(Personal reflections
inspired by Bob Dylan songs)
Song: “Shooting Star”
Album: Oh Mercy
Release Date: September
1989
I can’t recall if I’ve ever had to travel 3
weeks in a row for work before, but I just completed such an undertaking. The multi-part journey included five
presentations at four meeting/conference related destinations in Ottawa Ontario
(Canada), Saratoga Springs New York, Augusta Maine, and Baltimore
Maryland. In each case, I decided to
drive rather than fly, which added up to 2300 miles of road network, roughly
the equivalent of a coast-to-coast trek from Savanah Georgia to San Diego
California. Saratoga was a no-brainer
for this mode of travel, but Ottawa and Baltimore are at the very edges of what
I will consider for automobile travel for work; both destinations being
precisely 400 miles away from my Massachusetts home. As a matter of fact, in the case of
Baltimore, I’ve more-often-than-not chosen air travel in the past…there’s
simply too much Jersey Turnpike between here and there. Ottawa, which is also a
frequent destination, is a bit more complicated with air travel - related to
bureaucracy - the explanation of which is beyond the scope of this blog entry.
I chose to drive to all these destinations
for 2 reasons. First off, it allowed me
to listen to a lot of Bob Dylan, including studio albums as diverse as Empire Burlesque, Street Legal, Knocked Out
Loaded, and Oh Mercy, along with Live 1962-1966: Rare Performances from the
Copyright Collections (which served me for the last blog entry) and other
stuff. I listened to Dylan as I drove
along Route 2, which connects the picturesque Lake Champlain island-chain in
Northern Vermont. I listened as I spanned
immense rivers, including the St. Lawrence, the Ottawa, the Susquehanna, the
Hudson, the Delaware, the Housatonic and the Connecticut. I listened as I made my way through 10 States
and 2 Provinces. I listened as I took in
the beauty of the fall colors, the rustic, rural villages, the snow-capped
mountains and the evening starlit skies.
The second reason was so I could have the flexibility
to connect with good friends who live in or near the cities I visited, as well
as the regions I travelled through. All seven friends I reached out to
responded in the affirmative, and in each case, the given friend went out of
his/her way in one form or another to make it happen. It was touching and reminded me that the
friendships I’ve forged over the years - many now scattered across the North
American landscape and beyond - are strong and long lasting. But it also reminded me that so much in our
lives can be fleeting, and that we must seize moments like these when we
can. Frankly, I could have thrived
solely on the friendships I’ve made with current colleagues on these trips….my daylight
work connections. Off the top of my head
I can think of at least 20 of them. However,
the extra-curricular bonding with my longstanding friends made these trips far
more meaningful and memorable, and so those are the ties that really stand out.
Despite all that Bob Dylan listening, I’d
had little to show for it regarding this entry as I made my way home through
New Jersey and New York this past Thursday.
Usually, I have an abundance of chicken-scratch notes to draw from as my
work week winds down, but not this time.
One thing I had done was zero in on the closing number off Oh Mercy, “Shooting Star” as my forty
first Master Blueprint. It’s a song of such deep faith-based yearning
( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXTElsREny4 ), including this appeal to God:
"Seen a shooting star tonight
And I thought of me
If I was still the same
If I every became what you wanted me to be
Did I miss the mark or over-step the line
That only you could see?
Seen a shooting star tonight
And I thought of me”
Side note:
The above URL includes 2 outtakes of “Shooting Star” each of which have
lyrics that I’d never heard before until this write up. One line goes “Seen a shooting star tonight against the grain / Up in the hotrod sky,
‘cross the prairies of Maine”, which kinda blew my mind seeing as that line
in a nutshell was what I physically and mentally experienced two weeks ago on
the part of my 3-week odyssey that took me to Augusta.
Anyhow, I could have run with a religious
theme here, but I’ve often delved deep into faith in these Bob Dylan-centric
blog entries this year (which was inevitable, as I knew would be the case when
I decided to write a series inspired by this musician). And since I am likely
to do so at least one more time before I put a bow on these Master Blueprints, I made up my mind
that I needed to take a slightly different tact this go around. But where was I to turn? What could I focus on? Fortunately, “Shooting Star” includes yearnings
of the much more earthlier kind (this type of blending is one of many ways that
makes Bob Dylan so fascinating) including these lyrics:
“Seen
a shooting star tonight
And I thought of you
You were trying to break into another world
A world I never knew
I always kind of wondered
If you ever made it through
Seen a shooting star tonight
And I thought of you”
And so, with all this in mind, I’m at the
tail end of my journey this past Thursday evening, sitting at the funky music
venue, Darryl’s House, in Pawling New York, with good friend, and former
colleague, Jeff. We are watching Jim
Lauderdale perform (who half way through his excellent set, blurted out the between-song
poignant statement “The Von Trapp Family is escaping!”, which many in the crowd
did not seem to get…. but I did). I’d pretty much let go my quest for “Shooting
Star” inspiration for the time being when suddenly it hit me: For the past 3 weeks I’d been connecting with
shooting stars in my life… those wonderful friendships I’d rekindled with in Ottawa,
Saratoga, Montpellier, Baltimore and Pawling New York. Without further ado, here’s a rundown of
those Fall of 2018 ‘Magnificent Seven’ connections:
Luc:
A friend since 1982. Luc has been
in a wheelchair his entire adult life. He’s handled it all with grace and belly-laugh
humor. We bond on many levels, because, like myself, Luke is a deep
thinker. He’s also an author, having
written a biography (in French) of his personal journey, which includes details
of the accident that changed his life, as well as the long road of rehab. Luke has been bedridden for several months
due to a bad sore that needed heeling and was just on the cusp of getting a
little time in the upright position when I arrived in Ottawa. He made it a point to work me into this tight
schedule.
Being a fellow writer, Luc connects with me
on this level as well. He’s been one of
my best supporters in this blog endeavor of mine. We talked quite a bit about the blog. We also talked about his recent setback and
about the demands on my work life these days.
On my way out, Luc stopped me, looked me in the eyes and told me that he
saw a bit of burnout in my face. He made the case that life is too short to get
over worked-up about demands on the job and pleaded that I consider easing my
foot off the gas pedal. It’s advice that
could only come from a close friend. I’ll
try to heed it.
Shooting Stars.
Pat: A friend since 1982. Upon my last day in Ottawa, I visited Pat at
his home in Stittsville, about 30 minutes southwest of the city. I stayed overnight, as has been my modus
operandi every time I’ve visited Ottawa for work over the past 10 years. Pat
and Sharon’s door is always open for me in generosity and good spirit. Pat was in training for a new position at his
workplace the week I was there, but this did not deter him from finding a way
to fit me in. The two of us have
experienced quite a bit together over the last 36 years, which has included he and
Sharon making frequent visits to my neck of the woods the past 7 or so summers. This evolving tradition unfortunately did not
pan out this summer, which I felt primarily responsible for. It was with that thought on my conscience
when I knocked on Pat’s front door. I was soon swept away from such thoughts,
however, by Pat’s warm greeting and the crack of a beer bottle opening.
Pat can discuss with you in significant
detail just about any topic that comes to mind, from totem poles, to black
holes, to Dead Sea Scrolls. Years ago,
when I started doing Music and Memory
writeups for friends and family, Pat saw something in my style and recommended
I read Robert Pirsig’s masterpiece, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. That book had quite the effect. I reflected on this with Pat and told him
about an encounter I had with a nice fellow at a bar earlier that week as I was
watching the Boston Red Sox putting another beating on the Los Angeles Dodgers
on their final march to World Series glory.
Out of the blue, the guy in the Ottawa bar recommended Lila, the follow up to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.
It reminded me so much of Pat’s
recommendation years earlier. Zen
indeed.
Shooting Stars.
Jamie:
A friend since 1989. Jamie and I originally
met at work. The friendship was instantaneous. I hooked up with him at his home in
Montpellier Vermont on my way back from Ottawa.
Jamie cut short his work day to connect.
I met up with his family and from there, he took me down to a local
baseball field, where his son proceeded to strut his pitching prowess. Pretty
impressive. Jamie has been a relentless ally in guiding my daughter Charlotte
on her career path, with sage advice. Years ago, he hooked Nancy and I up with
a close friend of his as we toured the Black Forest region of Germany. That friend took us in and served us arguably
the best meal of our entire trip across Europe that glorious summer of ’89. Jamie looks you right in the eye when you
talk with him. I always know I’ve got
his rapt attention every time we converse.
Coincidentally, Jamie is one of four of the
Fall of 2018 Magnificent Seven whom I visited with this week who were all once
part of a camping caravan every spring and fall (the others being Kernell,
Saiping and Jeff, and I’ll also include a friend named Harlow in this crew, who
I visited with on a work trip to Albuquerque New Mexico in September). I organized these weekend camping and hiking trips
in the seven or so autumns before Charlotte was born; my earliest years with
the US Geological Survey. Jamie taught
me the joy of field guides, be they guides on identifying trees, insects,
birds, mushrooms, aquatic invertebrates, you name it. Hikes soon morphed from the concept of
conquering mountain peaks to one of stopping and smelling the roses.
Shooting Stars.
