Sunday, May 21, 2006
Friday, May 19, 2006
Preliminary Notes on Dylan
I'm putting some notes I wrote out about the Dylan show I went to in Orlando last week. I take them to the next level, but for now I got some basics out about the concert.
So sorry I won't be up there for graduation. My Issues in Literary and Cultural Theory is already two weeks old! We are taking a break-neck pace through the stuff. For my sanity, I've been reading literature on the side. After last semester - with its avant garde stuff, Gogol, and Lacan - I've almost forgotten how pleasurable good literature is! Last week I read through Mark Strand's wonderful little work The Continuous Life (the poem by the same name is captivating). This week I've reading through Millay's Selected Poems. She's so underestimated! And at time makes the Romantics look like poseurs.
I will be up in the area around July 8th, for Jesse's wedding. So, I hope a few of you will still be around! (Darcy, are you moving back this summer to Ohio? Em, how much longer are you sticking around?)
Here's to Dylan:
Merle Haggard has just finished an amazing set. We gave him a standing ovation as he slowly hobbled around and off the wide stage, while his band played his theme song. It could have been the feature performance, but the lights faded out in Orlando’s Waterhouse Center. We waited for Bob Dylan.
I waited nervously, trying to achieve ambivalence. We didn’t expect a great show from the folk legend. We talked about this on the drive up from Tallahassee that afternoon. We established a safety net. No expectations for the sublime. I knew better than to expect a correspondence between the Dylan I loved to hear and what would be on the stage. The problem was that Merle Haggard made it look so easy—for a musical old-timer. His voice was golden. He commanded the stage with his glinting guitar and sweeping cowboy hat, which he lifted when he bowed gracefully. His band could probably play these songs from their graves. Maybe Dylan would be golden too? Golden. This was an unproductive word.
The lights dimmed deeper and the rodeo movement from Copeland’s Fanfare played – surely, not? – but, yes. It was for Dylan. A buttery narrator tells us to welcome “American Rock Legend and Columbia Recording Artist, Bob Dylan!” What is this, some downtown Vegas show? I have visions of beef for dinner as Dylan limps up the stage steps and his snazzy band take up their places in a crescent-shaped arrangement. Suddenly, Dylan is at a pearly cream-colored synthesizer and the band is striking up “Maggie’s Farm” – one of my favorites. I glow for a few seconds. The music is fast and hard. Then Dylan sings. Rather, he talked a few lines. But the only words I caught were “I ain’t gonna … Maggie’s Farm.” His talk was slurred. I wonder if the words caused Dylan physical pain to sing-speak. His voice sounded like it was battling against something which tried to erase it. In fact, I only knew the song was “Maggie’s Farm” because of these few lyric-words I heard. The arrangement was new. More full. More rockabilly. Fun for what it was. But not Dylan.
Dylan moved into “Everything She’s Got.” The high notes brought out what’s not left of Dylan’s voice. We got a full croak, like he was choking on a microphone. We winced. Some people chuckled, as if it was endearing. The crowd buzzed. I didn’t think it would be this bad, I expected “Dylan,” and you know what I mean. To his credit, Dylan’s voice sounded adjusted and Dylan-decent on his newer, more bluesy, hits. There was a correspondence. But on the older stuff, especially songs like “Masters of War,” “Highway 61 Revisited,” “Mr. Tambourine Man,” and “Struck inside Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again,” Dylan seemed disconnected from the music. I can only imagine what it would be like to sing these tunes for forty years, and the motivations that exist for shaking up the tune occasionally, but something seemed lost when Dylan sang his older stuff—as if there was a wall between him and the songs.
I began to look closely at his band, all dressed in grey jackets and slacks. Well-groomed, like a big band set; the boys around a master. Dylan himself wore a small black cowboy hat, and a black jacket and slacks with red racer stripes. A cowboy captain. A pair of red cowboy boots peeked out from his slacks’ edge. He locked his knees and shuffled his feet on the stage floor, sliding them like levers to the music. He looked down at the synthesizer keys. He played this the whole time, since arthritis prevents him from playing his guitar anymore. His face was a pale oval with a trace of a thin moustache, and black sunglasses. He finally spoke at the start of the encore: “Hello. I’m Bob Dylan.” The crowd chose “Like a Rollingstone” for their favorite moment. Everybody stood up as Dylan trembled through the lyrics. The music rolled us along. People closed their eyes and swayed. I sat. I couldn’t bring myself to sing along with any of the songs. For one thing, it was impossible to sing along with Dylan’s singing-speaking delivery. On the other hand, this was a new performer with new songs. I watched instead. Who was this corpse on the stage? This legend of “American rock”?
