(Personal reflections
inspired by Bob Dylan songs)
Song: “Handy Dandy”
Album: Under the Red Sky
Release Date: September
1990
Life and lyrics have converged often in
these Music and Memory writeups, but
rarely in the way that they did this past week. I’d been listening to Bob
Dylan’s 27th studio album, Under
the Red Sky searching for inspiration in the music and words, as I always
do. The album, which is dedicated to Dylan’s
then four-year-old daughter, “Gabby Goo Goo” (Desiree Gabrielle Dylan), is
chockfull of nursery-rhyme-like lyrics, which is all fine and ‘dandy’, particularly
seeing as this theme would ultimately lead to my talking points this week. However, I initially ran into detours (hence
the lengthy gap between entries) which can be attributed to the strong
likelihood that Under the Red Sky will
not go down in history as anywhere near one of Bob Dylan’s best efforts. Relatively speaking, it’s a somewhat disjointed
product, lacking cohesion. You get the
sense that if just a little more attention was given to one aspect or another,
that a much clearer artistic statement would have emerged. And so, early on I was struggling to make the
type of connection that I needed to make to write something related to it that
was compelling.
But as with virtually all of Bob Dylan’s
projects, there’s an aura to Under the
Red Sky that inevitably peaks your curiosity and draws you in. In this case, that process started for me when
I picked up on occasional bizarre lyrics sprinkled in among much more standard
fare (for nursery rhymes). Soon those lyrics were jumping out at me left and
right, including “Wiggle till you vomit
fire” in the opening track “Wiggle Wiggle” (which was universally slammed by
critics upon release); as well as “One
day the man in the moon went home and the river went dry” in the impressive
title track; and finally “Handy dandy, if
every bone in his body were broken he would never admit it” in this week’s Master Blueprint “Handy
Dandy” ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xrrsAuzI0hU ) . A
persuasive viewpoint was settling in my mind that one should never think that a
nursery rhyme needs to be sugarcoated. After
making these inroads, I persisted, and soon enough the wheels began to churn as
my own childhood wonderments seeped in.
Typically, I will pull my talking points
together for a blog entry as I listen to the music in my car or in my mind’s
eye while jogging or hiking. This time,
however, my most inspiring moments came literally in my own backyard. Why didn’t I optimize on this locale before? Ok, let me explain: There’s a Zen-like location
in my backyard that is like no other place for me. It’s by our fish/frog pond (complete with
waterfall), which I built about 14 years ago.
In that spot I can sit and zorb out for hours on end, without a need for
reading material or company. I just
glance around and take in my surroundings.
The pond itself is the most tranquil
element of this pastoral backyard world, replete with koi and goldfish, as well
as green frogs, who make their way to this oasis from nearby wetlands every
year (this year, at least 8 have settled in around the edges). An abundance of wildflowers has thrived in
and around the pond too, including burweed; a type of wetland reed grass that
daughter Charlotte transplanted from a local stream not long after the pond was
built. And mayapple, which in May
springs up from the ground, mimicking a cluster of Lilliputian palm trees.
The original intent of designing the pond
was not so much for koi as it was to have a place where Charlotte, as well as
my son Peter and their friends could deposit creatures that were collected from
nearby streams, including dragonfly nymphs and mayfly nymphs, as well as
mussels, crayfish, catfish, slugs, and I’m sure a handful of other creatures
that are slipping my mind. As the kids
have grown older, this activity has faded, but just the sight of the pond
brings back those memories for all of us.
And just this spring, as I was cleaning out the pond of debris after a
tough winter, I spotted a hellgrammite (a dobsonfly nymph) which is the sign of
a healthy, balanced biome, and a sign that perhaps some of those transplanted
creatures decided their once new home was a perfect place for decedents.
The pond is about 40 feet from the back
door. To connect the two, I came up with
a patio design in the shape of a river network, which has the effect (for me
anyway) of the waterfall pouring into that real pond, then ‘continuing’ onto
the patio which ‘flows’ as flagstone from a small pond shape to a river shape
to a large pond shape to the back door.
In the middle of the backyard, just beyond the patio is a firepit, which
we also built; a cast iron ring within a brick ring… the latter separating the
blaze from the crowd. Stately oaks and
maples, as well as white and red pine, crown much of this, and tucked within
them is another memory for the kids; a treehouse, which was the first thing I
built in the yard, and which amazingly remains standing. It’s one of my proudest achievements in terms
of the use of my hands to build something, but that’s a story for another time.
Anyhow, I’m sitting in this home-haven-location
earlier in the week, this time with my wife Nancy, enjoying a peaceful end to a
long day when the lyrics to (arguably) the best song on Under the Red Sky, “Handy Dandy” popped into my head. Those lyrics are in the title of this entry,
but I’ll repeat here for the sheer enjoyment of doing so: “Sitting with a girl named Nancy in a garden feelin’ kinda lazy”. It was fleeting at first, this synergistic thought,
but it did not take long for a domino effect to kick in. I went back to the song and started listening
with more intent. “Handy Dandy” has been
dissected by several very insightful souls on the web ( https://www.expectingrain.com/discussions/viewtopic.php?f=6&t=64707 ). They see lines
of lyrics that reference the Sermon on the Mount, and lines that are
confessional, among other factoids. I’m
not going to attempt to add to those discussion points here. What I will hone in on, however is the
fairytale element, because, first off, this appears to be the central concept of
the album, and secondly, the fairytale angle is at the core of why I got that
lightbulb moment in my backyard.
This summer has been an unusually active
one for wildlife in our backyard. Along
with the fish, frogs, and hellgrammites, a bear loped through in the late
spring (in turn, having to contend with the no-win predicament of a stare-down
with Nancy). Both red shouldered hawks
and barred owls have decided to call the forest immediately behind and adjacent
to our home…their home as well. The call
of the pileated woodpecker has echoed around us and we occasionally spot them
darting between the trees like an alien spaceship. There have been voles, moles, shrews, and
flying squirrels, along with bats, opossum and deer. There have been
dragonflies and butterflies by the dozens, as well as katydid, cicada,
treefrogs, garter snakes, and a woodchuck the size of a racoon (not good for
the garden). And of course, there have
been a broad range of birds in both variety and abundance: Hummingbirds, jays,
cardinals, goldfinch, doves, robins, chickadees, nuthatch, titmice, oriole,
flicker, bunting, waxwing, wren, and kingbirds to name a few. Chipmunks scurry about at my feet. Red and Grey Squirrels challenge me to a staring match.
Yes, this backyard summer has had its share
of moments where I’ve felt an affiliation with Dr. Doolittle, St. Anthony, and….
the Scroobius Pip.
The Scroobius Pip? What manner of beast is this? I’m glad you ask. The Scroobius Pip is a character from an
Edward Lear poem of the same name that may have had the greatest effect on me as
a child when it comes to nursery rhymes. In the poem, the Scroobius Pip is the Pied Piper
of the entire animal world ( http://www.nonsenselit.org/Lear/pw/pip.html ). He’s a bizarre
looking chimera-of-a-dude who gains the fascination of all the earth’s
creatures through imitation. He does
this by inheriting the best body part of each of them (much like a
platypus). The poem starts “The Scroobiusb Pip went out one day, when
the grass was green, and the sky was grey”.