Mike: A friend since 2006. I include one current colleague here as
representative of all current colleagues who I have connected with these past 3
weeks, including Kim, Mike L, Judy, Carol, Larry, Dan, Jen, Mike W, Cary, Marie-Eve, Mike M (yes, plenty of Mikes), and many others. Mike and I met when he shouted out “Is that THE Pete Steeves” from across
the Captain Daniel Patrick Inn pub in Mystic Connecticut upon my entrance, during
a regional GIS conference there in 2006 (“NEARC”; the same one I attended in
Saratoga Springs 2 weeks ago). We’ve
been laughing ever since. Mike is a
go-getter, a self-made entrepreneur who has done very well for himself. How he looks up to this civil servant, I’ll
never know. I appreciate it though,
because I believe there is huge value in what I do, and it’s good to see when
someone in the private sector recognizes it.
Mike’s Dad and my Dad joined us at last
year’s NEARC in Newport Rhode Island, for the Tuesday evening banquet
event. It was a highlight moment for me;
my Dad taking in my work world, yukking it up with Mike’s Dad, and the four of
us getting a hoot out of each other. Mike
invited me to his farm last year, and I watched in absolute hilarity as he ran
out into the middle of the mud strewn pig pen to feed his hogs, who were
chasing after him. There was abject fear
in Mike’s eyes at the thought of slipping.
I believe I got particular enjoyment out of it because, if the roles
were reversed, he’d have no doubt reacted in kind.
Shooting Stars.
Saiping: A friend since 1988. When people ask me who I credit launching my
career path, without hesitation I say “Saiping”. I’d already been hired by USGS as a GIS
staffer when I met Saiping, who was already working in the GIS wing of the office. My experience with the software to that date
was pretty standard. Saiping put it into
overdrive, showing me the ropes with programming, which oriented me in a much
more fascinating and sought-after direction, ultimately leading to national and
international endeavors. Saiping was
patient with me, a trait which comes across in her general demeanor.
It was so great to see Saiping again. She made the hour drive north to Baltimore
from the Washington D.C. region to connect, having to curtail an evening of
dinner and fun with a larger crowd, due to an unexpected conflict. That worked out just fine: We bumped up our rendezvous, and so I ended
up having quality one on one time with her instead. It had been a while; longer than anyone else
on this Fall of 2018 Magnificent Seven crew.
We reminisced on this fact some, silently absorbing how quickly time can
pass by. Saiping’s name means ‘duckweed’
in Mandarin Chinese. Her one sibling, Maiping’s
name, means beautiful. We laughed about
this from the perspective of her parents and what they were thinking with their
naming conventions. It’s about as far as
Saiping will go with biting humor. I’m
good with that. Better yet, I’m graced
with that.
Shooting Stars.
Kernell: A friend since 1989. Kernell broke away from an extended family
visit to join me in Baltimore for an evening of fun and games (billiards). Here is another name that’s worthy of a
little commentary. I’ve been connected
with Kernell longer than anyone in my professional circles. I’m honored to state this, as I will explain,
but on the very frequent occurrence when I’ve been in a position to talk about
Kernell, I’ve had to explain that I was not going all military on everyone,
seeing as the term ‘colonel’ is uttered in identical fashion. Well, as I mentioned
in my speech at his retirement party, saluting was not a problem for me in the
end.
If Saiping launched my career path, Kernell
sustained it. Together we developed unarguably
one of the most innovative products in the USGS in the past 20 years; that
being StreamStats ( https://water.usgs.gov/osw/streamstats/
). At that dinner gathering in Baltimore
- the one Saiping had to miss - we sat next to one another. Kernell opened up to me on things going on in
his personal life. We all have to confront turmoil at one time or another. It
was nice that he would want to welcome my thoughts. He has done the same for me over the
years. Such a peaceful, soul, Kernell. I wish the best for him always. Many years ago, when Kernell was leaving the
Massachusetts USGS office to work in headquarters after 20 plus years, I noted
in yet another speech that he looked far younger than his age at the time; so
much so that he must have been running home from USGS in his earliest years to
play Kick the Can with his buddies. May Kernell stay forever young.
Shooting Stars.
Jeff: A friend since 1989. Jeff went out of his way to connect with me, searching
out a good concert along my ride home and then driving several hours east from
his Pennsylvania household to join me.
We ended up catching that aforementioned Jim Lauderdale show in Pauling
New York. Jeff is another ex-colleague as well as a true music aficionado, having
attended more concerts than anyone else I know.
He is also a very generous friend, having sent me an endless supply of
homemade CDs and DVDs of shows he has witnessed over the years, as well as
others he’s taped off radio interviews, etc.
Aside from all that, he’s simply an open honest friend.
Jeff is a key reason I can say I connect
with Bob Dylan’s music. Same goes for so
many other musicians, including Townes Van Zandt, Joan Baez, Graham Parsons,
Sean Colvin, and many others. Like Jamie, Jeff also has a strong connection
with the biodiversity around him. The
morning after the show we took in a short hike up the road, Jeff pointing out a
number of flora species endemic to the region.
He spends most of his time in his 3-acre yard, planting, weeding, and
pruning. He reaps what he sows, which in
his case is pretty darn rewarding.
Shooting Stars.
- Pete
Sunday, November 11, 2018
Saturday, November 3, 2018
Master Blueprints # 40: "Flashing for the Warriors Whose Strength is Not to Fight, Flashing for the Refugees on the Unarmed Road of Flight”
(Personal reflections
inspired by Bob Dylan songs)
Song: “Chimes of Freedom”
Album: Another Side of Bob Dylan
Release Date: August 1964
Several weeks ago, a retired colleague, Chris, who reads my blogs, sent me the link to an October 12, 2018 Opinion article in the New York Times titled “10 Great Protest Songs” ( https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/12/opinion/loudon-wainwright-protest-songs.html ). To my surprise, the last entry in the list (presumably # 1) was “America the Beautiful”, in its original, unsanitized form, which is unknown to most of us. As discussed in the article, that Kathy Lee Bates version includes such lines as “America, America, God shed his grace on thee. Till selfish gain no longer stain the banner of the free”, and “Till nobler men keep once again thy shining jubilee”. “America the Beautiful”: A protest song indeed….and stripped of some of its strength in our much more familiar version.
Around the same time, on a call home from Panama, daughter Charlotte was lamenting a handful of national fiascos here in the States in a never-ending wave of them (I can’t recall the specifics, but at this stage you can just pick em’ out of a hat). My daughter is an environmental scientist working in the tropics. Like her Dad, Charlotte struggles regularly as she observes the lack of political willpower to tackle crucial issues like climate change, made all the worse in the past two years with the reverse now actually playing out; the United States having pulled out of the Paris Agreement altogether making our homeland the only industrialized country in the world not partaking in this critical international collaborative.
Charlotte considers today’s status quo as a war on the environment, a thought she expressed on that call, and I couldn’t agree more. How to respond to such ignorance? Well, we talked about a handful of ways people are doing this, which reminded me of protest songs and that New York Times article. This lead to my bringing up Bob Dylan’s early-60s protest songs, including the no-holds-barred “Masters of War”. Since Charlotte has been reading my blog entries, she then suggested I do a Blue Print about that one.
I’ve yet to write on Bob Dylan’s early protest songs to any great degree, but I had planned to all along. And so, between Chris, Charlotte, and especially the buildup of all that has played out on the national stage these past 2 years, I was getting the hint that the time had arrived. It’s difficult however, because in the context of this blog series I typically try not to pass judgement, and “Masters of War” is as finger-pointing of a song as one could imagine. However, what I can do here is shine a light on the ideals which I find to be righteous in the hope that the antithesis can be revealed. So instead of a “Masters of War” focus, I’ve decided to tackle its polar-opposite “Chimes of Freedom” ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LVIWA9VTiN8 ).
“Chimes of Freedom” is Bob Dylan’s version of the Sermon on the Mount, a beautiful, heartfelt song of admiration. Here he recognizes…. the unarmed refugee, the underdog soldier (“in the night”), the luckless, the rebel, the rake, the abandoned (“and forsaked”), the outcast (“burnin’ constantly at stake”), the gentle, the kind, the "guardians and protectors of the mind" the "unpawned painter behind/beyond his rightful time (* note the fantastic poetry in behind/beyond), the deaf, the blind, the mute, the mistreated mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute, the misdemeanor outlaw (“chased an’ cheated by pursuit”), the lonesome-hearted lovers (“with too personal a tale”), the searching ones (“on their speechless, seeking trail”), the unharmful gentle souls misplaced inside a jail, the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts, the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed, the countless confused accused misused strung-out ones an’ worse, and finally “every hung-up person in the whole wide universe”.