We made it through “Rollingstone,” but left halfway through “Hurricane,” which may have been his best song that night, but it was undercut by his voice, which sounded like something from the fires of hell—something being consumed, something flickering, or ghostly. I walked out with an impression. Dylan is being rewritten. Or rewriting himself. The narrator’s introduction paints him as a rock pioneer and legend. The big band set confirms this. Dylan does his rock like Buddy Holly and Elvis. He’s a rock cornerstone. Nothing folksy at all here. And Dylan opened with “Maggie’s Farm,” harkening back to the historical moment at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965 when Dylan “plugged in.” The show told me: this is Dylan. This is rock. Or, I’m Bob Dylan and I’m still developing. Katie wondered what Dylan thinks of himself. Is this a big joke? Is he laughing at us consuming his pricey tickets for big arena shows in an act of late political defiance? Does he still love it? Is he serious? Or perhaps he would claim, like he did in a 1965 London interview: “I’m just making music.”
Our first CD on the drive back to Tallahassee was “Highway 61 Revisited.” I was ready and open. And it was good. To Dylan’s credit, I’ve been listening more closely to his first album, the self-titled “Bob Dylan,” wondering if the seeds of explanation lie here in its raw bluesy glory. Occupying a gyre-like position, the current Dylan has come round with his untamed vocals and rock energy, overlying the wailing and daring first album Dylan gave us. I just wonder how those red cowboy boots and legs of his support what’s left.
So sorry I won't be up there for graduation. My Issues in Literary and Cultural Theory is already two weeks old! We are taking a break-neck pace through the stuff. For my sanity, I've been reading literature on the side. After last semester - with its avant garde stuff, Gogol, and Lacan - I've almost forgotten how pleasurable good literature is! Last week I read through Mark Strand's wonderful little work The Continuous Life (the poem by the same name is captivating). This week I've reading through Millay's Selected Poems. She's so underestimated! And at time makes the Romantics look like poseurs.
I will be up in the area around July 8th, for Jesse's wedding. So, I hope a few of you will still be around! (Darcy, are you moving back this summer to Ohio? Em, how much longer are you sticking around?)
Here's to Dylan:
Merle Haggard has just finished an amazing set. We gave him a standing ovation as he slowly hobbled around and off the wide stage, while his band played his theme song. It could have been the feature performance, but the lights faded out in Orlando’s Waterhouse Center. We waited for Bob Dylan.
I waited nervously, trying to achieve ambivalence. We didn’t expect a great show from the folk legend. We talked about this on the drive up from Tallahassee that afternoon. We established a safety net. No expectations for the sublime. I knew better than to expect a correspondence between the Dylan I loved to hear and what would be on the stage. The problem was that Merle Haggard made it look so easy—for a musical old-timer. His voice was golden. He commanded the stage with his glinting guitar and sweeping cowboy hat, which he lifted when he bowed gracefully. His band could probably play these songs from their graves. Maybe Dylan would be golden too? Golden. This was an unproductive word.
The lights dimmed deeper and the rodeo movement from Copeland’s Fanfare played – surely, not? – but, yes. It was for Dylan. A buttery narrator tells us to welcome “American Rock Legend and Columbia Recording Artist, Bob Dylan!” What is this, some downtown Vegas show? I have visions of beef for dinner as Dylan limps up the stage steps and his snazzy band take up their places in a crescent-shaped arrangement. Suddenly, Dylan is at a pearly cream-colored synthesizer and the band is striking up “Maggie’s Farm” – one of my favorites. I glow for a few seconds. The music is fast and hard. Then Dylan sings. Rather, he talked a few lines. But the only words I caught were “I ain’t gonna … Maggie’s Farm.” His talk was slurred. I wonder if the words caused Dylan physical pain to sing-speak. His voice sounded like it was battling against something which tried to erase it. In fact, I only knew the song was “Maggie’s Farm” because of these few lyric-words I heard. The arrangement was new. More full. More rockabilly. Fun for what it was. But not Dylan.
Dylan moved into “Everything She’s Got.” The high notes brought out what’s not left of Dylan’s voice. We got a full croak, like he was choking on a microphone. We winced. Some people chuckled, as if it was endearing. The crowd buzzed. I didn’t think it would be this bad, I expected “Dylan,” and you know what I mean. To his credit, Dylan’s voice sounded adjusted and Dylan-decent on his newer, more bluesy, hits. There was a correspondence. But on the older stuff, especially songs like “Masters of War,” “Highway 61 Revisited,” “Mr. Tambourine Man,” and “Struck inside Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again,” Dylan seemed disconnected from the music. I can only imagine what it would be like to sing these tunes for forty years, and the motivations that exist for shaking up the tune occasionally, but something seemed lost when Dylan sang his older stuff—as if there was a wall between him and the songs.