When the animals ask if he’s bird, beast, fish, or insect, he answers in
riddle and rhyme: “Chippetty Flip;
Flippety Chip; My only name is the Scroobius Pip”.
When I was a boy I loved the wild world of
animals, from okapi, to tapir, to aardvark, to platypus, and was for the most
part very serious about this passion. The Scroobius Pip was one way to add a
little bizarre fun and imagination to the mix.
It’s an important piece of the pie for any child who gets in deep with
any subject matter, be it dinosaurs, cars, dolls, whatever. And the more edge there is to that piece of
the pie, the better. That edge can be
witty, bizarre, scary, even a little dark.
Without it, children’s stories – heck all stories for that matter – can
ring hollow.
Bob Dylan of course, understands this. In fact, I’d go much further and say that
he’s done a helluva of an amazing job bringing that angle back into all his songs, particularly those that played out on his fantastic series of
albums that followed Under the Red Sky.
Perhaps this album was a pivot; an attempt to bring back some of his old self. I hear all sorts of old and new Dylan on Under the Red Sky now. I hear “Quinn the Eskimo”, “Senor”, “Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of
Hearts”, “Tweedledee and Tweedledum”, “Jokerman” and “Tempest”. As with all those brilliant tunes (several of
which I have written about already), Dylan adds a human touch to songs on Under the Red Sky, most notably “Handy
Dandy”. Case in point, his stuttering of the line “Boy you’re t-talkin’ crazy”. It’s intentional (he does the same thing on
alternate takes that he does on the studio version). It’s fun.
Indeed, it’s almost childlike in its delivery.
Back to my back yard. I suppose I’ve created an adult fantasy
world; a carryover of my childhood. It’s
where I allow my younger self to take over, assisted by a flurry of wildlife
this year, large and small, winged and slithering, climbing and tunneling,
swimming and hopping, chirping and hooting.
The Scroobius Pip would feel comfortable in such a locale. So too, I think, would Bob Dylan.
Riddle Me This!
- Pete
Saturday, September 22, 2018
Friday, September 7, 2018
Master Blueprints # 34: "I See My Light Come Shining, From the West unto the East”
(Personal reflections inspired by Bob Dylan songs)
Song: “I Shall Be Released”
Album: The Basement Tapes Raw
Release Date: November 2014
Pilgrimage 2 of 3
Back in Master Blueprint # 10, I wrote of my pilgrimage-like visit to Bob Dylan’s hometown of Hibbing Minnesota in March, which occurred during an advantageous work trip to nearby International Falls. While there, I gained some great new insights into the man and his music by meeting up with a pair of Lindas (Stroback and Whiteside), who were local experts on all things Dylan, and who were more than gracious with their time, expertise, and openheartedness. At the time, I considered that trip a one-off experience for this blog series; a fortuitous opportunity to write an entry based on a personal visit to the place where Bob Dylan spent his formative years.
Here’s the thing, however… like many of us, Bob Dylan has had multiple lifeblood homes, and one of the most important ones, Woodstock, New York in the Catskills, has been gnawing at me for at least 30 years. I mean, I’ve been all around the periphery of this Appalachian plateau, including the Taconic Region to the East; the Big Apple to the South; Albany, Cooperstown and Binghamton to the North; and even the Delaware Water Gap and the Poconos on the far side. Yeah, I’d pretty much orbited the Catskills, and yet, amazingly I had never landed my ship anywhere within them.
That changed this past Monday, and it was for the most part a spur of the moment decision. The notion began to seep in two evenings earlier as I sat by the small homemade fish pond in my Pepperell, Massachusetts backyard, watching the sunset. As was the case with Hibbing, I was once again seeing “my light come shining from the west unto the east”. Indeed, this was the spontaneous, fate-driven side of me whispering in my ear; the side that used to be much more successful at pulling off such capers. By Sunday morning, the thought had evolved enough to run the crazy idea by my wife Nancy who, seeing that I was serious, pondered a moment or two before deciding it was best I go it alone. I was bummed but at the same time I knew this would give me more opportunity to focus, as well as the flexibility to play lots of Bob Dylan music – and do it loudly - from the minute I stepped into my car that early morning to the minute I stepped out that late evening (which I indeed did do). It would also allow me to take a few minor risks without involving Nancy, which I will explain. (Side Note: For those who are curious about the “Pilgrimage 2 of 3” at the top of this entry, good for you. Yeah, I have another one in mind by year’s end, and I hope to have company. More on that of course in a later entry).
I awoke at 6 am that Monday morning and set off for the Mass Pike, where I commenced to head westbound to its terminus and beyond into the Empire State. Within 4 hours of pulling out of my driveway, I found myself on the other side of the Hudson River, down NY Thruway 87, and taking Exit 20, Saugerties, Woodstock, New York. Saugerties was a name almost as familiar to me as its far more famous neighboring town to the west. This after all was the town where three of the five members of the Band - Rick Danko, Richard Manuel, and Garth Hudson - found and purchased an unassuming ranch home in early 1967, which they dubbed “Big Pink”. Big Pink is where the Band and Bob Dylan would privately record the renowned “Basement Tapes” over a 5-month period that spring and summer (see Master Blueprint # 12). And Big Pink is where I would be making my first planned visit.
But first some breakfast, which I tracked down at a classic eatery in downtown Saugerties called The Village Diner. This brief visit would lead to my first bizarro moment of a brilliantly bizarro day. I was walking along the sidewalk in front of the diner, not quite at the point of turning onto the ramp which would lead me up and inside, when a gentleman at the top of the ramp turned around and called down to me as he was making his way in. “Is that a book about diners in your hand?” he asked with a heavy British accent. Huh? What prompted that? I started to raise my book to show him it was Clinton Heylin’s voluminous Bob Dylan biography Behind the Shades Revisited. Before I could elaborate in word, he took in what he saw and stated “oh, much better than diners”. I suddenly thought, this one way ‘exchange’ must be my version of “This Englishman said ‘Fab’” (for those of you climbing the Dylan-lyric-ladder, look it up). He then went on to ask, “why do they call them diners anyway? We have nothing of the sort overseas”. It was a strange observation to make, particularly because ‘diner’ is the kind of name that is as obvious to me as ‘fire station’ or ‘bowling alley’. I had no answer for him to speak of. He tipped his hat and moseyed on into the diner. I soon followed.
One thing that this encounter established for me was that it made me feel right at home in this Sleepy Hollow region of New York. Saugerties had a New England touch for sure, starting with that diner. Soon I would be driving the twisting, hilly, woodsy country roads, which also had a regional familiarity. Most important, it all gave me a sense of kinship with Bob Dylan and The Band, all of whom fell in love with Woodstock and its surrounding hamlets.