The definition of protest is “a solemn declaration”, which Bob Dylan empathizes with in “Chimes of Freedom” for each characterization in the previous paragraph. Last week I drove seven hours north for a work trip from Massachusetts to Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. As I was nearing my destination I decided to reflect on my own observations of freedom chimers, while listening repeatedly to that song. What played out in a 2-hour time-span were seven mental connections to both the people in my personal life and those in the public eye (actors, musicians, politicians, other newsmakers). I’ve fleshed out all 7 of those domino-connections below, followed by an abbreviated collection of other, more determined thoughts that came to me afterwards. Without further ado:
Ok, well, perhaps it was because I was on a work trip, but the first thought that hit me was of a genuine, generous colleague, Silvia, who work-travels in similar circles as myself. The two of us were in Austin, Texas about 5 years ago, and after a long day’s meeting we headed uptown to the Congress Ave Bridge over the Colorado River (not that Colorado River, but a much smaller, albeit significant one in west Texas) to catch a natural phenomenon: Thousands of Mexican Free-Tailed Bats uniformly leaving their roosts under the bridge to fly off and feed at night. We were hanging out waiting for the action to commence when a homeless guy who called himself “Batman” approached us in a somewhat tattered ‘batman’ outfit. This benign gentleman, with obvious mental challenges, offered a small token pin with a bat on it, hoping for a couple of bucks in return. I had no cash on me, and Silvia only had a $20. She accepted the pin and handed him the bill without hesitation, while also engaging with Batman in a kindly, compassionate way. A relatively minor expression of good will, sure, but revealing to the true character of this colleague. This reflection was a perfect one to begin delving into my Ottawa car-ride chain of thoughts. Silvia, striking for the gentle: Chimes of freedom.
With “bridge” as metaphor (in more ways than one), I suddenly found myself recalling an article I had read 13 years ago about New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. This article included several paragraphs where the keen-eyed author had spotted an unassuming famous person on an off-the-beaten-path uptown bridge helping the downtrodden one at a time in whatever way he could; sweat, toil and all. When I first read this story, my brain was apparently not functioning properly seeing as, where the words on the page were recognizing actor Sean Penn’s actions, I was mentally interpreting the name as ‘Sean Hannity’ of Fox News claim. Immediately, I began to second-guess my belief-system, thinking ‘wow, there’s a humanitarian in Sean Hannity after all’. A day later I proceeded to show my wife the article and at that moment realized my error: My views of quality persona had not been challenged after all (which was in some ways disappointing). Sean Penn (not Hannity) striking for the underdog soldier in the night: Chimes of freedom.
From there, I thought of humanitarians in my own life, near the top of that list being my late, great Aunt Ginger, a Dominican Sister (Nun), whom I have written about before. Sister Virginia Smith had made many humanitarian gestures in her too-short-a-time on Earth, with one of these being of special fascination to me. It was a trip my Aunt had made to Southeast Asia near the end of the Vietnam War in 1975, to address the safety of the local Dominican Sisters as the world was collapsing around them. The writing was on the wall that the South was soon to be overtaken. Chaos and finger pointing were already kicking in. These nuns were facing persecution from many directions. Ginger headed right into the danger, bombs dropping around her in several of the regions she visited. I believe this experience had a huge influence, and that my aunt came back home even deeper in her faith-centric convictions than when she had left. Aunt Ginger, striking for the unharmful gentle souls misplaced inside a jail: Chimes of freedom.
With that said, my thoughts then jumped to capital punishment and actress Susan Sarandon’s moving portrayal of Sister Helen Prejean in the based-on-true-story film Dead Man Walking. Sarandon’s portrayal has always reminded me of my Aunt Ginger (that mind-leap of mine could also very likely have been related to the prior-mentioned Sean Penn, who co-starred in Dead Man Walking). I soon found myself thinking too of former New York Governor Mario Cuomo, who once signed an affidavit while in public office, which stated in so many words that if he or anyone close to him was ever killed in a violent way, that the death penalty be off the table. The ability to forgive is a blessed thing, which includes an understanding that we are not to be the final judge. Mario Cuomo and Sister Helen Prejean, striking for the countless, confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse: Chimes of freedom.
No doubt by this stage I had a higher power on my mind as my thoughts again drifted, this time to a preacher in my hometown of Pepperell, Bob, who periodically sits at the corner table of a popular local diner with a bible and preaches to the few who are willing to stop and listen. Bob is a fiery vociferous soul, but he speaks truth. I’ve granted him my ear on several occasions when I’ve had the time to do so. He rarely strays from his biblical discourse, and if he does, it is only to make a faith-centered point from a slightly different perspective. Bob has talked to me in eye-opening ways about his father’s conversion late in life and explained in passionate detail several Biblical passages, including one that really stuck with me about the reason Jesus asked Peter 3 times if he loved him (John 21: 15-17), which was better than any explanation I’d ever heard in church. Rarely do the folks in town heed his words, but this does not deter him. Bob the street preacher, striking for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts: Chimes of Freedom.
No recognition like these would be complete without including my parents, and so as I arrived in Ottawa’s outskirts, my final reflections were on Mom and Dad’s lifelong freedom-chiming ways. These ways would include their open-door policy to all of mine and my sibling’s friends. These ways would include their trust in us. These ways would include their welcoming of the needy into their home. These ways would include their soft touch with advice. These ways would include their willingness to let us be ourselves. These ways would include their faith-centric home. These ways would include their inclusiveness, their generosity, their patience. Mom and Dad striking for the kind: Chimes of freedom.
There you go; 7 thoughts, somewhat fleshed out, from roughly 2 hours of driving. Over the course of the week, a number of others came to mind. I’ll surmise these in short order here:
In terms of those in the public eye (which you will have to look up yourself if unknowing and curious), ‘Chimes of Freedom’ also go out to Maximillian Kolbe, Martin Luther King Jr, the Mississippi Freedom Riders, the Standing Rock and Cheyenne River Sioux tribes protesting the transcontinental Dakota gas pipelines, , recipients of last week’s pipe bombs (all freedom fighters in my book), the Tiananmen Square “Tank Man”, Jennifer Castle and Blake Spalding, Rev. William Barber II, David Attenborough, Jane Goodall, Mahatma Gandhi, Linus Pauling, Mother Teresa, Elie Wiesel, Nelson Mandela, Yitzhak Rabin, Jimmy Carter, Shirin Ebadi, Martti Ahtisaari, Barack Obama, Bobby Kennedy, Pope Francis, Jamal Khashoggi and …..Bob Dylan.
Chimes of Freedom also go out to anyone promoting green energy, anyone standing up for the rights of the unborn through a faith-based – vs legal – position, anyone who knows how to swallow their pride, and anyone who donates large, beautiful land-holdings to the public. So too those chimes go out to doctors without borders, conservationists, organic farmers, people choosing solidarity over power, and people choosing peaceful protest over war.
And Chimes of Freedom go out to those who still believe in the words on the Statue of Liberty, particularly in these times of ugly discourse. For those in the good ol’ USA, here’s a reminder: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore”. I’m reminded of a caravan making its way through Mexico as I write this. Yes, give them to us until we are saturated. With that said, I too recognize an immigration lawyer and great friend of my wife, Nancy and mine. Madeline’s chimes of freedom ring true for the unarmed refuge.
In terms of others in my life, there is Father Peter and his profound homilies, and another friend of Nancy’s named Barbara who passed away yesterday (“the mistreated mateless mother”). Then, there’s the friends of ours who have worked their way through addictions, as well as family and friends who have donated their time to good causes. And of course, my wife and her kindly ways with others.
Finally, Chimes of Freedom go out to my daughter Charlotte, who was the tipping-point inspiration for me to write this entry. Charlotte stands for so much that is good in this world. She has connected with the oppressed in civil-strife-torn Nicaragua. She has connected with indigenous people in Panama who have pressures on their way of life. She has made strides on environmental science at the Smithsonian Institute for Tropical Ecology in Panama City. She has eloquently expressed herself in her creative writing and through her magnificent art. She has immersed herself in rainforest ecology. Charlotte is certainly one of those freedom chimers who is making it happen.
Get out and vote, folks
- Pete
Song: “Chimes of Freedom”
Album: Another Side of Bob Dylan
Release Date: August 1964
Several weeks ago, a retired colleague, Chris, who reads my blogs, sent me the link to an October 12, 2018 Opinion article in the New York Times titled “10 Great Protest Songs” ( https://www.nytimes.com/2018/10/12/opinion/loudon-wainwright-protest-songs.html ). To my surprise, the last entry in the list (presumably # 1) was “America the Beautiful”, in its original, unsanitized form, which is unknown to most of us. As discussed in the article, that Kathy Lee Bates version includes such lines as “America, America, God shed his grace on thee. Till selfish gain no longer stain the banner of the free”, and “Till nobler men keep once again thy shining jubilee”. “America the Beautiful”: A protest song indeed….and stripped of some of its strength in our much more familiar version.
Around the same time, on a call home from Panama, daughter Charlotte was lamenting a handful of national fiascos here in the States in a never-ending wave of them (I can’t recall the specifics, but at this stage you can just pick em’ out of a hat). My daughter is an environmental scientist working in the tropics. Like her Dad, Charlotte struggles regularly as she observes the lack of political willpower to tackle crucial issues like climate change, made all the worse in the past two years with the reverse now actually playing out; the United States having pulled out of the Paris Agreement altogether making our homeland the only industrialized country in the world not partaking in this critical international collaborative.
