Master Blueprints # 33: “The Vagabond Who’s Rapping at Your Door, is Standing in the Clothes That You Once Wore”

(Personal reflections inspired by Bob Dylan songs)

Song: “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue”
Album: Bringing It All Back Home
Release Date: March 1965

We all must face change at one point or another.  Its unavoidable.  I’ve been blessed in not having had to deal with truly traumatic change…. being sent off to war or other calamitous events that I’ve witnessed others having had to contend with in their lives.  But everything is relative with life-changing moments, particularly when you are experiencing upheaval for the first time.  Such was the case for me when I struck off for college on a late summer day in 1980, just a week past my 18^th birthday.  A lot has transpired since those bygone youthful days on many levels, in relation to family, faith, career, travel and so much more.  In fact, I am so far removed from that innocent young man who struck off along the Mohawk Trail in my Lincoln Mercury Capri to the city of North Adams in the northwestern corner of Massachusetts - suitcase, record player and dart board in a heap in the backseat - that it is difficult to relate to or even remember.  But for the sake of this entry, I’ll try to stand in those flannel shirts and corduroy pants once again.

I wish I had connected with “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue” way back when.  It would have been a much-needed mental bonding.  Neil Young comes close with “Powderfinger” but that song is a bit too fatalistic.  Bob Dylan’s song hits closer to home, with lyrics that can be interpreted along the lines of ‘sure you may feel like a vagabond now, but it’s about time you grow up, boy.  Time to sink or swim.  And oh, by the way, you can’t swim back this way to the familiar, closer, sunny, beachy side of the lake.  No, you’re going to have to head to the far side, over yonder where thickets cover the ground, and where the mud runs deep. Do you see the dark forest that looms beyond?  Do you see there’s light at the far edge of that forest?  Yeah, well it will be up to you to figure out how to get there.’

“Strike another match, go start anew
And it’s all over now Baby Blue”

Franklin, Massachusetts was one helluva place to grow up in the 70s, a rural community at the time, about an hour west of Boston.  I’m the oldest in a very tight family, which includes my parents and five siblings.  Laughter dominated our dinner’s together in my formative years.  On top of this we lived within a 2-block distance from the heart of the very eclectic (for a teenager) downtown. My best friends were in the same neighborhood too.  They were also eclectic.  I grew up with those friends from sandbox days, through pickup baseball, street hockey, croquet and water balloon fights to high school and nightlife (we still hangout).  Train tracks were just down the hill from home.  Those tracks took us in the opposite direction of civilization, where in our younger teenage years, trails were explored, and fish were caught.  Later, bonfires were added to the mix; too difficult for the police to venture to, never mind detect.  I had my tried and true dog, Nicky as my sidekick.  I had “Stand by Me”.  I had “All You Need Is Love”.  I had “Night Moves”.  It was all so idyllic for that lanky, shaggy-blonde-haired 17-year-old.  Maybe too idyllic. 

The night I packed my bags for departure I was the only one home; my parents and most of my younger siblings at a campground about two thirds of the way to my new digs, where I would meet up with them, brother Fred riding shotgun.  I remember hurling my bags down the stairs to my awaiting car that evening; an expression of the disruption I was feeling inside.  It’s funny thinking about it now.  I mean, this was a long 38 years ago, but it seems as if it were even longer.  That was my rite of passage moment, something you can only go through once. I had no idea what I was bound for, but at the same time, I knew who I was, maybe even better than I do today. 

But it was not only what I was leaving behind that I was lamenting, it was what I was preparing for.  Deep inside I knew I was facing manhood, and I was planning to do it full steam ahead, taking this college thing seriously.  I recall being honed into my studies.  I recall much letter writing to special someone’s.  I recall deep conversations with my landlady, who had taken back in her estranged, dying ex-husband, which played out not long after I had moved in (he would pass on that next semester). I recall struggling to connect with my fellow student housemates, one of whom was bitter, having just recently lost his Dad to a car accident, a second who was hopelessly full of himself like no one I have ever met before or since, a third who was at least 5 years older than the rest of us, and quite off the wall, and a fourth who was a thief and a dropout (he would be joining the army by December).  I also recall nighttime reflections and daytime journeys into the surrounding Berkshires.  And I strongly recall the heaviness of John Lennon’s death; blowing off classes the next day to listen to his music in my car with my headlights on, in radio-station WBCN solidarity with other drivers who were also mourning the loss: “Watching the Wheels”, man… watching the wheels.  Finally, I recall on-campus Masses on Sunday evenings, another form of solidarity…. taking Faith matters into my own hands.