After a hearty breakfast, I headed for the hills, in search of Big Pink. Within minutes I passed a street named “Happy Road”, noting at about the same time that I was driving on “Buddy’s Highway”. I then passed a pair of homemade signs 20 or so yards apart, the first which read “Chantilly Lace” followed by “And A Pretty Face”. This was a funky, eclectic region, Woodstock. I forked off the main road and soon found Band Camp Road. I was getting close. The hairpin turns of Stoll Rd were next, which lead me to Parnassus Lane, my anticipated destination. My first venture down that dirt road was ah, hesitant. There were at least four No Trespassing signs and as I inched my car forward I could see up ahead what looked to be a somewhat intimidating ramshackle dwelling with several trailers and an old home on the lot. It also looked like the end of the road, with clearly no Big Pink in sight. I turned around back to Stoll Road. A little way down Stoll, I stopped and knocked on a door. A nice fella answered, heard me out, and told me I was on the right track. That ramshackle property, he stated, was owned by a peaceful hippie, and when you reached his home, the road made a sharp, almost hidden turn where it would drop down to reveal Big Pink. I went back, and ‘lo and behold’, that’s precisely how it played out.
The structure was unmistakable, and still pink to boot. I stared for a few moments, transfixed, and trying to see if I could hear remnant reverberations from long ago original renditions of “Odd and Ends”, “Don’t Ya Tell Henry”, “Tiny Montgomery” along with so many other songs performed in that ground-level basement in front of me, the remainder of the home looming above. It was clear that no one was home. I took a few selfies in front of it, recalling several famous images of the Band on that lawn (linked below are images of me and The Band for compare/contrast). I then loitered about for a few more moments before getting in my car and turning back up the dirt road, satisfied with my experience. As I passed back by the hippie home, I spotted a psychedelic sign that read “Woodstock Museum Free Film Fest Aug 30 – Sept 4, 13 Charles Bach Rd. Saugerties, NY”. Hmm. I stopped, got out of the car and, since I heard music emanating from one of the trailers (60s music, what else?), I knocked on that door. A voice inside asked who it was. After proceeding to say I was interested in hearing more about the museum, he stated he’d be out in 5 minutes.
Five minutes later a kindly looking man with a great big Santa beard walked out to greet me. His name was Sion Mitrany, and in a brief 30 minutes our conversation covered a lot of ground, from Bob Dylan, to antiwar protests, to the Mafia. Sion then led me back down the hill to Big Pink, where he took a film of me describing why I was there. He said he does this with anyone who will let him, and that he’s in the process of putting together a documentary. I thought I nailed it, talking about my blog site. I hope to post the video on a future entry. Anyhow, Sion put a perfect personal stamp onto my Big Pink visit, in similar ways to what Linda Stroback and Linda Whiteside did for me in Hibbing. I told him so.
Sion concluded our chat with a brief description of the Woodstock Museum, and its owners, Nate and Shelly (“lovely people”) and then gave me directions (which were excellent). As I departed he stated he would be at a place called “The Lodge” later that afternoon to watch some Reggae music and he invited me to meet him there. I replied that this was entirely plausible, but in the back of my mind I was thinking my focus by that time of day would likely be to settle in somewhere for a few hours and start writing. We said our goodbyes, and I drove off.
As I got to the end of Parnassus Lane, I pulled over and called Nancy. Just then a pickup truck pulled up and an enthusiastic guy behind the wheel asked if this was the way to Big Pink (“he said his name was Columbus, and I just said ‘Good Luck’” – again look it up). His pet beagle looked just as excited as he did. I told him he was pretty-much there and to not be intimated by the signs or the ramshackle home at the bend. He then reminded me that it was the 50th Anniversary of The Band’s Music from Big Pink (he thought it was to the day, but when I looked it up later that evening, I saw the album was released earlier that summer of ’68). Anyhow, I wished him a nice pilgrimage and suggested he should try to connect with Sion. Nancy was listening to all this over the phone. We got back on the phone and I brought her up-to-date. She could tell that my spontaneous, venture-creating self was back in the saddle.
The 5-mile drive to the Woodstock Museum was mostly uphill and windy. I thought about the high-speed driving accidents Levon Helm, Rick Danko, and Richard Manuel were all involved in on these roads, having read both Helm’s and Robbie Robertson’s autobiographies. I wondered if I was driving past any of those scenes now. When I arrived at the museum, I immediately felt immersed in a hippie haven. It was not long before I met Nate, who emerged from his offices next to the indoor theatre. He told me a bit about the film running at that moment, which was the story of a son reflecting on his father’s life as he read the letter’s his Dad wrote from Vietnam before he was killed in combat. It was clear the lessons Nate gained from that period would never be lost on him. He then talked about the upcoming 50th Anniversary of the historic Woodstock Festival. Plans were coming together, and the Museum would be very much involved in the festivities.
I went inside the film room and watched some of the movie, which appeared to be half way through. There were at least 20 people in the darkness of the small theatre. When I emerged back into daylight, Nate was sitting on the porch with Shelly. I sat with them for a while. They were very cordial. At one point, Nate told me about the period when Rick Danko was once his landlord. One day Nate called Danko to tell him the pipes were leaking. The Band’s gifted bass player showed up with a plunger. When he saw the situation was a bit more serious then what he was prepared for, he said to Nate “ah, let’s just roll a big fatty and call the plumber”. I laughed. It sounded just like I would imagine Rick Danko, one of the most laidback musicians in rock and roll history (along with his 2 Big Pink roommates). Shelly was a bit more serious on the subject, expressing head shaking dismay at having lost so many of her friends and contemporaries to substance abuse and its after-effects, including 2 (arguably 3) members of the Band – the same three who just so happened to be in those local highspeed car accidents all those years ago - as well as several significant-others Shelly knew who were close to them. I respected Shelly’s viewpoint for sure.
My next stop was Levon Helm’s studio barn, where his “Midnight Rambles” occurred in the years before his passing. Sion had mentioned that Sandy Helm, Levon’s widow who still lived there, was a very nice human being with a heart of gold, and if I were to see her during my visit to let her know Sion sent me (also adding she often comes out to greet people). I pulled down the long driveway while thinking “if Bob Dylan can prowl around Neil Young and Bruce Springsteen’s old homes at all hours, why can’t I do something similar?”. Anyhow, there are still rambles taking place here, which kinda makes it a public place (unfortunately, nothing was scheduled until the following weekend). I was alone with my thoughts as I parked my car in front of the very cool looking structure – complete with classy artistic touches - which included the Helm home. The Band’s aura was everywhere here, just as it was at Big Pink. The feel was joyous, and for that reason more than any, I left Sandy Helm at peace on that lovely mid-afternoon, refraining from knocking on the door.
My unofficial tour was pretty much complete, but I still had downtown Woodstock to visit, which was a short jaunt out of the woods from Levon Helm’s home. My first stop was the prior-mentioned rustic “The Lodge” where I talked briefly with one of the employees about rates as I flirted with the idea of staying the night. The Lodge is the standard locale in town for musicians and other performers who need a place to lay their head after a night of music. The employee told me she was convinced she’d found the right place to work when Bill Murray walked in earlier that year, making her day with his engaging demeanor.
Next, I tracked down Albert Grossman’s Bearsville Complex, but it took me a while to find, due to the fact it was in a smaller section of Woodstock (Bearsville) about 2 miles from downtown. The classy Bear Café is on that Complex premises, hovering over a bubbling stream like a treehouse. Recent renovations gave it an upscale feel, but it retains a rock and roll charm with classic photos that adorn the walls. Along with Bob Dylan and the Band, Albert Grossman managed Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, both of whom loved the region, and each were represented on those Café walls. I decided not to stay. The atmosphere was not quite right for my muse, but the bartender recommended the Station Bar closer to town, which turned out to be funky, yet again, not quite right. It was not until I stepped into the upstairs section of Joshua’s Café a few blocks away from the Station, that I felt I could settle in. And settle in I did, for two hours, getting most of my key points in print so I could flesh them out later.