Charlotte considers today’s status quo as a war on the environment, a thought she expressed on that call, and I couldn’t agree more. How to respond to such ignorance? Well, we talked about a handful of ways people are doing this, which reminded me of protest songs and that New York Times article. This lead to my bringing up Bob Dylan’s early-60s protest songs, including the no-holds-barred “Masters of War”. Since Charlotte has been reading my blog entries, she then suggested I do a Blue Print about that one.
I’ve yet to write on Bob Dylan’s early protest songs to any great degree, but I had planned to all along. And so, between Chris, Charlotte, and especially the buildup of all that has played out on the national stage these past 2 years, I was getting the hint that the time had arrived. It’s difficult however, because in the context of this blog series I typically try not to pass judgement, and “Masters of War” is as finger-pointing of a song as one could imagine. However, what I can do here is shine a light on the ideals which I find to be righteous in the hope that the antithesis can be revealed. So instead of a “Masters of War” focus, I’ve decided to tackle its polar-opposite “Chimes of Freedom” ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LVIWA9VTiN8 ).
“Chimes of Freedom” is Bob Dylan’s version of the Sermon on the Mount, a beautiful, heartfelt song of admiration. Here he recognizes…. the unarmed refugee, the underdog soldier (“in the night”), the luckless, the rebel, the rake, the abandoned (“and forsaked”), the outcast (“burnin’ constantly at stake”), the gentle, the kind, the "guardians and protectors of the mind" the "unpawned painter behind/beyond his rightful time (* note the fantastic poetry in behind/beyond), the deaf, the blind, the mute, the mistreated mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute, the misdemeanor outlaw (“chased an’ cheated by pursuit”), the lonesome-hearted lovers (“with too personal a tale”), the searching ones (“on their speechless, seeking trail”), the unharmful gentle souls misplaced inside a jail, the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts, the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed, the countless confused accused misused strung-out ones an’ worse, and finally “every hung-up person in the whole wide universe”.
The definition of protest is “a solemn declaration”, which Bob Dylan empathizes with in “Chimes of Freedom” for each characterization in the previous paragraph. Last week I drove seven hours north for a work trip from Massachusetts to Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. As I was nearing my destination I decided to reflect on my own observations of freedom chimers, while listening repeatedly to that song. What played out in a 2-hour time-span were seven mental connections to both the people in my personal life and those in the public eye (actors, musicians, politicians, other newsmakers). I’ve fleshed out all 7 of those domino-connections below, followed by an abbreviated collection of other, more determined thoughts that came to me afterwards. Without further ado:
Ok, well, perhaps it was because I was on a work trip, but the first thought that hit me was of a genuine, generous colleague, Silvia, who work-travels in similar circles as myself. The two of us were in Austin, Texas about 5 years ago, and after a long day’s meeting we headed uptown to the Congress Ave Bridge over the Colorado River (not that Colorado River, but a much smaller, albeit significant one in west Texas) to catch a natural phenomenon: Thousands of Mexican Free-Tailed Bats uniformly leaving their roosts under the bridge to fly off and feed at night. We were hanging out waiting for the action to commence when a homeless guy who called himself “Batman” approached us in a somewhat tattered ‘batman’ outfit. This benign gentleman, with obvious mental challenges, offered a small token pin with a bat on it, hoping for a couple of bucks in return. I had no cash on me, and Silvia only had a $20. She accepted the pin and handed him the bill without hesitation, while also engaging with Batman in a kindly, compassionate way. A relatively minor expression of good will, sure, but revealing to the true character of this colleague. This reflection was a perfect one to begin delving into my Ottawa car-ride chain of thoughts. Silvia, striking for the gentle: Chimes of freedom.
With “bridge” as metaphor (in more ways than one), I suddenly found myself recalling an article I had read 13 years ago about New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. This article included several paragraphs where the keen-eyed author had spotted an unassuming famous person on an off-the-beaten-path uptown bridge helping the downtrodden one at a time in whatever way he could; sweat, toil and all. When I first read this story, my brain was apparently not functioning properly seeing as, where the words on the page were recognizing actor Sean Penn’s actions, I was mentally interpreting the name as ‘Sean Hannity’ of Fox News claim. Immediately, I began to second-guess my belief-system, thinking ‘wow, there’s a humanitarian in Sean Hannity after all’. A day later I proceeded to show my wife the article and at that moment realized my error: My views of quality persona had not been challenged after all (which was in some ways disappointing). Sean Penn (not Hannity) striking for the underdog soldier in the night: Chimes of freedom.
From there, I thought of humanitarians in my own life, near the top of that list being my late, great Aunt Ginger, a Dominican Sister (Nun), whom I have written about before. Sister Virginia Smith had made many humanitarian gestures in her too-short-a-time on Earth, with one of these being of special fascination to me. It was a trip my Aunt had made to Southeast Asia near the end of the Vietnam War in 1975, to address the safety of the local Dominican Sisters as the world was collapsing around them. The writing was on the wall that the South was soon to be overtaken. Chaos and finger pointing were already kicking in. These nuns were facing persecution from many directions. Ginger headed right into the danger, bombs dropping around her in several of the regions she visited. I believe this experience had a huge influence, and that my aunt came back home even deeper in her faith-centric convictions than when she had left. Aunt Ginger, striking for the unharmful gentle souls misplaced inside a jail: Chimes of freedom.
With that said, my thoughts then jumped to capital punishment and actress Susan Sarandon’s moving portrayal of Sister Helen Prejean in the based-on-true-story film Dead Man Walking. Sarandon’s portrayal has always reminded me of my Aunt Ginger (that mind-leap of mine could also very likely have been related to the prior-mentioned Sean Penn, who co-starred in Dead Man Walking). I soon found myself thinking too of former New York Governor Mario Cuomo, who once signed an affidavit while in public office, which stated in so many words that if he or anyone close to him was ever killed in a violent way, that the death penalty be off the table. The ability to forgive is a blessed thing, which includes an understanding that we are not to be the final judge. Mario Cuomo and Sister Helen Prejean, striking for the countless, confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse: Chimes of freedom.
No doubt by this stage I had a higher power on my mind as my thoughts again drifted, this time to a preacher in my hometown of Pepperell, Bob, who periodically sits at the corner table of a popular local diner with a bible and preaches to the few who are willing to stop and listen. Bob is a fiery vociferous soul, but he speaks truth. I’ve granted him my ear on several occasions when I’ve had the time to do so. He rarely strays from his biblical discourse, and if he does, it is only to make a faith-centered point from a slightly different perspective. Bob has talked to me in eye-opening ways about his father’s conversion late in life and explained in passionate detail several Biblical passages, including one that really stuck with me about the reason Jesus asked Peter 3 times if he loved him (John 21: 15-17), which was better than any explanation I’d ever heard in church. Rarely do the folks in town heed his words, but this does not deter him. Bob the street preacher, striking for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts: Chimes of Freedom.
No recognition like these would be complete without including my parents, and so as I arrived in Ottawa’s outskirts, my final reflections were on Mom and Dad’s lifelong freedom-chiming ways. These ways would include their open-door policy to all of mine and my sibling’s friends. These ways would include their trust in us. These ways would include their welcoming of the needy into their home. These ways would include their soft touch with advice. These ways would include their willingness to let us be ourselves. These ways would include their faith-centric home. These ways would include their inclusiveness, their generosity, their patience. Mom and Dad striking for the kind: Chimes of freedom.
There you go; 7 thoughts, somewhat fleshed out, from roughly 2 hours of driving. Over the course of the week, a number of others came to mind. I’ll surmise these in short order here:
In terms of those in the public eye (which you will have to look up yourself if unknowing and curious), ‘Chimes of Freedom’ also go out to Maximillian Kolbe, Martin Luther King Jr, the Mississippi Freedom Riders, the Standing Rock and Cheyenne River Sioux tribes protesting the transcontinental Dakota gas pipelines, , recipients of last week’s pipe bombs (all freedom fighters in my book), the Tiananmen Square “Tank Man”, Jennifer Castle and Blake Spalding, Rev. William Barber II, David Attenborough, Jane Goodall, Mahatma Gandhi, Linus Pauling, Mother Teresa, Elie Wiesel, Nelson Mandela, Yitzhak Rabin, Jimmy Carter, Shirin Ebadi, Martti Ahtisaari, Barack Obama, Bobby Kennedy, Pope Francis, Jamal Khashoggi and …..Bob Dylan.
Chimes of Freedom also go out to anyone promoting green energy, anyone standing up for the rights of the unborn through a faith-based – vs legal – position, anyone who knows how to swallow their pride, and anyone who donates large, beautiful land-holdings to the public. So too those chimes go out to doctors without borders, conservationists, organic farmers, people choosing solidarity over power, and people choosing peaceful protest over war.
And Chimes of Freedom go out to those who still believe in the words on the Statue of Liberty, particularly in these times of ugly discourse. For those in the good ol’ USA, here’s a reminder: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore”. I’m reminded of a caravan making its way through Mexico as I write this. Yes, give them to us until we are saturated. With that said, I too recognize an immigration lawyer and great friend of my wife, Nancy and mine. Madeline’s chimes of freedom ring true for the unarmed refuge.