I began to look closely at his band, all dressed in grey jackets and slacks. Well-groomed, like a big band set; the boys around a master. Dylan himself wore a small black cowboy hat, and a black jacket and slacks with red racer stripes. A cowboy captain. A pair of red cowboy boots peeked out from his slacks’ edge. He locked his knees and shuffled his feet on the stage floor, sliding them like levers to the music. He looked down at the synthesizer keys. He played this the whole time, since arthritis prevents him from playing his guitar anymore. His face was a pale oval with a trace of a thin moustache, and black sunglasses. He finally spoke at the start of the encore: “Hello. I’m Bob Dylan.” The crowd chose “Like a Rollingstone” for their favorite moment. Everybody stood up as Dylan trembled through the lyrics. The music rolled us along. People closed their eyes and swayed. I sat. I couldn’t bring myself to sing along with any of the songs. For one thing, it was impossible to sing along with Dylan’s singing-speaking delivery. On the other hand, this was a new performer with new songs. I watched instead. Who was this corpse on the stage? This legend of “American rock”?
We made it through “Rollingstone,” but left halfway through “Hurricane,” which may have been his best song that night, but it was undercut by his voice, which sounded like something from the fires of hell—something being consumed, something flickering, or ghostly. I walked out with an impression. Dylan is being rewritten. Or rewriting himself. The narrator’s introduction paints him as a rock pioneer and legend. The big band set confirms this. Dylan does his rock like Buddy Holly and Elvis. He’s a rock cornerstone. Nothing folksy at all here. And Dylan opened with “Maggie’s Farm,” harkening back to the historical moment at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965 when Dylan “plugged in.” The show told me: this is Dylan. This is rock. Or, I’m Bob Dylan and I’m still developing. Katie wondered what Dylan thinks of himself. Is this a big joke? Is he laughing at us consuming his pricey tickets for big arena shows in an act of late political defiance? Does he still love it? Is he serious? Or perhaps he would claim, like he did in a 1965 London interview: “I’m just making music.”
Our first CD on the drive back to Tallahassee was “Highway 61 Revisited.” I was ready and open. And it was good. To Dylan’s credit, I’ve been listening more closely to his first album, the self-titled “Bob Dylan,” wondering if the seeds of explanation lie here in its raw bluesy glory. Occupying a gyre-like position, the current Dylan has come round with his untamed vocals and rock energy, overlying the wailing and daring first album Dylan gave us. I just wonder how those red cowboy boots and legs of his support what’s left.
Friday, May 05, 2006
The shovels
The day of the ground breaking for another big building on campus occurred today. The millions of dollars going into it suggested that I will be able to point out its spires to my posterity in latter days. There were some tender words from the Chairman of the Board. He called it a seedling. Youth was the theme. Innocence and hope. The Chancellor bespoke himself on the Youth as well, but that of the students and how they were the blood of his dream—life blood, that is. All I could think about was how soft the ground looked in the sunshine. I hoped the photographers wouldn’t take a picture of me singing hymns. The President-to-be spoke as well. He was jocund and smiling while he described things like the division of modern Christendom into denominations. And he introduced the new Academic Dean in a sort of comic show where he proceeded to stack and spill WORLD magazines on the podium. The piles were brought forth to demonstrate the cultural contributions of the incoming Dean. There was the expected symbolic heap of dirt on the smooth green sod. There were shovels with college stickers on their handles and spades to mark them as the ceremonial instruments. These the men and two honorary students picked up after some confusion as to who got which shovel and then they each dug a spade-full of dirt and dumped it onto the pile again. This done, they stepped back and a populist invitation was made to the student body witnesses. A show of awkward limbs and weak wrists followed as the children went forth. They lifted dirt from the pile and let it sift back into the pile. The wind was a gentle vibration so all the dirt raised in the shovels returned to the heap; none of it was carried into our eyes.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Off to the Woods
We (Katie, me, and three other friends) are leaving for the Shining Rock Wilderness (Pisgah National Forest) in North Carolina today! We're planning to hike Cold Mountain, and stay two nights in a cabin owned by an InterVarsity-friendly family. This means three days on the trail :-P I'm very excited and have my old school pack loaded up for the trip. I'm the only hiker who has a steel-frame pack ... and proud of it - it, my former Oak Hill dorm attic find.
Brooks, I hope you survived the week of papers, and I'm going to miss not having you out there with me. Don't forget: you need to swing over to Tallahassee after Dane's wedding. Or else ...
I'll keep you all posted on Terrence. Keep praying. Dad and kids spent the night in Las Cruces, N.M. last night and should make San Diego by night - where they are moving everything into the new house.
Love to all.
Brooks, I hope you survived the week of papers, and I'm going to miss not having you out there with me. Don't forget: you need to swing over to Tallahassee after Dane's wedding. Or else ...
I'll keep you all posted on Terrence. Keep praying. Dad and kids spent the night in Las Cruces, N.M. last night and should make San Diego by night - where they are moving everything into the new house.
Love to all.
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