After contemplating my next move, which included that Reggae show and a night stay at The Lodge, I decided I had what it took to head home. On the way out of town, I spotted homemade signs again, very similar to the “Chantilly Lace” ones I saw on the way in that morning. These ones, however, said “CD’s Vinyl, next left!” I turned around after missing the mark and pulled into a neighborhood cul-de-sac with a large tent smack in the middle, housing.....cd’s and vinyl. I pulled up, got out of the car, and asked one of the worker bees where the Dylan section was. I was skeptical of finding something that I really wanted, having pretty much exhausted those avenues over the past year and a half. But wouldn’t you know, the first disk I spotted was the soundtrack to “I’m Not There”, which had slipped through the cracks for me.
After making the purchase, I hopped in the car and slipped disc 1 in the player. Each Dylan song on that extensive playlist was heavy, emotional, and beautifully covered by a range of musicians from Eddie Vedder to Willie Nelson. Every word “rang true and glowed like burnin’ coal”. It’s arguably the best set of Dylan “Blueprint” interpretations of them all, but I left room for the fact that, perhaps my ‘Woodstock Day’ had something to do with my level of enjoyment too. As I cruised North on Highway 87 along the mighty Hudson River, headed for home, I got to a cover song by a band I had never heard before, who were majestically tackling The Basement Tapes song “Goin’ to Acapulco”. I quickly glanced at the cd sleeve and identified the singer as Jim James (of My Morning Jacket fame) and the band as Calexico. When I looked back up, an exit sign came into view which read “Next Exit: Coxsackie”. I did a double take. Calexico/Coxsakie. Close enough to completely juxtapose in my mind. And close enough to cap off my brilliantly bizarro Catskill Monday.
I shall be released? ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjtPBjEz-BA ). If only for a day, yeah…. If only for a day
- Pete
Song: “I Shall Be Released”
Album: The Basement Tapes Raw
Release Date: November 2014
Pilgrimage 2 of 3
Back in Master Blueprint # 10, I wrote of my pilgrimage-like visit to Bob Dylan’s hometown of Hibbing Minnesota in March, which occurred during an advantageous work trip to nearby International Falls. While there, I gained some great new insights into the man and his music by meeting up with a pair of Lindas (Stroback and Whiteside), who were local experts on all things Dylan, and who were more than gracious with their time, expertise, and openheartedness. At the time, I considered that trip a one-off experience for this blog series; a fortuitous opportunity to write an entry based on a personal visit to the place where Bob Dylan spent his formative years.
Here’s the thing, however… like many of us, Bob Dylan has had multiple lifeblood homes, and one of the most important ones, Woodstock, New York in the Catskills, has been gnawing at me for at least 30 years. I mean, I’ve been all around the periphery of this Appalachian plateau, including the Taconic Region to the East; the Big Apple to the South; Albany, Cooperstown and Binghamton to the North; and even the Delaware Water Gap and the Poconos on the far side. Yeah, I’d pretty much orbited the Catskills, and yet, amazingly I had never landed my ship anywhere within them.
That changed this past Monday, and it was for the most part a spur of the moment decision. The notion began to seep in two evenings earlier as I sat by the small homemade fish pond in my Pepperell, Massachusetts backyard, watching the sunset. As was the case with Hibbing, I was once again seeing “my light come shining from the west unto the east”. Indeed, this was the spontaneous, fate-driven side of me whispering in my ear; the side that used to be much more successful at pulling off such capers. By Sunday morning, the thought had evolved enough to run the crazy idea by my wife Nancy who, seeing that I was serious, pondered a moment or two before deciding it was best I go it alone. I was bummed but at the same time I knew this would give me more opportunity to focus, as well as the flexibility to play lots of Bob Dylan music – and do it loudly - from the minute I stepped into my car that early morning to the minute I stepped out that late evening (which I indeed did do). It would also allow me to take a few minor risks without involving Nancy, which I will explain. (Side Note: For those who are curious about the “Pilgrimage 2 of 3” at the top of this entry, good for you. Yeah, I have another one in mind by year’s end, and I hope to have company. More on that of course in a later entry).
I awoke at 6 am that Monday morning and set off for the Mass Pike, where I commenced to head westbound to its terminus and beyond into the Empire State. Within 4 hours of pulling out of my driveway, I found myself on the other side of the Hudson River, down NY Thruway 87, and taking Exit 20, Saugerties, Woodstock, New York. Saugerties was a name almost as familiar to me as its far more famous neighboring town to the west. This after all was the town where three of the five members of the Band - Rick Danko, Richard Manuel, and Garth Hudson - found and purchased an unassuming ranch home in early 1967, which they dubbed “Big Pink”. Big Pink is where the Band and Bob Dylan would privately record the renowned “Basement Tapes” over a 5-month period that spring and summer (see Master Blueprint # 12). And Big Pink is where I would be making my first planned visit.
But first some breakfast, which I tracked down at a classic eatery in downtown Saugerties called The Village Diner. This brief visit would lead to my first bizarro moment of a brilliantly bizarro day. I was walking along the sidewalk in front of the diner, not quite at the point of turning onto the ramp which would lead me up and inside, when a gentleman at the top of the ramp turned around and called down to me as he was making his way in. “Is that a book about diners in your hand?” he asked with a heavy British accent. Huh? What prompted that? I started to raise my book to show him it was Clinton Heylin’s voluminous Bob Dylan biography Behind the Shades Revisited. Before I could elaborate in word, he took in what he saw and stated “oh, much better than diners”. I suddenly thought, this one way ‘exchange’ must be my version of “This Englishman said ‘Fab’” (for those of you climbing the Dylan-lyric-ladder, look it up). He then went on to ask, “why do they call them diners anyway? We have nothing of the sort overseas”. It was a strange observation to make, particularly because ‘diner’ is the kind of name that is as obvious to me as ‘fire station’ or ‘bowling alley’. I had no answer for him to speak of. He tipped his hat and moseyed on into the diner. I soon followed.
One thing that this encounter established for me was that it made me feel right at home in this Sleepy Hollow region of New York. Saugerties had a New England touch for sure, starting with that diner. Soon I would be driving the twisting, hilly, woodsy country roads, which also had a regional familiarity. Most important, it all gave me a sense of kinship with Bob Dylan and The Band, all of whom fell in love with Woodstock and its surrounding hamlets.