In terms of others in my life, there is Father Peter and his profound homilies, and another friend of Nancy’s named Barbara who passed away yesterday (“the mistreated mateless mother”). Then, there’s the friends of ours who have worked their way through addictions, as well as family and friends who have donated their time to good causes. And of course, my wife and her kindly ways with others.
Finally, Chimes of Freedom go out to my daughter Charlotte, who was the tipping-point inspiration for me to write this entry. Charlotte stands for so much that is good in this world. She has connected with the oppressed in civil-strife-torn Nicaragua. She has connected with indigenous people in Panama who have pressures on their way of life. She has made strides on environmental science at the Smithsonian Institute for Tropical Ecology in Panama City. She has eloquently expressed herself in her creative writing and through her magnificent art. She has immersed herself in rainforest ecology. Charlotte is certainly one of those freedom chimers who is making it happen.
Get out and vote, folks
- Pete
Sunday, October 21, 2018
Master Blueprints # 39: "Well God Is in Heaven, and We All Want What’s His”
(Personal reflections
inspired by Bob Dylan songs)
Song: “Blind Willie McTell”
Album: The Bootleg Series Volumes 1-3 (Rare and Unreleased) 1961 - 1991
Release Date: March 1991
Count me in among a growing list of Bob Dylan fans who are in various stages of acceptance/denial regarding the distinct probability that The Bard (as many call him) most likely determined quite some time ago that his 2012 album Tempest would be his last record of originally-penned songs (Dylan has since released 3 albums of covers). I could very easily be putting foot in mouth here but listening now gives me a compelling sense that Tempest was his ‘swan song’. Yes, I’m beginning to accept that Bob Dylan is not going to try and crank em’ out all the way to his dying days, like Leonard Cohen did.
If Tempest is indeed Dylan’s final cut, it would be a truly apropos (and, at least for the time being, vastly underrated) stamp and seal on an exquisite, voluminous song-writing career. To explain why I feel this way, I’m going to take a different tact than I usually do with these blog entries. I’m going dive into the deep end out of the gate, rather than attempt to wade in and build things up, like I am usually wont to do. There’s simply too much here to ease my way in.
Ok, so I’d like to think of myself as a peace-loving, optimistic, upbeat kinda guy, but I can’t deny that I love listening to this dark and dire album, Tempest, which is loaded with songs of carnage, culminating with the second-to-last track on the album, the title track, a 14-minute epic which tackles the sinking of the Titanic. Tucked among the 45 verses of blood, sweat and tears are these three:
“The captain, barely breathing
Kneeling at the wheel
Above him and beneath him
Fifty thousand tons of steel
He looked over at his compass
And he gazed into its face
Needle pointing downward
He knew he lost the race
In the dark illumination
He remembered bygone years
He read the Book of Revelation
And he filled his cup with tears”
Alright then, as you can see above in the 3rd of 3 snipped-out stanzas there is a reference to the Bible’s final book (Revelation), and this being on, what could very possibly be Bob Dylan’s final album of original recordings. The Tempest also happens to be the title of Shakespeare’s final play, albeit with the leading article “The” in the title, as has been noted by others (namely Dylan himself when the Shakespeare title was pointed out to him). Is this song an analogy to the Bible’s Apocalypse, the central theme in Revelation? After listening over the last 3 weeks, it would not take much more to convince me. This notion could also factor with other songs that precede “Tempest” on the album, including the equally morbid/fascinating “Tin Angel”, “Scarlet Town”, and “Early Roman Kings”.
I had not come anywhere near such a conclusion until I delved deeper into the last song on the album, “Roll on John”. Most lyrics in this song are unmistakable ties to one Mr. John Winston Ono Lennon, including references to the Quarrymen (Lennon’s first band), cheap seats (high above the jewelry rattlers), “A Day in the Life”, “Come Together”, and …. his brutal murder. Aside from Bob Dylan’s reflections on that sad, tragic December New York night in 1980, one could easily conclude that this song is an anomaly on the album: An ode to a lost comrade in arms, and nothing more.
However, there are a handful of verses that clearly do not fit the concept of a tribute to John Lennon…. most notably this one:
“Sailin’ through the trade winds bound for the south
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”
This had me doing a bit of research on the web, where I came upon a mind-boggling, 16-page (pdf) synopsis of the song on an equally impressive website hosted by one Kees de Graaf: ( https://www.keesdegraaf.com/media/Misc/1882p17psou9fm1e1d41g5m9gfs11p81.pdf ). The document makes a strong case for yet another John – Saint John the Apostle – as the human reference to not just these lyrics, but also to many other lyrics in “Roll on John”. Saint John, of course, is the author of The Book of Revelation (if not the direct author, then at the very least one of two central figures for a holy ghostwriter – the other being God). According to de Graaf (and I tend to agree) the lyrics above are about Saint John’s imprisonment and slavery on the island of Patmos in the Aegean Sea, near the end of his life, when the Book of Revelation was written. Many other great points are made by Kees de Graaf on his website, including another unavoidable one I tap below, but I’ll try not steal his thunder here. I only suggest for you Bob Dylan lovers out there, that you listen to the song again and that you read the de Graaf synopsis while you are doing so.
Ok, so “Roll on John” caps off an album with numerous references to The Book of Revelation, primarily in that song. In and of itself, very cool. However, why is John Lennon in the mix? De Graaf also gets into this angle. I’ll get into that myself in a bit from my own perspective. First, I’d like to go where my mind took me from here earlier this week. In fact, things were already playing out coincidentally on the sidelines. For, as I was listening to songs off Tempest, such as the title track and “Roll on John”, I was also listening to the astonishing “Blind Willie McTell” ( https://vimeo.com/179637318 ), a song Bob Dylan had recorded in the early 80s, but which would not see the light of day until a decade later, on his The Bootleg Series Volumes 1-2 (Rare and Unreleased) 1961 – 1991.
“Blind Willie McTell” is an ode to a blues guitarist/singer who performed in the 20s, 30s and 40s. As be the case with “Roll on John” though, there is also ambiguity and seeming dissociation in this song: Martyrs in East Texas, slave ships, plantations burning, cracking of whips, the rebel yell. All leading up to the final verse:
“Well, God is in heaven
And we all want what’s his
But power and greed and corruptible seed
Seem to be all that there is
I’m gazing out the window
Of the St. James Hotel
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell”
What is it that has Bob Dylan thinking that no one can sing the blues like Blind Willie McTell? Well let’s see… if an alien were to land on Earth tomorrow and ask me to define the meaning of the Blues in a nutshell, I’d say that it’s having suffered and then being able to rise above that suffering and then finally being able to express that struggle musically from a position of strength and defiance. I believe what Dylan is saying here in this song is that Blind Willie McTell was able to express not only his own struggles, but those of a people, particularly enslaved Africans from generations prior. McTell had the grace to tap into that well of despair.
“Roll on John” and “Blind Willie McTell” together had me thinking…. what other songs in Bob Dylan’s vast catalog (over 350 songs) has he written with fellow musicians in the title and in mind? The only one I could think of was “Song to Woody”, which was one of 2 original songs on Bob Dylan’s eponymous first album in 1961 (can anyone name any others? Again, I can’t, other than the likelihood that Dylan’s brilliant ways rubbed off on Rick Danko and Robbie Robertson in their penning of “Bessie Smith”). “Woody” of course refers to Woody Guthrie, arguably the most influential musician (and man) in Dylan’s life and career.
Here’s where I became truly moved this week. Most of the lyrics in “Song to Woody” are relatively straightforward: An ode to a musical and cultural icon. It’s in the closing verse where things get heavier, and absolutely fascinating in relation to both “Blind Willie McTell”, and “Roll on John”. For this verse includes the lines… “The very last thing that I’d want to do, is to say I’ve been hittin’ some hard travelin’ too”. I reflected on those words for a while, transfixed, as I recalled Kees de Graaf’s great writeup. I was now truly appreciating his appreciation for the last verse in “Roll on John” (what is it about last verses in these 3 songs?), which goes:
“Tyger, tyger burning bright
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
In the forests of the night
Cover ‘em over and let him sleep”
Here’s part of what Kees de Graaf states about this verse: “‘cover him over and let him sleep’. Just what John the Apostle said in his Book of Revelation Chapter 14 verse 13. ‘And I heard a voice from heaven saying “Write this down: Blessed are those who die in the Lord from now on. Yes, says the Spirit, they are blessed indeed, for they will rest from their hard work; for their good deeds follow them!” “. In those closing lines of that closing song on that likely closing album, de Graaf is pointing out that the focus has shifted, from John Lennon, through Saint John to the song’s author, Mr. Bob Dylan himself. That young singer-songwriter’s wish to be “hittin’ some hard travelin’ too” has come true, has it not? What I take here in the last verse of both Dylan’s first album song and his last is that he seeks salvation and has been seeking it his entire public life. Now, he’s run the gamut and has been aware of his goals all along. The closing verse on “Roll on John” kinda puts a lid on it all.
As for “Blind Willie McTell” and its ties to “Song to Woody”, it comes down to that definition I gave of the Blues. The best musicians – the best artists for that matter – are the ones who bare their soul. By doing this, they open their minds and hearts to other struggles, be they in the present or in the distant past. Bob Dylan made a declaration early in his career right there in the lyrics to “Song to Woody”. He has stuck with it. He has followed his light. If no one can sing the blues like Blind Willie McTell, then it must too be said that no one can wax poetic in musical form like Nobel Prize winner Bob Dylan. There’s a reason for this. If you don’t stray from your muse, amazing things will happen.
