This 18th century traditional song, sung by Bob Dylan 43 years ago and just released last year, is accompanied by amazing video by filmmaker Jennifer Lebeau. As you will note, it is comprised largely of images from the Farm Security Administration. Dylan, for the 1970 Self-Portrait sessions, was in fine voice. The mention of "If I was a poet" gets it on the Sunday Service list. Here's some more about the release of this brief little gem.
Pretty Saro (traditional)
Down in some lone valley In a sad lonesome place Where the wild birds do all Their notes to increase
Farewell pretty Saro I bid you Adieu But I dream of pretty Saro Wherever I go
Well my love she won't have me So I understand She wants a freeholder Who owns a house and land
I cannot maintain her With silver and gold And all of the fine things That a big house can hold
If I was a poet And could write a fine hand I'd write my love a letter That she'd understand
And write it by the river Where the waters overflow But I dream of pretty Saro Wherever I go
~ Bob Dylan (traditional lyrics)
What follows is another version, with different lyrics, sung by Ires DeMent for the movie, Songcatcher:
Until just a few days ago, I was unaware of this recording by Joni Mitchell of William Butler Yeats' monumental modern poem, "The Second Coming." And, now that I am, I'm not really sure what to think.
Ms. Mitchell is well known for a wide strain of crankiness - ask those who have attended her concerts (she walked off at Live Aid in Giant Stadium in 1986 to the bemusement of myself and 55,000 other attendees),ask Bob Dylan, ask record executives, ask the Woodstock Generation,ask Madonna (and Grace Slick and the estate of Janis Joplin) ... well, you get the idea.
Still an artist is an artist and, though I'm not real sure that this recording is anything if not her opinion of where we are now (ok, W.B.'s opinion, too, of where we were then), it is arguably one which happens to be at least in part true (as with some of the above - eh, Woodstock generation?).
What is beyond doubt is she has given us some of the truly great music over the last handful of decades. Here is a 30 minute concert from 1970 which shows the range of her talent early in her career:
In closing, I suppose it might simply be best to let Mr. Yeats speak for himself, and all of us, in what is, if not the greatest, one of the greatest poems of the 20th century:
The Second Coming By William Butler Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
---------------
well, well
coming home in the rain...
god of the poor *
* Note by David Lanoue: Issa, who was poor, fancies that the "poverty god" (bimbô-gami) was his special tutelary deity. Like the poet, this god can't seem to catch a break. According to Shinto belief, in Tenth Month all of Japan's gods vacate their shrines to congregate at the Izumo-Taisha Shrine. The god of the poor trudges home in the rain.
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It seems somehow at once extremely odd and just right that Bob Dylan should pen a eulogy for John Lennon some thirty plus years after Lennon's death. One is, of course, tempted to see in this a bit of self-eulogizing but, if that's a case, it is not simply a eulogy for a poet/songwriter but for an entire generation who venerated him, or more precisely stated, them.
Listen to this song and, like the title song Tempest, about the Titanic, you'll be tempted to never listen to it again. And that would be a mistake. Because when you listen to it again and then again, it will grab you hard and grab you deep. It's really a lesson in songwriting - it is hardly at all like what we might have expected if someone had said, say 6 months ago, what do you think a song by Bob Dylan about John Lennon would be like.
This is Bob Dylan's John Lennon and it is, indeed, a privilege to get a glimpse into his thoughts, as it always is.
Doctor, doctor, tell me the time of day
Another bottle's empty
Another penny spent
He turned around and he slowly walked away
They shot him in the back and down he went
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
From the Liverpool docks to the red light Hamburg streets
Down in the quarry with the Quarrymen.
Playing to the big crowds Playing to the cheap seats
Another day in your life until your journey’s end
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
Sailing through the tradewinds
Bound for the sun
Rags on your back just like any other slave
They tied your hands and they clamped your mouth
Wasn’t no way out of that deep dark cave
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
I heard the news today, oh boy
They hauled your ship up on the shore
Now the city’s gone dark
There is no more joy
They tore the heart right out and cut it to the core
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
Put on your bags and get ‘em packed.