After a hearty breakfast, I headed for the hills, in search of Big Pink. Within minutes I passed a street named “Happy Road”, noting at about the same time that I was driving on “Buddy’s Highway”. I then passed a pair of homemade signs 20 or so yards apart, the first which read “Chantilly Lace” followed by “And A Pretty Face”. This was a funky, eclectic region, Woodstock. I forked off the main road and soon found Band Camp Road. I was getting close. The hairpin turns of Stoll Rd were next, which lead me to Parnassus Lane, my anticipated destination. My first venture down that dirt road was ah, hesitant. There were at least four No Trespassing signs and as I inched my car forward I could see up ahead what looked to be a somewhat intimidating ramshackle dwelling with several trailers and an old home on the lot. It also looked like the end of the road, with clearly no Big Pink in sight. I turned around back to Stoll Road. A little way down Stoll, I stopped and knocked on a door. A nice fella answered, heard me out, and told me I was on the right track. That ramshackle property, he stated, was owned by a peaceful hippie, and when you reached his home, the road made a sharp, almost hidden turn where it would drop down to reveal Big Pink. I went back, and ‘lo and behold’, that’s precisely how it played out.
The structure was unmistakable, and still pink to boot. I stared for a few moments, transfixed, and trying to see if I could hear remnant reverberations from long ago original renditions of “Odd and Ends”, “Don’t Ya Tell Henry”, “Tiny Montgomery” along with so many other songs performed in that ground-level basement in front of me, the remainder of the home looming above. It was clear that no one was home. I took a few selfies in front of it, recalling several famous images of the Band on that lawn (linked below are images of me and The Band for compare/contrast). I then loitered about for a few more moments before getting in my car and turning back up the dirt road, satisfied with my experience. As I passed back by the hippie home, I spotted a psychedelic sign that read “Woodstock Museum Free Film Fest Aug 30 – Sept 4, 13 Charles Bach Rd. Saugerties, NY”. Hmm. I stopped, got out of the car and, since I heard music emanating from one of the trailers (60s music, what else?), I knocked on that door. A voice inside asked who it was. After proceeding to say I was interested in hearing more about the museum, he stated he’d be out in 5 minutes.
Five minutes later a kindly looking man with a great big Santa beard walked out to greet me. His name was Sion Mitrany, and in a brief 30 minutes our conversation covered a lot of ground, from Bob Dylan, to antiwar protests, to the Mafia. Sion then led me back down the hill to Big Pink, where he took a film of me describing why I was there. He said he does this with anyone who will let him, and that he’s in the process of putting together a documentary. I thought I nailed it, talking about my blog site. I hope to post the video on a future entry. Anyhow, Sion put a perfect personal stamp onto my Big Pink visit, in similar ways to what Linda Stroback and Linda Whiteside did for me in Hibbing. I told him so.
Sion concluded our chat with a brief description of the Woodstock Museum, and its owners, Nate and Shelly (“lovely people”) and then gave me directions (which were excellent). As I departed he stated he would be at a place called “The Lodge” later that afternoon to watch some Reggae music and he invited me to meet him there. I replied that this was entirely plausible, but in the back of my mind I was thinking my focus by that time of day would likely be to settle in somewhere for a few hours and start writing. We said our goodbyes, and I drove off.
As I got to the end of Parnassus Lane, I pulled over and called Nancy. Just then a pickup truck pulled up and an enthusiastic guy behind the wheel asked if this was the way to Big Pink (“he said his name was Columbus, and I just said ‘Good Luck’” – again look it up). His pet beagle looked just as excited as he did. I told him he was pretty-much there and to not be intimated by the signs or the ramshackle home at the bend. He then reminded me that it was the 50th Anniversary of The Band’s Music from Big Pink (he thought it was to the day, but when I looked it up later that evening, I saw the album was released earlier that summer of ’68). Anyhow, I wished him a nice pilgrimage and suggested he should try to connect with Sion. Nancy was listening to all this over the phone. We got back on the phone and I brought her up-to-date. She could tell that my spontaneous, venture-creating self was back in the saddle.
The 5-mile drive to the Woodstock Museum was mostly uphill and windy. I thought about the high-speed driving accidents Levon Helm, Rick Danko, and Richard Manuel were all involved in on these roads, having read both Helm’s and Robbie Robertson’s autobiographies. I wondered if I was driving past any of those scenes now. When I arrived at the museum, I immediately felt immersed in a hippie haven. It was not long before I met Nate, who emerged from his offices next to the indoor theatre. He told me a bit about the film running at that moment, which was the story of a son reflecting on his father’s life as he read the letter’s his Dad wrote from Vietnam before he was killed in combat. It was clear the lessons Nate gained from that period would never be lost on him. He then talked about the upcoming 50th Anniversary of the historic Woodstock Festival. Plans were coming together, and the Museum would be very much involved in the festivities.
I went inside the film room and watched some of the movie, which appeared to be half way through. There were at least 20 people in the darkness of the small theatre. When I emerged back into daylight, Nate was sitting on the porch with Shelly. I sat with them for a while. They were very cordial. At one point, Nate told me about the period when Rick Danko was once his landlord. One day Nate called Danko to tell him the pipes were leaking. The Band’s gifted bass player showed up with a plunger. When he saw the situation was a bit more serious then what he was prepared for, he said to Nate “ah, let’s just roll a big fatty and call the plumber”. I laughed. It sounded just like I would imagine Rick Danko, one of the most laidback musicians in rock and roll history (along with his 2 Big Pink roommates). Shelly was a bit more serious on the subject, expressing head shaking dismay at having lost so many of her friends and contemporaries to substance abuse and its after-effects, including 2 (arguably 3) members of the Band – the same three who just so happened to be in those local highspeed car accidents all those years ago - as well as several significant-others Shelly knew who were close to them. I respected Shelly’s viewpoint for sure.
My next stop was Levon Helm’s studio barn, where his “Midnight Rambles” occurred in the years before his passing. Sion had mentioned that Sandy Helm, Levon’s widow who still lived there, was a very nice human being with a heart of gold, and if I were to see her during my visit to let her know Sion sent me (also adding she often comes out to greet people). I pulled down the long driveway while thinking “if Bob Dylan can prowl around Neil Young and Bruce Springsteen’s old homes at all hours, why can’t I do something similar?”. Anyhow, there are still rambles taking place here, which kinda makes it a public place (unfortunately, nothing was scheduled until the following weekend). I was alone with my thoughts as I parked my car in front of the very cool looking structure – complete with classy artistic touches - which included the Helm home. The Band’s aura was everywhere here, just as it was at Big Pink. The feel was joyous, and for that reason more than any, I left Sandy Helm at peace on that lovely mid-afternoon, refraining from knocking on the door.
My unofficial tour was pretty much complete, but I still had downtown Woodstock to visit, which was a short jaunt out of the woods from Levon Helm’s home. My first stop was the prior-mentioned rustic “The Lodge” where I talked briefly with one of the employees about rates as I flirted with the idea of staying the night. The Lodge is the standard locale in town for musicians and other performers who need a place to lay their head after a night of music. The employee told me she was convinced she’d found the right place to work when Bill Murray walked in earlier that year, making her day with his engaging demeanor.
Next, I tracked down Albert Grossman’s Bearsville Complex, but it took me a while to find, due to the fact it was in a smaller section of Woodstock (Bearsville) about 2 miles from downtown. The classy Bear Café is on that Complex premises, hovering over a bubbling stream like a treehouse. Recent renovations gave it an upscale feel, but it retains a rock and roll charm with classic photos that adorn the walls. Along with Bob Dylan and the Band, Albert Grossman managed Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, both of whom loved the region, and each were represented on those Café walls. I decided not to stay. The atmosphere was not quite right for my muse, but the bartender recommended the Station Bar closer to town, which turned out to be funky, yet again, not quite right. It was not until I stepped into the upstairs section of Joshua’s Café a few blocks away from the Station, that I felt I could settle in. And settle in I did, for two hours, getting most of my key points in print so I could flesh them out later.
