, honey to my home, that where I'm going
John Henry he left his hammer, layin' side the road, layin' side the road, layin' side the road
John Henry he left his hammer, all over in red, all over in red, thats why I'm gone
John Henry was a steel driving man, but he went down, but he went down, but he went down
John Henry was a steel driving man, but he went down, but he went down, that's why I'm gone
go to top of page


Stack O'Lee Blues

written by: Mississippi John Hurt

Police officer, how can it be?
You can 'rest everybody but cruel Stack O' Lee
That bad man, oh, cruel Stack O' Lee
Billy de Lyon told Stack O' Lee, "Please don't take my life,
I got two little babies, and a darlin' lovin' wife"
That bad man, oh, cruel Stack O' Lee
"What I care about you little babies, your darlin' lovin' wife?
You done stole my Stetson
hat, I'm bound to take your life"
That bad man, cruel Stack O' Lee
...with the forty-four
When I spied Billy de Lyon, he was lyin' down on the floor
That bad man, oh cruel Stack O' Lee
"Gentleman's of the jury, what do you think of that?
Stack O' Lee killed Billy de Lyon about a five-dollar Stetson hat"
That bad man, oh, cruel Stack O' Lee
And all they gathered, hands way up high,
at twelve o'clock they killed him, they's all glad to see him die
That bad man, oh, cruel Stack O' Lee