Leave right now you won’t be far from wrong
The sooner you go, the quicker you’ll be back
You’ve been cooped up on an island far too long
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
Slow down you’re moving too fast
Come together right now over me
Your bones are weary
You’re about to breathe your last
Lord, you know how hard that it can be
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
Roll on John, roll through the rain and snow
Take the righthand road and go where the buffalo roam
They’ll trap you in an ambush before you know
Too late now to sail back home
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
Tyger, Tyger burning bright
I pray the lord my soul to keep In the forest of the night
Cover him over and let him sleep
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John.
At any given moment in time, you will get a different Bob Dylan (as you will, in fact, get a different you). Here's an interview by Ed Bradley when Dylan published the autobiographical Chonicles, One. His latest interview, with Rolling Stone magazine, in which he declares he has been transfigured and asserts some very strange notions about a Sonny Barger biography published quite a ways back, is still another moment in time. When all these moments in time are strung together, is there contradicition? Why, yes. Is there transfiguration? Eh, maybe so. Is there revelation, in the artistic sense of the word? Most definitely.
And, for all you rock singers out there, your definitive lesson on how to sing lead and chew gum at the same time (while touching the soul of the world) follows:
There is a great interview from the early 90s with Bob Dylan by Paul Zollo of American Songwriter. The following three questions are from that interview and may be of interest to writers particularly fascinated with inspiration. Definitely check out the full interview here, as well as material leading up to the interview here.
---------------------------------------------
When you write songs, do you try to consciously guide the meaning or do you try to follow subconscious directions?
Well, you know, motivation is something you never know behind any
song, really. Anybody’s song, you never know what the motivation was.
It’s nice to be able to put yourself in an environment where you can
completely accept all the unconscious stuff that comes to you from your
inner workings of your mind. And block yourself off to where you can
control it all, take it down. Edgar Allan Poe must have done that.
People who are dedicated writers, of which there are some, but mostly
people get their information today over a television set or some kind of
a way that’s hitting them on all their senses. It’s not just a great
novel anymore. You have to be able to get the thoughts out of your mind.
How do you do that?
Well, first of all, there’s two kinds of thoughts in your mind:
there’s good thoughts and evil thoughts. Both come through your mind.
Some people are more loaded down with one than another. Nevertheless,
they come through. And you have to be able to sort them out, if you want
to be a songwriter, if you want to be a good song singer. You must get
rid of all that baggage. You ought to be able to sort out those
thoughts, because they don’t mean anything, they’re just pulling you
around, too. It’s important to get rid of all them thoughts. Then you
can do something from some kind of surveillance of the situation. You
have some kind of place where you can see but it can’t affect you. Where
you can bring something to the matter, besides just take, take, take,
take, take. As so many situations in life are today. Take, take, take,
that’s all that it is. What’s in it for me? That syndrome which started
in the “Me Decade,” whenever that was. We’re still in that. It’s still
happening.
Is songwriting for you more a sense of taking something from some place else?
Well, someplace else is always a heartbeat away. There’s no rhyme or
reason to it. There’s no rule. That’s what makes it so attractive. There
isn’t any rule. You can still have your wits about you and do something
that gets you off in a multitude of ways.
---------------------------------------------
Here's Bob Dylan's performance to honor Martin Scorsese this week at the Critic's Choice Awards. Getting old, the voice is crusty, but the heart is on fire:
This is wonderfully odd song, recently suggested by a reader; somehow, I would love to hear someone arrange differently. I know this is a bit of a sacrilege; after all it is Billy Bragg and Wilco - jeez, whaddya want already? Of course, since this comes from the album Mermaid Avenue, which is made up of previously unreleased Woody Guthrie lyrics, it's not likely that anybody else will be rushing to cover (re-cover?) this anytime soon. Still and all, fine work all around and many thanks for the suggestion.