After contemplating my next move, which included that Reggae show and a night stay at The Lodge, I decided I had what it took to head home. On the way out of town, I spotted homemade signs again, very similar to the “Chantilly Lace” ones I saw on the way in that morning. These ones, however, said “CD’s Vinyl, next left!” I turned around after missing the mark and pulled into a neighborhood cul-de-sac with a large tent smack in the middle, housing.....cd’s and vinyl. I pulled up, got out of the car, and asked one of the worker bees where the Dylan section was. I was skeptical of finding something that I really wanted, having pretty much exhausted those avenues over the past year and a half. But wouldn’t you know, the first disk I spotted was the soundtrack to “I’m Not There”, which had slipped through the cracks for me.
After making the purchase, I hopped in the car and slipped disc 1 in the player. Each Dylan song on that extensive playlist was heavy, emotional, and beautifully covered by a range of musicians from Eddie Vedder to Willie Nelson. Every word “rang true and glowed like burnin’ coal”. It’s arguably the best set of Dylan “Blueprint” interpretations of them all, but I left room for the fact that, perhaps my ‘Woodstock Day’ had something to do with my level of enjoyment too. As I cruised North on Highway 87 along the mighty Hudson River, headed for home, I got to a cover song by a band I had never heard before, who were majestically tackling The Basement Tapes song “Goin’ to Acapulco”. I quickly glanced at the cd sleeve and identified the singer as Jim James (of My Morning Jacket fame) and the band as Calexico. When I looked back up, an exit sign came into view which read “Next Exit: Coxsackie”. I did a double take. Calexico/Coxsakie. Close enough to completely juxtapose in my mind. And close enough to cap off my brilliantly bizarro Catskill Monday.
I shall be released? ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjtPBjEz-BA ). If only for a day, yeah…. If only for a day
- Pete
Thursday, August 30, 2018
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 18th 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 115th 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
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 18th 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 115th 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
Thursday, August 23, 2018
Master Blueprints # 32: “There Must Be Some Kind of Way Outta Here Said the Joker to the Thief”
(Personal reflections
inspired by Bob Dylan songs)
Song: “All Along the Watchtower"
Album: John Wesley Harding
Release Date: December 1967
Before I started this series, I contemplated any number of names for it including; “Dylanalogy” (I later found out that one was already taken as some who read this may notice), “Drillin Deep with Dylan” and Bobbing for Apples (ok that last one was a stretch). I finally settled on Master Blueprints, the reason being that one of the most fascinating and underrated aspects to Bob Dylan’s music is how he balances the quality of his own original-release version of any given composition with the flexibility for other talented musicians - who have the proper insight – to make the song their own. Most musicians try to perfect their sound in the studio. Often, as has been the case with The Who and Van Morrison, the original version of much of their music has proven to be virtually unconquerable (although in both The Who’s case and Van Morrison’s, the unconquerable nature was kinda unavoidable: With the Who this was primarily due to the mind blowing drumming of Keith Moon and stupefying bass playing of John Entwistle; and in Van Morrison’s case it was due to the perfection of his melodic vocal delivery). Not so Bob Dylan: He’s generously left plenty of elbowroom for others to customize his great works.
Bob Dylan’s approach to making music has turned out to be a bold stroke of genius because it’s become apparent (to me anyway) that the return on restraining from perfection and/or overproduction has been tremendously rewarding. I mean, to my knowledge, the guy gets covered more than anyone. And whenever I hear a Bob Dylan song performed at a show, be it a big stadium event of a major act or a quaint setting in a pub - singer alone with his/her guitar - invariably I love it. What’s going on here? I don’t get this consistency of joy with covers of other musicians. Again, it has much to do with that wiggle room, as well as those other musicians who are covering Bob Dylan knowing when one of his songs fits with their own talents, abilities, and passions. This all contributes to why Dylan will stand the test of time.
I’d like to flesh this blueprint-effect out more but first, let me back up bit. What are some of your favorite cover song in general? Ten of the great ones that come to mind for me (not necessarily in the order given) are 1) Gram Parsons cover of the Boudleaux Bryant song “Love Hurts” (with Emmylou Harris), 2) the Rolling Stones cover of The Temptations “Just My Imagination”, 3) the Who covering Mose Allison “Young Man Blues” (off of Live At Leeds), 4) Bruce Springsteen cover of Jimmy Cliff’s “Trapped” (also live), 5) Green Day’s version of John Lennon’s “Working Class Hero”, 6) The Grateful Dead nod to Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away” (live), 7) Janis Joplin’s cover of Kris Kristofferson’s “Me and Bobby McGee”, 8) Rage Against the Machine’s intense interpretation of Bruce Springsteen’s “Ghost of Tom Joad”, 9) Steve Goodman’s “City of New Orleans, covered by Arlo Guthrie and 10) Elvis Costello covering Nick Lowe’s “(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding”. Each of these has a personal touch. Each was an expansion of musicality on the original version.
Now let’s do the same thing with 10 of my favorite Bob Dylan covers (again, not necessarily in the order given): 1) The Byrds cover of “Mr. Tambourine Man”, 2) Joan Baez interpretation of “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” and “Love is Just a Four Letter Word” (heck, the entirety of her ode-to-Dylan double-LP, Any Day Now, for that matter), 3) Both Sinead O’Connor and Allison Krause performances of “I Believe In You” (both live), 4) Van Morrison covering “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue”, 5) Ronnie Wood’s take on “Seven Days”, 6) Richie Haven’s “Just Like a Woman”, 7) Manfred Mann’s interpretation of “Quinn the Eskimo”, 8) Lou Reed’s live cover of “Foot of Pride”, 9) The Band covering “Blind Willie McTell” and of course 10) Jimi Hendrix masterful take on “All Along the Watchtower”. With every one of these songs, Bob Dylan left the interpreter with the power to add broad strokes. That’s what blueprints are supposed to do: Allow for broad strokes.
Jimi Hendrix version of “All Along the Watchtower” may be the best cover of all time. It exemplifies the notion of just how far you can take a Bob Dylan blueprint. The original and the cover act as a one-two punch, Dylan laying down the powerful lyrics and Hendrix the visionary insight into the meaning as well as his extraordinary guitar. Both musicians sing the song in ominous tones, which is fitting for at least one possible meaning (I’ll get to that) as well as for the chaotic late-60s period when the song came to be (Dylan’s version in December of ’67 and Hendrix six months later). The only song I can compare to “All Along the Watchtower” is the Rolling Stones “Gimme Shelter”, which was released just as that all-encompassing 60’s decade was coming to an end. “Gimme Shelter” is also dire and captures the essence of the times in equal fashion.