“Look out the saints are comin’ through
And it’s all over now, Baby Blue”

Yes, that 3-hour drive west may as well have been 300 hours in terms of how far removed I felt from my Franklin “Strawberry Fields” upbringing.  Sure, I had fun in my new haunts, particularly when I was introduced by one of my flunky roommates to a motley crew-of-seven, about midway through that first semester.  These guys were collectively dubbed “TH#1” by fellow students; named after their on-campus townhouse address.  TH#1 welcomed me into the fold, even as I resisted pressure to move in.  Billiards, darts and hot peppers were at the core of our mutual interests.  But their brand of fun was different from what I’d known to date.  Hysterical moments were a common denominator to the past, as was a need to keep on your toes.  The similarities stopped there however. This was a more experienced, less innocent kind of fun than what I was familiar with. There was also a brand-new angle for me of one-upmanship.  And it was more edgy.  And a bit wearier.  And it could often be cynical.  Strangely enough though, I found myself needing this environment (side note: only one of the seven, Kurt, would end up being a lifelong friend).

About midway through that Freshman winter, I parked my car in a dark parking lot and strolled over the tracks to a local bar with several of the TH#1ers to play pool.  Not smart.  When I got back the rear window to my vehicle had been smashed in, and a fantastic pair of homemade speakers had been torn out of their back-of-car enclosures.  In my haste to report it to police I drove over a high curb and bottomed out, ripping away my exhaust system in the process (I’m laughing to myself right now in recollection).  When I got to the station the cop I appealed to didn’t do much more than look into my eyes to see if I’d been drinking.  I felt as if I were starring in my own twisted comedy (or maybe “Bob Dylan’s 115^th Dream”). 

Alas, there would be no help for me that evening from anyone, including my high school sweetheart, who got a kick out of the whole story when I called her; she going as far as giving me the temporary nickname Mario Andretti (ok, this is also very funny in hindsight).  We were in the death throes of our relationship anyhow, going from the Styx “Babe” to The Left Banke’s “Walk Away Renee” in 3 agonizing months (coincidentally, just last week I watched this second song performed by Southside Johnny with my wife of 27 years – who I met not long after college).  As for the Lincoln Mercury Capri, it was in a junk yard not soon after.  In the relative blink of an eye, I’d lost my freedom of the road and - for the time being - my free spirit.

“This sky too is folding under you
And it’s all over now Baby Blue”

Although I do not look back on that year with fondness, it all turned out fine in the end.  In fact, I would not trade the whole ball of wax of my life with anyone’s.  Most importantly in regards to that transition year is that it has allowed me to relate to others who have had periods of toil and trouble.  When I recently saw a niece dealing with first-year-away-from-home growing pangs, I was able to give her heartfelt advice, in a nutshell telling her that the tough times are as important to your growth - perhaps even more so - as the good times.  And they make you appreciate those good times in far greater ways than you would otherwise be able to do.  And finally, I told her, if you deal with the tough times properly, they make you stronger.  The flip side of that is, beware compromising your integrity when you are at your most vulnerable to do so.  Bob Dylan makes the case with “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue”

Van Morrison has covered “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue” brilliantly in his live acts.  I put two and two together this week, recalling that Morrison’s break-away-from-the-familiar period was when he left his Irish home and band to start all over in of all places, Boston in the late 60s.  Fellow Bostonian Peter Wolf’s writeup about Van the Man in Rolling Stone Magazine’s 2010 “100 Greatest Artists” said it all.  Morrison was flat broke, living in a “bleak and barren” apartment in Cambridge with his wife and child. But he slowly reinvented himself, eventually landing some small gigs. Wolf turned out to be one of the very few witnesses to the origins of what would soon become the masterpiece, Astral Weeks, in a “subterranean” coffee house bar.  It’s an amazing story which you can track down on line (Google “Peter Wolf about Van Morrison Rolling Stone Magazine”).  I’d always felt a sense of connection with that story and with Van Morrison’s cover of Baby Blue.  Now I know why. 

“The carpet too is moving under you
And it’s all over now Baby Blue”

Bob Dylan’s original version is darn special too.  The closest thing I could come up with is this early live recording: ( https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3kro54 ).  I love the sparse arrangement on the studio version, which only includes Dylan’s acoustic guitar and harmonica along with a cool bit of bass-beat-background courtesy of William E Lee.  “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue” is a song that I’m thinking even Dylan, despite his extraordinary and lasting talents, would likely struggle to write at this stage in his life.  You need to be close to the orphan fire if you know what I mean.  Verse upon verse, Bob Dylan pulls no punches in this profoundly insightful ode to forced change and new beginnings. 

As for that young man I left behind on my first drive up the Mohawk Trail, well, I know he’s close by.  Every so often I see him in the mirror, mostly nodding his head in agreement, but also on occasion shaking his head in disgust.  I also see the vagabond who struck off along the Mohawk Trail all those years ago.  But most often I don’t see much beyond the end result.  I can live with that.  As I see it, if you can live with who you have become then you are still tapping into that young, innocent version of self…. whether you see him or not.  If there’s ever a sequel to “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue”, this notion could very well be at its core.

- Pete