I share a birthday with Woody Guthrie: the 14th of July, Bastille Day, and that has always made me happy. So has Woody. First, Bob's classic tribute to Woody (no mistakes in that pickin' on this take) and then a real beaut by the man himself.
"Song to Woody" Bob Dylan
"Jesus Christ" by Woody Guthrie
----------------------------------------
This week's featured poem comes from Lilliput Review, #78, March 1996. It's one ambivalent little beauty by one of my favorite haiku poets, Patrick Sweeney (who has promised to leave a little packet for me under the bridge by the Mon - no mean feat, internationally speaking). The Deva King of Issa's little number may be seen portrayed, sans wasps' nest, at the head of this post. Enjoy.
The count up to #100 is now just one week away and I've been thinking a bit about what that selection might be. But, of course, as usual, I get ahead of myself.
This week's selection comes from the master, who has appeared here a time or three: Bob Dylan. And though one might not think about this particular song when thinking litrock, you just have to love these lyrics:
Situations have ended sad
Relationships have all been bad
Mine’ve been like Verlaine’s and Rimbaud
But there’s no way I can compare
All those scenes to this affair
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go
So the bard drags two other bards into "the scene," only to say there is no way he's going to compare their situation to his.
Harrumph.
That may be the verse that got the song on this list, but you know you truly are in the presence of a master when the pen flashes across the page, rhyming:
I’ll look for you in old Honolulu
San Francisco, Ashtabula
Yer gonna have to leave me now, I know
But I’ll see you in the sky above
In the tall grass, in the ones I love
Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go
Honolulu and Ashtabula! I'm sure you don't need me to tell you it doesn't get better than that in a pop song.
Taking a decidedly left turn at Ashtabula, here's Weird Al to set "the record" straight about genius or genius on genius:
Yes, it is easy, so easy to throw around the word genius, but writing a parody pop song composed of rhyming palindromes - and making it sound good - well, I'll just leave it there.
For the nostalgic, rock's first "music video":
Finally, back to my opening ruminations: who to choose for #100 on the Litrock list? Well, it took a bit of a thunk, but I've got my choice, to be revealed next week. Wonder if anyone can guess, not the song, but the particular artist/band?
For those who made it this far through another rambly post, here's a challenge: name the artist that will be featured on #100 of Issa's Sunday Service, and you get a free 15 issue subscription to Lilliput Review (or a 15 issue extension for the terminally faithful). First one who rings in with the right name is the winner.
White Ash
What is it in the scent of wood
that reminds me of my father?
He was no handyman.
When my brother-in-law's
thick fingers ease
thin sheets of blond wood
over his table saw, the dark
supple blade sheds narrow splinters
of hard bone, pale and odorless.
Mark Forrester
a wood fire--
her shadow in the window
pulling thread
But if I had the stars from the darkest night
and the diamonds from the deepest ocean,
I'd foresake them all for your sweet kiss,
for that's all I'm wishin' to be ownin'
Tuesday is Election Day and they'll be no comment here, except to say this week's selection for Issa's Sunday Service is "As I Went Out One Morning" by Bob Dylan. The album from which it comes, John Wesley Harding, has been a long time favorite of mine for many reasons, not the least of which is the drumming of Kenny Buttrey. Aside from the solo albums, it is one the most stripped down, certainly the cleanest of all productions, over the entire span of Dylan's career. Beside Buttrey and Dylan, there was Charlie McCoy on bass and Pete Drake on pedal steel guitar. That's it and it's truly amazing.
The lyrics are transcendent, the songs sublime. It echoes through the years with a timelessness that not very many albums have. If I had to compare it to anything, I'd compare it not to another album but a book. A once-in-a-lifetime, much loved book.