“All Along the Watchtower” is one of those Dylan songs that is oh, so enjoyable to decipher meaning from. In the lyrics, Bob Dylan lays before the listener a brilliant symbolic medieval setting ( https://vimeo.com/195698477 ) . There are 2 riders; the ‘joker’ (presumably Dylan himself) and the ‘thief’ (side note: It is a wee bit nebulous that the joker and the thief are indeed the riders if you read the lyrics, but there can be no other logical conclusion). There are watchtowers inhabited by princes. There is a sense of urgency. There is a sense of confusion and dread, with howling winds enveloping and a wildcat looming. There is a sense of determination; something that must be done.
There’s also a sense of betrayal, which is not as readily evident as those other subjects; the thief being the betrayer, the joker seemingly blind to this in the present context of the song’s lyrics (befitting his name ‘joker’, a theme on Dylan that Don McClean would run with 4 years later in his song “American Pie”). The very fact that Bob Dylan names the betrayer as ‘thief’ should be enough to paint the character in a negative light, but it became more apparent to me as I rewound and replayed this week that Dylan wanted the listener to feel as confused about pending betrayal as he did when he wrote the song, which he does cleverly through the thief’s smooth-talking ways in the entirety of the 2nd stanza.
In fact, Bob Dylan’s approach to the lyrics is almost too clever, floating this betrayal point a bit over the head of much of his audience. But this is where Jimi Hendrix helps clarify things. He does it by adding a hesitancy in the thief line “but, you and I we’ve been through that and this is not our fate" with “but, uh, but you and I….”. As be the case with Dylan, the Hendrix touch on this song – be it in his guitar work or in his vocals - is clever, subtle, …and brilliant. The hesitancy and stumbling in the thief’s (Hendrix) delivery is a sign of double talk. One of my best friends is a policeman. He once told me thieves are always the easiest criminals to track down. They almost always leave clues he said because many have become wayward and in turn error prone. My cop buddy appears to have a mutual understanding of this conclusion with Mr. Hendrix.
The highlight of the Jimi Hendrix cover ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TLV4_xaYynY ) is the extended guitar interlude before the 3rd and final stanza (a must listen on headphones). That guitar is talking folks, in a way that mesmerizes every time I listen. I wonder how Bob Dylan must have reacted the first time he heard it? I’m sure he was both floored and honored. I equate the Dylan/Hendrix one-two combo to an architect laying out his blue print for a Taj Mahal-like structure, and then coming back a decade later to see the fruits of his vision. Hendrix fleshes out the eerie setting that is “All Along the Watchtower” to maximum effect. As the guitar wails, we soar above the scene, just below the dark clouds, to see the watchtower, the riders, and the deep forest. We swoop down to catch a glimpse of that wild cat and feel the effect of those howling winds.
When I would casually listen to this song years ago, I assumed the princes in the watchtower were contributing to the joker’s confusion and weariness. But these are after all princes, not soldiers, mercenaries, or henchmen. And they are keeping a view, not a lookout. Is the thief separating them from the joker intentionally? Did this start out as mental manipulation and is now playing out in physical distancing? Related: The lyrics leave up for debate whether the 2 riders are heading toward the castle, or in the opposite direction toward the wilderness and the wildcat. The closing stanza reads:
“All along the watchtower
Princes kept the view
While all the woman came and went
Barefoot servants too
Outside in the cold distance
A wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching
And the wind began to howl”
Seeing as the lyrics to the song begin “there must be some kind of way out of here, said the joker to the thief”, you are left wondering in which direction they are heading. Are they gearing up for a confrontation or are they fleeing?
Finally, why the title “All Along the Watchtower”, instead of other lyric-lines from the song, say “The Joker and the Thief”? There’s clearly a special emphasis made on the watchtower because of that title. Ok, well…watchtowers are affiliated with fortresses. Many authors have written that Bob Dylan dropped out of the scene after retreating to Woodstock in ’67. I believe the title of this song proves otherwise. The princes may or may not be contributing to the joker’s anxieties, but the fortress, and others who inhabit it could indeed be. I’m thinking that the fortress is likely symbolic of the big, dark events of the day as well as the forces driving them: Vietnam, segregation, poverty, the military-industrial complex, and not long after the song’s release, two more assassinations (Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy). Yes, the riders in the song may very well be trying to escape it all; but note that the growling wildcat has the feel of being symbolic of the unknown beyond the castle walls. And so there really is no escaping. In this way, Bob Dylan may be telling us that he really has no choice but to confront what’s troubling him and us. I’m sure Dylan was tuned in to the world around him at the time despite his physical isolation. He may even have been declaring here that he was in it for the long haul (which other songs on John Wesley Harding seem to indicate). Jimi Hendrix may have realized this from the start and it appears he was in turn hugely inspired by it.
Cover songs can be the greatest of interpretations if done right. For my money, there’s no one who did it better than Hendrix with his version of “All Along the Watchtower”. And lest never forget it was Bob Dylan’s master-blueprint-approach to songwriting that allowed that to happen.
- Pete
Song: “All Along the Watchtower"
Album: John Wesley Harding
Release Date: December 1967
Before I started this series, I contemplated any number of names for it including; “Dylanalogy” (I later found out that one was already taken as some who read this may notice), “Drillin Deep with Dylan” and Bobbing for Apples (ok that last one was a stretch). I finally settled on Master Blueprints, the reason being that one of the most fascinating and underrated aspects to Bob Dylan’s music is how he balances the quality of his own original-release version of any given composition with the flexibility for other talented musicians - who have the proper insight – to make the song their own. Most musicians try to perfect their sound in the studio. Often, as has been the case with The Who and Van Morrison, the original version of much of their music has proven to be virtually unconquerable (although in both The Who’s case and Van Morrison’s, the unconquerable nature was kinda unavoidable: With the Who this was primarily due to the mind blowing drumming of Keith Moon and stupefying bass playing of John Entwistle; and in Van Morrison’s case it was due to the perfection of his melodic vocal delivery). Not so Bob Dylan: He’s generously left plenty of elbowroom for others to customize his great works.
Bob Dylan’s approach to making music has turned out to be a bold stroke of genius because it’s become apparent (to me anyway) that the return on restraining from perfection and/or overproduction has been tremendously rewarding. I mean, to my knowledge, the guy gets covered more than anyone. And whenever I hear a Bob Dylan song performed at a show, be it a big stadium event of a major act or a quaint setting in a pub - singer alone with his/her guitar - invariably I love it. What’s going on here? I don’t get this consistency of joy with covers of other musicians. Again, it has much to do with that wiggle room, as well as those other musicians who are covering Bob Dylan knowing when one of his songs fits with their own talents, abilities, and passions. This all contributes to why Dylan will stand the test of time.
I’d like to flesh this blueprint-effect out more but first, let me back up bit. What are some of your favorite cover song in general? Ten of the great ones that come to mind for me (not necessarily in the order given) are 1) Gram Parsons cover of the Boudleaux Bryant song “Love Hurts” (with Emmylou Harris), 2) the Rolling Stones cover of The Temptations “Just My Imagination”, 3) the Who covering Mose Allison “Young Man Blues” (off of Live At Leeds), 4) Bruce Springsteen cover of Jimmy Cliff’s “Trapped” (also live), 5) Green Day’s version of John Lennon’s “Working Class Hero”, 6) The Grateful Dead nod to Buddy Holly’s “Not Fade Away” (live), 7) Janis Joplin’s cover of Kris Kristofferson’s “Me and Bobby McGee”, 8) Rage Against the Machine’s intense interpretation of Bruce Springsteen’s “Ghost of Tom Joad”, 9) Steve Goodman’s “City of New Orleans, covered by Arlo Guthrie and 10) Elvis Costello covering Nick Lowe’s “(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding”. Each of these has a personal touch. Each was an expansion of musicality on the original version.
