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.
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 7th 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.
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