We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
Tight Connection to My Heart (Has Anybody Seen My Love?), from Empire Burlesque, 1985
Sample of the lyrics:
Well, they're not showing any lights tonight And there's no moon There's just a hot-blooded singer Singing 'Memphis in June' And they're beating the devil out of a guy Who's wearing a powder-blue wig Later he'll be shot For resisting arrest I can still hear his voice crying In the wilderness What looks large from a distance Close up ain't never that big.
I never could learn to drink that blood And call it wine I never could learn to hold you, love And call you mine.
Sony has been pulling all of the Bob YouTubes they can find, but I found an interesting (outtake?) of Tell Ol' Bill (with different lyrics) which I can link but cannot embed.
For those who feel that they do not have enough Bob Dylan in their lives, there is always Dylan Radio. All Dylan, all the time. A bit of an overdose, in my opinion. They never mix it up with any Schubert concertos.
It brought to mind an interview with the late great Lena Horne which Mark Simone replayed on the radio the other day. She was saying that she approached a song as a short play, and that she focused on telling the story more than on the music. She said she talked the song-story before she ever added the music. Simone told Horne that Sinatra had once told him something similar; that he wanted to distinguish himself from other singers by making the the words more important to him than the tune or the notes. He disparaged other pop singers as note-hitters wedded to the tune, rather than good story-tellers. Of course, Horne and Sinatra could do both.
You obviously cannot compare Dylan's singing to those two masters, but you can compare his phrasing, word-handling, and story-telling to anybody's. Plus he writes his songs himself. Writing a good song that sticks to the soul is lots tougher than writing a good poem - which is plenty tough itself.
But I don't know what I am talking about...I truly do not.
Is Bob Dylan a musical thief? Of course he is, to some extent. So what?
Sheesh, most singers don't even write the songs they sing.
Mrs. BD told me that Martha Graham said "If you're going to steal, steal from the best."
I remember flying home on Aer Lingus one time, listening to the Irish music. I thought to myself, "Damn. That's the tune of Boots of Spanish Leather. Where did Dylan hear that?" He's a human jukebox. Not the Second Coming, but a darned interesting jukebox, and he has gone the distance.
Smart, perceptive, and eccentric too, with or without a rhyming dictionary. He adds a "special sauce," as they say on Wall St.
I cannot find Bob's haunting solo version from his record, so I'll post a less impressive live version from '95.
The lyrics:
Oh, the gentlemen are talking and the midnight moon is on the riverside They're drinking up and walking and it is time for me to slide I live in another world where life and death are memorized Where the earth is strung with lover's pearls and all I see are dark eyes.
A cock is crowing far away and another soldier's deep in prayer Some mother's child has gone astray, she can't find him anywhere But I can hear another drum beating for the dead that rise Whom nature's beast fears as they come and all I see are dark eyes.
They tell me to be discreet for all intended purposes They tell me revenge is sweet and from where they stand, I'm sure it is But I feel nothing for their game, where beauty goes unrecognized All I feel is heat and flame, and all I see are dark eyes.
Oh, the French girl, she's in paradise and a drunken man is at the wheel Hunger pays a heavy prize to the falling gods of speed and steel Oh, time is short and the days are sweet and passion rules the arrow that flies A million faces at my feet but all I see are dark eyes.
It goes against against my instinct, judgement, taste, and sense of proportion to do a Christmas post before Thanksgiving, but I couldn't resist this bizarro Dylan offering. (All money from Dylan's Christmas record goes to charity.)
Remain strange and unpredictable, Bob. We like you that way. This is a good Minnesota Polka:
A friend of mine was on the set for that 1973 movie, Pat Garret and Billy the Kid. He asked somebody who the weird, silent guy on the set was with his head covered with a sweatshirt hood or a hat, always sitting under a tree with a guitar. He was told "Oh, that's Bob Dylan." My friend, a Dylan fan, decided to leave the guy alone because he did not exactly appear to welcome interaction.
The first live performance of "Billy," March 2009. I like the age in this old voice:
Several views of the Bob Dylan Christmas album at Walking. I think Bob just does what he feels like doing, with a healthily quirky, inner-directed take it or leave it attitude. But I might be wrong.
Sony has been pulling all of the Bob YouTubes they can find, but I found an interesting (outtake?) of Tell Ol' Bill (with different lyrics) which 
Is Bob Dylan a musical thief? Of course he is, to some extent. So what? 
Story 