Now let’s do the same thing with 10 of my favorite Bob Dylan covers (again, not necessarily in the order given): 1) The Byrds cover of “Mr. Tambourine Man”, 2) Joan Baez interpretation of “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” and “Love is Just a Four Letter Word” (heck, the entirety of her ode-to-Dylan double-LP, Any Day Now, for that matter), 3) Both Sinead O’Connor and Allison Krause performances of “I Believe In You” (both live), 4) Van Morrison covering “It’s All Over Now Baby Blue”, 5) Ronnie Wood’s take on “Seven Days”, 6) Richie Haven’s “Just Like a Woman”, 7) Manfred Mann’s interpretation of “Quinn the Eskimo”, 8) Lou Reed’s live cover of “Foot of Pride”, 9) The Band covering “Blind Willie McTell” and of course 10) Jimi Hendrix masterful take on “All Along the Watchtower”. With every one of these songs, Bob Dylan left the interpreter with the power to add broad strokes. That’s what blueprints are supposed to do: Allow for broad strokes.
Jimi Hendrix version of “All Along the Watchtower” may be the best cover of all time. It exemplifies the notion of just how far you can take a Bob Dylan blueprint. The original and the cover act as a one-two punch, Dylan laying down the powerful lyrics and Hendrix the visionary insight into the meaning as well as his extraordinary guitar. Both musicians sing the song in ominous tones, which is fitting for at least one possible meaning (I’ll get to that) as well as for the chaotic late-60s period when the song came to be (Dylan’s version in December of ’67 and Hendrix six months later). The only song I can compare to “All Along the Watchtower” is the Rolling Stones “Gimme Shelter”, which was released just as that all-encompassing 60’s decade was coming to an end. “Gimme Shelter” is also dire and captures the essence of the times in equal fashion.
“All Along the Watchtower” is one of those Dylan songs that is oh, so enjoyable to decipher meaning from. In the lyrics, Bob Dylan lays before the listener a brilliant symbolic medieval setting ( https://vimeo.com/195698477 ) . There are 2 riders; the ‘joker’ (presumably Dylan himself) and the ‘thief’ (side note: It is a wee bit nebulous that the joker and the thief are indeed the riders if you read the lyrics, but there can be no other logical conclusion). There are watchtowers inhabited by princes. There is a sense of urgency. There is a sense of confusion and dread, with howling winds enveloping and a wildcat looming. There is a sense of determination; something that must be done.
There’s also a sense of betrayal, which is not as readily evident as those other subjects; the thief being the betrayer, the joker seemingly blind to this in the present context of the song’s lyrics (befitting his name ‘joker’, a theme on Dylan that Don McClean would run with 4 years later in his song “American Pie”). The very fact that Bob Dylan names the betrayer as ‘thief’ should be enough to paint the character in a negative light, but it became more apparent to me as I rewound and replayed this week that Dylan wanted the listener to feel as confused about pending betrayal as he did when he wrote the song, which he does cleverly through the thief’s smooth-talking ways in the entirety of the 2nd stanza.
In fact, Bob Dylan’s approach to the lyrics is almost too clever, floating this betrayal point a bit over the head of much of his audience. But this is where Jimi Hendrix helps clarify things. He does it by adding a hesitancy in the thief line “but, you and I we’ve been through that and this is not our fate" with “but, uh, but you and I….”. As be the case with Dylan, the Hendrix touch on this song – be it in his guitar work or in his vocals - is clever, subtle, …and brilliant. The hesitancy and stumbling in the thief’s (Hendrix) delivery is a sign of double talk. One of my best friends is a policeman. He once told me thieves are always the easiest criminals to track down. They almost always leave clues he said because many have become wayward and in turn error prone. My cop buddy appears to have a mutual understanding of this conclusion with Mr. Hendrix.
The highlight of the Jimi Hendrix cover ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TLV4_xaYynY ) is the extended guitar interlude before the 3rd and final stanza (a must listen on headphones). That guitar is talking folks, in a way that mesmerizes every time I listen. I wonder how Bob Dylan must have reacted the first time he heard it? I’m sure he was both floored and honored. I equate the Dylan/Hendrix one-two combo to an architect laying out his blue print for a Taj Mahal-like structure, and then coming back a decade later to see the fruits of his vision. Hendrix fleshes out the eerie setting that is “All Along the Watchtower” to maximum effect. As the guitar wails, we soar above the scene, just below the dark clouds, to see the watchtower, the riders, and the deep forest. We swoop down to catch a glimpse of that wild cat and feel the effect of those howling winds.
When I would casually listen to this song years ago, I assumed the princes in the watchtower were contributing to the joker’s confusion and weariness. But these are after all princes, not soldiers, mercenaries, or henchmen. And they are keeping a view, not a lookout. Is the thief separating them from the joker intentionally? Did this start out as mental manipulation and is now playing out in physical distancing? Related: The lyrics leave up for debate whether the 2 riders are heading toward the castle, or in the opposite direction toward the wilderness and the wildcat. The closing stanza reads:
“All along the watchtower
Princes kept the view
While all the woman came and went
Barefoot servants too
Outside in the cold distance
A wildcat did growl
Two riders were approaching
And the wind began to howl”
Seeing as the lyrics to the song begin “there must be some kind of way out of here, said the joker to the thief”, you are left wondering in which direction they are heading. Are they gearing up for a confrontation or are they fleeing?
Finally, why the title “All Along the Watchtower”, instead of other lyric-lines from the song, say “The Joker and the Thief”? There’s clearly a special emphasis made on the watchtower because of that title. Ok, well…watchtowers are affiliated with fortresses. Many authors have written that Bob Dylan dropped out of the scene after retreating to Woodstock in ’67. I believe the title of this song proves otherwise. The princes may or may not be contributing to the joker’s anxieties, but the fortress, and others who inhabit it could indeed be. I’m thinking that the fortress is likely symbolic of the big, dark events of the day as well as the forces driving them: Vietnam, segregation, poverty, the military-industrial complex, and not long after the song’s release, two more assassinations (Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy). Yes, the riders in the song may very well be trying to escape it all; but note that the growling wildcat has the feel of being symbolic of the unknown beyond the castle walls. And so there really is no escaping. In this way, Bob Dylan may be telling us that he really has no choice but to confront what’s troubling him and us. I’m sure Dylan was tuned in to the world around him at the time despite his physical isolation. He may even have been declaring here that he was in it for the long haul (which other songs on John Wesley Harding seem to indicate). Jimi Hendrix may have realized this from the start and it appears he was in turn hugely inspired by it.
Cover songs can be the greatest of interpretations if done right. For my money, there’s no one who did it better than Hendrix with his version of “All Along the Watchtower”. And lest never forget it was Bob Dylan’s master-blueprint-approach to songwriting that allowed that to happen.
- Pete
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