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I took my Harry Choates CD off the player
even though that Cajun violin he plays had a lot to say a year
after Katrina hit. The new Bob Dylan album was in my hand and
it was time to put the little disc on. Modern
Times is what he's calling it. The cover has one of
those time-lapse photographs with the car lights a blurry line.
In fact, the whole freakin' car is a blurry collection of lines.
Other than that, it's kind of plain. Picture of Bob on the
back. The song titles and a production credit belonging to Jack
Frost--just another one of Dylan's characters from the man called
Alias in the film Pat Garret and Billy the Kid. The man
born under the sign of Gemini--the sons of Leda and that swan.
ONe who dies and is reborn on the condition that one lives in
night and the other in day. The shadows of the underworld and
the ecstasy of the heavens.
Put it on. Thunderous guitar
licks open th e song "Thunder On the Mountain." The
music surpasses the lyrics at times. Mellow blues grooves slashed
in two by sterling toned electric guitar. The opener "Thunder
on the Mountain" and the finale "Ain't Talkin'"
represent the lyrical highlights of this recording. In between
lie a number of new and reworked blues tunes, a rocker or two
and even a Forties crooner piece all enhanced by Dylan's lyrical
cleverness.
Owlman
Watching From the Pressbox
As part of my purchase package, I received a one hour sample
of the radio show that Dylan is currently deejaying on XM Radio.
Fortunately for me, the theme of the show is baseball. Dylan
the deejay playing the role of the play-by-play and color commentator
roiled into one. To borrow Marianne Moore's phrase from her
poem "Baseball and Writing," Bob's the owlman in the
pressbox. Mel Allen and Gurt Gowdy, Joe Buck, Harry Karry, Joe
Morgan, Jerry Remy, even Tim McCarver to the tune of America's
jukebox. The disc is worth it just for the sound of Dylan singing
"Take Me Out to the Ballgame."
Anyhow, strike three. Back
to the disc in question. There's a song here called "Workingman's
Blues #2," which seems to be a nod to Merle Haggard's song
of a similar name. Like everything else on this disc (and on
every disc since his 1962 "Freewheelin'"), the song
is not overtly political in the sense politicos think of politics.
You know, left/right, either/or or compromise and so on. No,
he mentions the proletariat by name in the first line or two,
but lyrics are more of a lament for the days when the classic
US union tool-and-die man could make a real living from his work
instead of wondering where and when it all went to hell. The
music is gentle--even lilting--but it's not comforting. Hell,
they burned his barn and took his horse. He's black and blue,
but this song he's singing is to a former lover who he hopes
can make that all go away. Haggard found his solace in the barroom
and Dylan hopes to find his in love. Like Haggard's workingman,
Dylan's is gonna' make the best of a bad situation, cajoling
his lover and comrades to "Meet (him) at the bottom,"
since that's where global capitalism is putting him, to hang
back or fight all the while singing those workingman blues.
As the song ends, a sad fiddle plays...
It's a collection full of memories of things that could have
been or might yet come. Yet, there is no lasting sadness. Even
though the "world has gone berserk," it's time to travel
the world. The man won't lie down to accept his fate. Or get
kicked around. It's been a while since Dylan held out much hope
for human salvation through politics or religion. For those
expecting either of those forms, they won't find it here. It's
okay to believe, he seems to be saying, but trust only yourself.
If there was a message in the aforementioned film Masked and
Anonymous, it was the same as the one I hear now on Modern Times.
There are old blues numbers
here slightly reworked. "Rollin' and Tumblin'" not
only borrows the title of this tune attributed to Hambone Willie,
it takes the essential riffs and turns them into serious guitar
lickin'. The last time I heard these leads live was at a concert
by the Grateful Dead in what turned out to be one of their last
shows under that name. Their take was a lazy, hot summer afternoon-after-a-couple-of-beers
sound. Garcia spinning out a slow lick here and there while
Weir pushed the rhythm section through the humid sounds of the
lead. Dylan and his band do something a little different. It's
not as heavy as the version made famous by Muddy Waters, but
it shares the tempo. Denny Freeman's lead guitar has a clarity
that cuts through the gravel in Dylan's throat. Like many a
blues song, it's the woman who's at fault here, but only in the
mind of the singer. Thinking deeper, Dylan acknowledges that
the real blame here lies in the doom and gloom of these modern
times. Indeed, once the blame is given, the singer takes it
back by asking for a mutual forgiveness, since it's really the
times that are at fault.
The song that fascinates me the most is the last one to come
on the player. Titled "Ain't Talkin'", it is anything
but that. A paean to the mother earth and a song to a woman
the singer left behind, this lengthy chanson is a mixture of
hope and weeping for the state of humanity and the planet us
folks inhabit. "Still burnin (yet) still yearnin,"
there's no intention of defeat inside this journey, even though
we may be on the "last outback at the world's end."
This man, this mystic, this old crank with a clever sense of
irony and wit to boot, points out the neverending injury to this
mother earth and even points out who should take a good deal
of the blame--the rich and powerful; those same masters of war
that he called out so many moons ago when he was young and had
almost boundless hope. It's desperate for a lot of us--the line
from Dylan's version of "Rollin' and Tumblin'" -- "Some
people barely got enough skin to cover their bones"--says
that as clear as a freakin' bell. There's doom here, just like
there is throughout this album and much of Dylan's work. "Thunder
On the Mountain" is more than just a noise after all. In
the hills where I live it often means heavy rains and flash floods.
Disasters great and small. Bridges washed out and cattle pulled
downstream. People moving in to their negihbor's home while
the homestead gets rebuilt.
Back to Marianne Moore's line
about the owlmen in the pressbox. Bob Dylan has often been one
of those owlmen. Like a sportswriter, he tells the story of
the game as he sees it, yet painted with prejudices derived from
his participation in it. The game he's calling, though, is the
game of life. As anyone who has ever listened to or watched
a hometown sports broadcast knows, objectivity on the part of
the announcers is not even a pretense. The announcer, the writer,
the commentator all want the home team to win just like the visitor's
press box wants their team to succeed. The owlman Bob Dylan
is like the best of those sports announcers. When he calls the
game of life, you know that he's doing more than just watching.
He's in there just like the rest of us. He cares what happens.
His ability lies in his skill to not only call the game as he
sees and feels it, but to call it in a way that puts it ina perspective
the rest of us relate to. It ain't always pretty and we often
lose. But at least we play. And so does Dylan.
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