And this goes for John Lennon too. Bob Dylan was not all that close with Lennon, but he was with George Harrison. My thinking is that Beatle George shed some light to Dylan on John Lennon’s character. There’s a George quote in The Beatles Anthology book that struck me when I first read it:
"John and I had a very interesting relationship. That I was younger, or I was smaller was no longer any embarrassment with John (by the mid-60s). Paul still says, 'I suppose we looked down on George because he was younger', That is an illusion people are under. It's nothing to do with how many years old you are or how big your body is. It's down to what your greater consciousness is and if you can live in harmony with what's going on in creation. John and I spent a lot of time together from then on and I felt closer to him than all the others, right through until his death. As Yoko came into the picture, I lost a lot of personal contact with John, but on the odd occasion I did see him, just by the look in his eyes I felt we were connected."
This tells me that John Lennon worked hard at his artistic craft from a greater consciousness perspective. Regardless, it’s all there in the music. So too for Woody Guthrie. And Blind Willie McTell. And of course, for Bob Dylan. If salvation can be measured by the quality of your output, and in turn the number souls you have touched, then I’m of the belief that all these musicians have a significant leg up on that ultimate quest.
- Pete
Song: “Blind Willie McTell”
Album: The Bootleg Series Volumes 1-3 (Rare and Unreleased) 1961 - 1991
Release Date: March 1991
Count me in among a growing list of Bob Dylan fans who are in various stages of acceptance/denial regarding the distinct probability that The Bard (as many call him) most likely determined quite some time ago that his 2012 album Tempest would be his last record of originally-penned songs (Dylan has since released 3 albums of covers). I could very easily be putting foot in mouth here but listening now gives me a compelling sense that Tempest was his ‘swan song’. Yes, I’m beginning to accept that Bob Dylan is not going to try and crank em’ out all the way to his dying days, like Leonard Cohen did.
If Tempest is indeed Dylan’s final cut, it would be a truly apropos (and, at least for the time being, vastly underrated) stamp and seal on an exquisite, voluminous song-writing career. To explain why I feel this way, I’m going to take a different tact than I usually do with these blog entries. I’m going dive into the deep end out of the gate, rather than attempt to wade in and build things up, like I am usually wont to do. There’s simply too much here to ease my way in.
Ok, so I’d like to think of myself as a peace-loving, optimistic, upbeat kinda guy, but I can’t deny that I love listening to this dark and dire album, Tempest, which is loaded with songs of carnage, culminating with the second-to-last track on the album, the title track, a 14-minute epic which tackles the sinking of the Titanic. Tucked among the 45 verses of blood, sweat and tears are these three:
“The captain, barely breathing
Kneeling at the wheel
Above him and beneath him
Fifty thousand tons of steel
He looked over at his compass
And he gazed into its face
Needle pointing downward
He knew he lost the race
In the dark illumination
He remembered bygone years
He read the Book of Revelation
And he filled his cup with tears”
Alright then, as you can see above in the 3rd of 3 snipped-out stanzas there is a reference to the Bible’s final book (Revelation), and this being on, what could very possibly be Bob Dylan’s final album of original recordings. The Tempest also happens to be the title of Shakespeare’s final play, albeit with the leading article “The” in the title, as has been noted by others (namely Dylan himself when the Shakespeare title was pointed out to him). Is this song an analogy to the Bible’s Apocalypse, the central theme in Revelation? After listening over the last 3 weeks, it would not take much more to convince me. This notion could also factor with other songs that precede “Tempest” on the album, including the equally morbid/fascinating “Tin Angel”, “Scarlet Town”, and “Early Roman Kings”.
I had not come anywhere near such a conclusion until I delved deeper into the last song on the album, “Roll on John”. Most lyrics in this song are unmistakable ties to one Mr. John Winston Ono Lennon, including references to the Quarrymen (Lennon’s first band), cheap seats (high above the jewelry rattlers), “A Day in the Life”, “Come Together”, and …. his brutal murder. Aside from Bob Dylan’s reflections on that sad, tragic December New York night in 1980, one could easily conclude that this song is an anomaly on the album: An ode to a lost comrade in arms, and nothing more.
However, there are a handful of verses that clearly do not fit the concept of a tribute to John Lennon…. most notably this one:
“Sailin’ through the trade winds bound for the south
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”
This had me doing a bit of research on the web, where I came upon a mind-boggling, 16-page (pdf) synopsis of the song on an equally impressive website hosted by one Kees de Graaf: ( https://www.keesdegraaf.com/media/Misc/1882p17psou9fm1e1d41g5m9gfs11p81.pdf ). The document makes a strong case for yet another John – Saint John the Apostle – as the human reference to not just these lyrics, but also to many other lyrics in “Roll on John”. Saint John, of course, is the author of The Book of Revelation (if not the direct author, then at the very least one of two central figures for a holy ghostwriter – the other being God). According to de Graaf (and I tend to agree) the lyrics above are about Saint John’s imprisonment and slavery on the island of Patmos in the Aegean Sea, near the end of his life, when the Book of Revelation was written. Many other great points are made by Kees de Graaf on his website, including another unavoidable one I tap below, but I’ll try not steal his thunder here. I only suggest for you Bob Dylan lovers out there, that you listen to the song again and that you read the de Graaf synopsis while you are doing so.
Ok, so “Roll on John” caps off an album with numerous references to The Book of Revelation, primarily in that song. In and of itself, very cool. However, why is John Lennon in the mix? De Graaf also gets into this angle. I’ll get into that myself in a bit from my own perspective. First, I’d like to go where my mind took me from here earlier this week. In fact, things were already playing out coincidentally on the sidelines. For, as I was listening to songs off Tempest, such as the title track and “Roll on John”, I was also listening to the astonishing “Blind Willie McTell” ( https://vimeo.com/179637318 ), a song Bob Dylan had recorded in the early 80s, but which would not see the light of day until a decade later, on his The Bootleg Series Volumes 1-2 (Rare and Unreleased) 1961 – 1991.
“Blind Willie McTell” is an ode to a blues guitarist/singer who performed in the 20s, 30s and 40s. As be the case with “Roll on John” though, there is also ambiguity and seeming dissociation in this song: Martyrs in East Texas, slave ships, plantations burning, cracking of whips, the rebel yell. All leading up to the final verse:
“Well, God is in heaven
And we all want what’s his
But power and greed and corruptible seed
Seem to be all that there is
I’m gazing out the window
Of the St. James Hotel
And I know no one can sing the blues
Like Blind Willie McTell”
What is it that has Bob Dylan thinking that no one can sing the blues like Blind Willie McTell? Well let’s see… if an alien were to land on Earth tomorrow and ask me to define the meaning of the Blues in a nutshell, I’d say that it’s having suffered and then being able to rise above that suffering and then finally being able to express that struggle musically from a position of strength and defiance. I believe what Dylan is saying here in this song is that Blind Willie McTell was able to express not only his own struggles, but those of a people, particularly enslaved Africans from generations prior. McTell had the grace to tap into that well of despair.
“Roll on John” and “Blind Willie McTell” together had me thinking…. what other songs in Bob Dylan’s vast catalog (over 350 songs) has he written with fellow musicians in the title and in mind? The only one I could think of was “Song to Woody”, which was one of 2 original songs on Bob Dylan’s eponymous first album in 1961 (can anyone name any others? Again, I can’t, other than the likelihood that Dylan’s brilliant ways rubbed off on Rick Danko and Robbie Robertson in their penning of “Bessie Smith”). “Woody” of course refers to Woody Guthrie, arguably the most influential musician (and man) in Dylan’s life and career.
Here’s where I became truly moved this week. Most of the lyrics in “Song to Woody” are relatively straightforward: An ode to a musical and cultural icon. It’s in the closing verse where things get heavier, and absolutely fascinating in relation to both “Blind Willie McTell”, and “Roll on John”. For this verse includes the lines… “The very last thing that I’d want to do, is to say I’ve been hittin’ some hard travelin’ too”. I reflected on those words for a while, transfixed, as I recalled Kees de Graaf’s great writeup. I was now truly appreciating his appreciation for the last verse in “Roll on John” (what is it about last verses in these 3 songs?), which goes:
“Tyger, tyger burning bright
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
In the forests of the night
Cover ‘em over and let him sleep”
Here’s part of what Kees de Graaf states about this verse: “‘cover him over and let him sleep’. Just what John the Apostle said in his Book of Revelation Chapter 14 verse 13. ‘And I heard a voice from heaven saying “Write this down: Blessed are those who die in the Lord from now on. Yes, says the Spirit, they are blessed indeed, for they will rest from their hard work; for their good deeds follow them!” “. In those closing lines of that closing song on that likely closing album, de Graaf is pointing out that the focus has shifted, from John Lennon, through Saint John to the song’s author, Mr. Bob Dylan himself. That young singer-songwriter’s wish to be “hittin’ some hard travelin’ too” has come true, has it not? What I take here in the last verse of both Dylan’s first album song and his last is that he seeks salvation and has been seeking it his entire public life. Now, he’s run the gamut and has been aware of his goals all along. The closing verse on “Roll on John” kinda puts a lid on it all.