This week is the birthday of Mr. Johnny Winter who, for our purposes today, is the smokin'est blues guitar player of his generation. On another day, we might discuss this in depth; today he's it. Today's selection forIssa's Sunday Service is the Bob Dylan tune "Highway 61 Revisited."
This is Bob's re-imagining of the Abraham and Issac story, played out in the larger contest of the then (and still) impending threat of nuclear war. For those alive back in the day who remember the Kent State protest and killings ("Tin soldiers and Nixon coming ..."), you might also remember the sculptor George Segal's controversial memorial "In Memory of May 4, 1970, Kent State University," that set off its own firestorm of protest, drawing on the same Biblical story for its resonance in modern times:
Looking back over the first 40 plus weeks of selected LitRock songs, it seems that there is a really formidable subset of songs drawing on the Bible. And this rock and roll was supposed to be the devil's music - who'd a thunk?
Back in 1992, Johnny Winter performed "Highway 61 Revisited" at Dylan's big 50th birthday bash at Madison Square Garden. What follows is that performance; watch Johnny signaling the drummer to speed it up (!), G. E. Smith telling the sound crew to turn it up, and Steve ("Hit it, Stevie") Cropper's fixed stare at one helluva amazing guitar slinger ...
There are also two other possible literary allusions in this song I'd never caught before. Take a look at the 3rd verse:
Well Mack the Finger said to Louie the King I got forty red white and blue shoe strings And a thousand telephones that don't ring Do you know where I can get rid of these things And Louie the King said let me think for a minute son And he said yes I think it can be easily done Just take everything down to Highway 61.
This song was written in the wake of the immense popularity of the Louis Armstrong rendition of the Brecht/Weill composition "Mack the Knife." Mack the Finger sung by King Louie: oh, yeah, I'd say so. Though one of his more popular numbers (a la "Hello, Dolly"), it certainly isn't one of Pops finer moments. However, I will never say anything negative about one of the great jazz musicians of the 20th century. Somehow, we all have to pay the bills.
The other allusion is a bit more generic: "Now the fifth daughter on the twelfth night." Could be to Shakespeare but since Twelfth Night is a lot bigger than Will's take on it, I'll have to let that one go: the lyrical thread is a bit too tangled for me to undo.
Finally, why Highway 61 revisited? Well, it may be as simple as Highway 61 runs by Duluth, Minnesota, Dylan's hometown, on its 1400 miles trek to New Orleans. Also Dylan, ever the singer steeped in the folk and blues tradition, would have been well aware of Mississippi Fred McDowell's song "61 Highway," with its blistering slide guitar that even Mr. Winter could learn a thing or two from.
----------------------------
Today's feature poem comes from the California poet, Tom Riley, originally published in Lilliput Review, #67, April 1995. Think of it as an admonishment, think of it as a cautionary tale - think of it:
What You're Good For
The ice giants fry the eggs of the snow serpent, the tastiest morsels they know, on the bare backs of hot-blooded lads like you.
Tom Riley
----------------------------
And here's one for those who, though perhaps success in avoiding those ice giants, have been breaking their backs with all the recent snow:
he's also in no mood to sweep the snow... scarecrow
Tomorrow is the birthday of that "Italian poet from the 13th century," Petrarch, a poet so driven by his idealized love for a woman named Laura that he revitalized the sonnet form. Of course, he was born and lived in the 14th century (1304 - 1374), but I am voting that Dylan read the dates and mistakenly came up with 13th century, a common enough error, or wrote from memory and got it wrong. Lots of Dylan folks think the poet he is referring to is Dante, but I'm sticking by my guns. In an interview in 1978 (scroll down for the interview excerpt), Dylan further muddled the matter when asked who the poet was when the discussion turned to the song, Tangled Up In Blue:
Craig : Its got those nice lines at the end, about ' there was music
in the cafes at night and revolution in the air' and ' some are
mathematicians, some are carpenters wives, I don't know how it
all got started, I don't know what they do with their lives'.