As for “Blind Willie McTell” and its ties to “Song to Woody”, it comes down to that definition I gave of the Blues. The best musicians – the best artists for that matter – are the ones who bare their soul. By doing this, they open their minds and hearts to other struggles, be they in the present or in the distant past. Bob Dylan made a declaration early in his career right there in the lyrics to “Song to Woody”. He has stuck with it. He has followed his light. If no one can sing the blues like Blind Willie McTell, then it must too be said that no one can wax poetic in musical form like Nobel Prize winner Bob Dylan. There’s a reason for this. If you don’t stray from your muse, amazing things will happen.
And this goes for John Lennon too. Bob Dylan was not all that close with Lennon, but he was with George Harrison. My thinking is that Beatle George shed some light to Dylan on John Lennon’s character. There’s a George quote in The Beatles Anthology book that struck me when I first read it:
"John and I had a very interesting relationship. That I was younger, or I was smaller was no longer any embarrassment with John (by the mid-60s). Paul still says, 'I suppose we looked down on George because he was younger', That is an illusion people are under. It's nothing to do with how many years old you are or how big your body is. It's down to what your greater consciousness is and if you can live in harmony with what's going on in creation. John and I spent a lot of time together from then on and I felt closer to him than all the others, right through until his death. As Yoko came into the picture, I lost a lot of personal contact with John, but on the odd occasion I did see him, just by the look in his eyes I felt we were connected."
This tells me that John Lennon worked hard at his artistic craft from a greater consciousness perspective. Regardless, it’s all there in the music. So too for Woody Guthrie. And Blind Willie McTell. And of course, for Bob Dylan. If salvation can be measured by the quality of your output, and in turn the number souls you have touched, then I’m of the belief that all these musicians have a significant leg up on that ultimate quest.
- Pete
Sunday, October 14, 2018
Master Blueprints # 38: "I’m Beginning to Hear Voices. And There’s No One Around”
(Personal reflections
inspired by Bob Dylan songs)
Song: “Cold Irons Bound”
Album: Time Out of Mind
Release Date: September 1997
Autumn has always been a particularly stimulating season for me. All five senses seem to go into overdrive. I’m sure living in New England has something to do with it: The fall foliage (seen), the falling acorns (heard) the evening breeze (touched), the wood burning in the fireplace (smelled), the pumpkin pie (tasted). Perhaps as an effect of all this multi-sense stimulation, my memories tend to be retained more intensely from autumn-seasons gone by - in relation to other seasons. I’ve recently wondered if this is my brain tapping into its most primal modes of survival: Ancient ancestral genes and synapses having stored prehistoric experiences in every way possible, to best track, and to best elude.
My fall memories have played out on these blog pages over the years, most notably in relation to Halloween. Go figure! It’s not like this celebration stands out among other annual celebrations - such as Christmas, New Year’s Eve, Thanksgiving, Easter, and the Fourth of July - when it comes to special moments. But Halloween does benefit from sitting smack dab in the middle of that leaf-dropping, night-moves, wind-swept, memory-soaked time-of-year. The Halloween’s of yesteryear that I’ve devoted writeups to already are; 1) the evening I met my wife (see my The Who-centric “Under the Big Top” series entry # 16 here ) and; 2) the hilarious night my son Peter decided to don a Richard Nixon mask for trick-or-treating (see my Neil Young-centric “Forever Young” series entry # 37 here ). I’m going to add to that list here with another Halloween memory, this one much earlier in my life. But before I do, I want to tie in the Bob Dylan angle.
This is the 3rd time I’ve swung back to Time out of Mind in this Master Blueprint series. It goes to show how great of an album I think it is (the only other album with a Blueprint threepeat thus far is Bringing It All Back Home). Time out of Mind is a haunting disc, about love lost. Every song attempts to express this unique type of pain, with memories, analogies, regrets and innuendos piling up from track to track, and a likely journey down the Mississippi River (and Highway 61) cutting across it all (see Master Blueprint # 11: here ). There’s imagery everywhere on this album, with one song in particular -- the mesmerizing, bass-guitar-driven “Cold Irons Bound” -- offering up the strongest imagery of them all. Much of it comes courtesy of a single refraining line:
“20 miles out of town in Cold Irons bound”
Setting aside the fact that ‘Cold Irons’ is capitalized in the lyrics (connoting that this could be a place - as opposed to shackles - …. a place where you don’t want to be), I’d like to focus here on that more obvious image: A man in chains, twenty miles from any semblance of hope. This image is so visual to me, in ways similar to the powerful visual effect that comes with listening to “All Along the Watchtower” (see Master Blueprint # 32: here ). In my mind’s eye I see a vast forest sprawled out between the imprisoned protagonist and the town. I see darkness. I see howling wind and pouring rain. I see …. Iron Maiden album covers (now there’s one band I never thought I’d mention in this blog series). I see Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado”.
And, I see the childhood Aurora model “The Forgotten Prisoner of Castle Mare” ( here ), which my lifelong friend, Phil, had finished and painted at the base of his cellar stairs, an eerie entry into the labyrinth beyond.
Phil’s Martin Avenue home was next-door to my family’s home in my early grade school years (we moved a few blocks away when I entered 6th grade). Our homes were in an idyllic New England neighborhood in the then-small town of Franklin, Massachusetts. Old stately Victorians, along with cottage-style and farmhouse-style homes surrounded us. Equally old and stately trees lined the avenues. There was plenty of woods. There were train tracks, which were well-traveled by my friends and I. And all of it was close to a classic Bedford-Falls-style downtown.
This was all quite bucolic, but such an environment could also play games with the wild and vivid imaginations of a young adolescent, especially in the fall. Large oak trees with their rustling leaves could take on a life of their own to a wandering mind. At night, heading home from any number of friend’s homes nearby, shadows danced about. The wind made human-like howling noises. What’s around that corner? The Forgotten Prisoner coming back to seek revenge on anyone who dared cross his path? I’m tellin’ ya, when I hear that driving Tony Garnier bass beat kicking off Bob Dylan’s “Cold Irons Bound”, it’s like the soundtrack to those spooky moments.
It was during one of those Autumn nights in our home on Martin Ave, just before Halloween, when my parents and their closest hometown friends, the Rappa’s, gathered all their kids (along with Phil and another neighbor friend, Jeff) down into the cellar. We sat in a circle. Not soon after, the lights went out, excepting for a candle which flickered on a small table beside Mr. Rappa, who commenced to reading an unfamiliar poem called “The Terrible Ghost Story” from a thick book of many short poems. It began “There was a man named Joshua Brown, who disappeared one night from town”. That caught our attention.
After each verse, Mr. Rappa hesitated in order that we could take in the gruesome details of a fictional murder victim being discovered one body part at a time (i.e. “as they searched the fields and lanes, they came upon the victim’s veins”). The breaks in the action were highlighted by our parents in two ways. The first of these were recommendations in the book, whereby a given ‘body part’ (food items, such as grapes for eyes) had been pre-prepared in baggies. These items would be passed around from one trembling, blinded, nervously-giggling kid to the next (the poem is at the end of this post, including the suggested food items in parenthesis…. you can probably guess ahead what item was used for those veins). The second highlight was much more impromptu; my Dad whacking the oil tank in the rear of the basement with a baseball bat after each verse, to produce a loud, horrifying GONG (we eventually got a kick out it).
This was a hugely successful coup by my parents and the Rappa’s, seeing as none of us kids would ever forget it. However, our Mom’s and Dad’s would have to deal with the immediate after effects for a spell. I for one didn’t sleep all that great that evening, or subsequent evenings for that matter, and I’m pretty sure the same went for my friends and siblings. My buddy, Jeff, had to head back to his home in the dark that evening, which was less than a block away (we could see his home from ours). I watched him out the window with my Mom. I have to say, I’ve never seen anyone move that fast before or since. The long-term effect was much more positive though. Moments like the one my parents and their friends created in that dark basement can be expansive to the imagination of a young mind; indelible, often in unforeseen ways. Counterintuitively, I believe it’s the sort of thing that can have you ultimately overcoming your fears.
It took me decades to track down “The Terrible Ghost Story” again, which I accomplished about 15 years ago. At the time, I preserved the poem in its entirety. However, for the life of me I could not find it one last time this week, in order that I could credit the author, who I do not recall. I apologize up front to the author (as well as anyone reading this whose name is Joshua Brown). If anybody can track down the poem’s author, I’d be grateful, and I will subsequently include it here.
As for “Cold Irons Bound”, it’s these same terrorized emotions that Bob Dylan tries to pull out of us in this song (how else could you interpret a song that begins with the lyrics “I’m beginning to hear voices, and there’s no one around”). Since I cannot find the original bass-driven version on line I’ll have to settle for this alternate take (I recommend the original though): Cold Irons Bound alternate take
Keep alert in the night air, folks. And be careful of what might be behind that large oak tree up ahead.
Boo!
- Pete
Song: “Cold Irons Bound”
Album: Time Out of Mind
Release Date: September 1997
Autumn has always been a particularly stimulating season for me. All five senses seem to go into overdrive. I’m sure living in New England has something to do with it: The fall foliage (seen), the falling acorns (heard) the evening breeze (touched), the wood burning in the fireplace (smelled), the pumpkin pie (tasted). Perhaps as an effect of all this multi-sense stimulation, my memories tend to be retained more intensely from autumn-seasons gone by - in relation to other seasons. I’ve recently wondered if this is my brain tapping into its most primal modes of survival: Ancient ancestral genes and synapses having stored prehistoric experiences in every way possible, to best track, and to best elude.
My fall memories have played out on these blog pages over the years, most notably in relation to Halloween. Go figure! It’s not like this celebration stands out among other annual celebrations - such as Christmas, New Year’s Eve, Thanksgiving, Easter, and the Fourth of July - when it comes to special moments. But Halloween does benefit from sitting smack dab in the middle of that leaf-dropping, night-moves, wind-swept, memory-soaked time-of-year. The Halloween’s of yesteryear that I’ve devoted writeups to already are; 1) the evening I met my wife (see my The Who-centric “Under the Big Top” series entry # 16 here ) and; 2) the hilarious night my son Peter decided to don a Richard Nixon mask for trick-or-treating (see my Neil Young-centric “Forever Young” series entry # 37 here ). I’m going to add to that list here with another Halloween memory, this one much earlier in my life. But before I do, I want to tie in the Bob Dylan angle.
This is the 3rd time I’ve swung back to Time out of Mind in this Master Blueprint series. It goes to show how great of an album I think it is (the only other album with a Blueprint threepeat thus far is Bringing It All Back Home). Time out of Mind is a haunting disc, about love lost. Every song attempts to express this unique type of pain, with memories, analogies, regrets and innuendos piling up from track to track, and a likely journey down the Mississippi River (and Highway 61) cutting across it all (see Master Blueprint # 11: here ). There’s imagery everywhere on this album, with one song in particular -- the mesmerizing, bass-guitar-driven “Cold Irons Bound” -- offering up the strongest imagery of them all. Much of it comes courtesy of a single refraining line:
“20 miles out of town in Cold Irons bound”
Setting aside the fact that ‘Cold Irons’ is capitalized in the lyrics (connoting that this could be a place - as opposed to shackles - …. a place where you don’t want to be), I’d like to focus here on that more obvious image: A man in chains, twenty miles from any semblance of hope. This image is so visual to me, in ways similar to the powerful visual effect that comes with listening to “All Along the Watchtower” (see Master Blueprint # 32: here ). In my mind’s eye I see a vast forest sprawled out between the imprisoned protagonist and the town. I see darkness. I see howling wind and pouring rain. I see …. Iron Maiden album covers (now there’s one band I never thought I’d mention in this blog series). I see Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado”.
And, I see the childhood Aurora model “The Forgotten Prisoner of Castle Mare” ( here ), which my lifelong friend, Phil, had finished and painted at the base of his cellar stairs, an eerie entry into the labyrinth beyond.
Phil’s Martin Avenue home was next-door to my family’s home in my early grade school years (we moved a few blocks away when I entered 6th grade). Our homes were in an idyllic New England neighborhood in the then-small town of Franklin, Massachusetts. Old stately Victorians, along with cottage-style and farmhouse-style homes surrounded us. Equally old and stately trees lined the avenues. There was plenty of woods. There were train tracks, which were well-traveled by my friends and I. And all of it was close to a classic Bedford-Falls-style downtown.
This was all quite bucolic, but such an environment could also play games with the wild and vivid imaginations of a young adolescent, especially in the fall. Large oak trees with their rustling leaves could take on a life of their own to a wandering mind. At night, heading home from any number of friend’s homes nearby, shadows danced about. The wind made human-like howling noises. What’s around that corner? The Forgotten Prisoner coming back to seek revenge on anyone who dared cross his path? I’m tellin’ ya, when I hear that driving Tony Garnier bass beat kicking off Bob Dylan’s “Cold Irons Bound”, it’s like the soundtrack to those spooky moments.
It was during one of those Autumn nights in our home on Martin Ave, just before Halloween, when my parents and their closest hometown friends, the Rappa’s, gathered all their kids (along with Phil and another neighbor friend, Jeff) down into the cellar. We sat in a circle. Not soon after, the lights went out, excepting for a candle which flickered on a small table beside Mr. Rappa, who commenced to reading an unfamiliar poem called “The Terrible Ghost Story” from a thick book of many short poems. It began “There was a man named Joshua Brown, who disappeared one night from town”. That caught our attention.
After each verse, Mr. Rappa hesitated in order that we could take in the gruesome details of a fictional murder victim being discovered one body part at a time (i.e. “as they searched the fields and lanes, they came upon the victim’s veins”). The breaks in the action were highlighted by our parents in two ways. The first of these were recommendations in the book, whereby a given ‘body part’ (food items, such as grapes for eyes) had been pre-prepared in baggies. These items would be passed around from one trembling, blinded, nervously-giggling kid to the next (the poem is at the end of this post, including the suggested food items in parenthesis…. you can probably guess ahead what item was used for those veins). The second highlight was much more impromptu; my Dad whacking the oil tank in the rear of the basement with a baseball bat after each verse, to produce a loud, horrifying GONG (we eventually got a kick out it).
This was a hugely successful coup by my parents and the Rappa’s, seeing as none of us kids would ever forget it. However, our Mom’s and Dad’s would have to deal with the immediate after effects for a spell. I for one didn’t sleep all that great that evening, or subsequent evenings for that matter, and I’m pretty sure the same went for my friends and siblings. My buddy, Jeff, had to head back to his home in the dark that evening, which was less than a block away (we could see his home from ours). I watched him out the window with my Mom. I have to say, I’ve never seen anyone move that fast before or since. The long-term effect was much more positive though. Moments like the one my parents and their friends created in that dark basement can be expansive to the imagination of a young mind; indelible, often in unforeseen ways. Counterintuitively, I believe it’s the sort of thing that can have you ultimately overcoming your fears.
It took me decades to track down “The Terrible Ghost Story” again, which I accomplished about 15 years ago. At the time, I preserved the poem in its entirety. However, for the life of me I could not find it one last time this week, in order that I could credit the author, who I do not recall. I apologize up front to the author (as well as anyone reading this whose name is Joshua Brown). If anybody can track down the poem’s author, I’d be grateful, and I will subsequently include it here.
As for “Cold Irons Bound”, it’s these same terrorized emotions that Bob Dylan tries to pull out of us in this song (how else could you interpret a song that begins with the lyrics “I’m beginning to hear voices, and there’s no one around”). Since I cannot find the original bass-driven version on line I’ll have to settle for this alternate take (I recommend the original though): Cold Irons Bound alternate take
Keep alert in the night air, folks. And be careful of what might be behind that large oak tree up ahead.
Boo!
- Pete
The Terrible
Ghost Story
There was a man named Joshua Brown
Who disappeared one night from town.
His friends with fearful thoughts were filled.
Where is he now? Has he been killed?
The proof they had right from the start.
They were almost sure when the found a part.
A part of Brown,you've soon to know
What they found was his big toe ( Have kids feel a piece of carrot)
It was too bad he had to die,
What they found next was his right eye? (grape)
Too bad he had to die so young
The next part found was Joshua's tongue.( a few slices of deli meat)
"Who done him in? The robbers band?"
They asked as they found Josh's hand ( wet glove filled with sand)
We must be sure: We must have proof!
Ah, Here's a clue! It's Josh's tooth. ( a wig or a small stone for tooth)
As they searched the fields and lanes,
They came upon the victim's veins. ( cold, cooked spaghetti)
They screamed, they showed their grief and pain,
What next they found was poor Josh's brain. (damp sponge)
They knew J. Brown was surely dead,
When they picked up his only head. (head of cabbage)
The ghosts will talk, the witches fly,
No one will speak. None saw him die.
Oh, who could be so cruelly mean,
And kill Josh Brown on Halloween!
There was a man named Joshua Brown
Who disappeared one night from town.
His friends with fearful thoughts were filled.
Where is he now? Has he been killed?
The proof they had right from the start.
They were almost sure when the found a part.
A part of Brown,you've soon to know
What they found was his big toe ( Have kids feel a piece of carrot)
It was too bad he had to die,
What they found next was his right eye? (grape)
Too bad he had to die so young
The next part found was Joshua's tongue.( a few slices of deli meat)
"Who done him in? The robbers band?"
They asked as they found Josh's hand ( wet glove filled with sand)
We must be sure: We must have proof!
Ah, Here's a clue! It's Josh's tooth. ( a wig or a small stone for tooth)
As they searched the fields and lanes,
They came upon the victim's veins. ( cold, cooked spaghetti)
They screamed, they showed their grief and pain,
What next they found was poor Josh's brain. (damp sponge)
They knew J. Brown was surely dead,
When they picked up his only head. (head of cabbage)
The ghosts will talk, the witches fly,
No one will speak. None saw him die.
Oh, who could be so cruelly mean,
And kill Josh Brown on Halloween!
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