Dylan : I like that song. Yeah that poet from the 13th century....
Craig : Who was that ?
Dylan : Plutarch. Is that his name ?
Well, that's a hoot and a half, anyway you cut it. There have been so many variations of Tangled Up In Blue, along with so many variations of the particular lines in question (Dylan has evidently inserted Charles Baudelaire, the Bible, and the 15th century in various performances), the point is moot. In any case, it is Petrarch's birthday, so Petrarch it is, wrong or right.
This week's poem from the Sunday "count up" (and for those paying close attention, you'll notice the countdown and count up have just overlapped, something that roughly might happen once every two and a half years) is from Lilliput Review #22. I've chosen a different poem from the 3 recently featured in the countdown, hope you enjoy it.
What is there
Single hawk stationary above the highway ------------flapping against the wind.
One dot black on the immense snow sky
-------------a tiny immortal -------------the old peasant on the chinese scroll.
This week's Issa's Sunday Service is conducted by the always amazing David Bromberg. This song was a big favorite of mine over 20 years ago and I'd completely forgotten about it until I started thinking about songs for this feature. The song is "Kaatskill Seranade" and I'm gonna guess that most folks aren't overly familiar with this old chestnut. The lit connection is subtle enough that some folks miss it; Mr. B. refuses to name it and I love him for it. But, here you go; the poster above and the passing of 20 years are a couple of big hints.
Enjoy.
Last week, I got so carried away with posting the Anne Sexton song that I completely forgot that I've been posting poems from the archive, ascending from #1. So, to make up for that goof, I'll post two today, with Issa closing up shop as usual. The first is from #12, in April 1990, he second from #14, June 1990:
Gullied Lives
Raw ravines corrugated by wind and rain and time.
Hearts don't break. They weather.
Albert Huffstickler
Dean Martin Sings Otello
When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie Desdemona.
Bob Dylan's "Desolation Row" is, by request of the inimitable Ed Baker, today's feature LitRock song on Issa's Sunday Service. He didn't suggest it for today, just generally; however, today is Bob's 68th birthday, so there you go. This version is live at Royal Albert Hall in 1966 and an amazing performance. Dylan references so many literary items in this one, we could go months without having to post anymore tunes.
I'm taking suggestions for songs in the LitRock category to feature here on Sundays. Songs featured so far include Aztec Two-Step's "The Persecution and Resurrection of Dean Moriarty," Donovan's "The Way," "Rejoyce" by Jefferson Airplane, and Van Morrison's "Summertime in England." I'm especially interested in newer material; I've got quite a list of "classic" rock tunes referencing people and things literary but, being of the dinosaur generation, am lacking more modern songs. Suggestions in the comments section would be great.
This week's feature poem comes from Lilliput Review is #6, from September 1989. This is one of Lyn Lifshin's and is one of my favorite efforts of her's for LR:
Yawn Series Of Younger Poets
annual politician of
a first book of
plums by ailing
writer under 40.
Marmosets may be
sublimated only
during February
and must be
accompanied by
a stamp, self
addressed moose
Lyn Lifshin
the bird is singing
but it ain't blooming...
plum tree
* I'm not really sure why IE is placing blank duplicate screens on the page, but all 6 parts of the interview are posted here. It views just fine in Firefox.*
An amazing artifact that catches Dylan the person in an extended 1965 press conference in San Francisco. I found part 1 via Dennis Cooper's excellent D.C.'s blog posting, part of a collection of pieces and observations on Dylan.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
This interview perfectly captures Dylan in all his mercurial modes: funny, serious, ironic, stoned, insightful, combative, silly: you name it. Often when interviewed, he would only project one of these (i.e. hostile) because, as can be seen here, he reacts to each question and person specifically. If it requires a silly response, you got, a serious one, ditto.
An amazing document that somehow provides boatloads of insight 40 plus years later.
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