Tomorrow is Bob Dylan's birthday. I saw the man in concert once (Elvis Costello shared the bill and did an amazing solo acoustic show, Dylan did a full band, but I found EC's portion of the concert better), and he looks every bit of his seventy-two years. He didn't live the rock-and-roll lifestyle so much as embrace the role of "voice of a generation" and all that entails, from the early Sixties onwards.
The dude has been an icon since he was twenty-two. In case you ever want to feel bad about your lack of forward momentum in life, look up the stats: a folk-singing icon at twenty-two, a rock rebel at twenty-four and twenty-five, and reclusive balladeer from twenty-five to pretty much now, albeit more in the public eye since his return to performing in the Seventies. The man has been at the forefront of so much that I think you can safely assume he has fans not just for himself, but for each version of Bob Dylan that's been floating around since the Woody Guthrie days of 1962-1963.
Me personally, it's all about the electric period, that first burst of rock energy that came alive with Bringing It All Back Home and this song in particular, "Subterranean Homesick Blues." In a prototype of the music video, Dylan drops cards bearing lines from the song at a rapid pace, an iconic technique that would be borrowed for everything from other artists' videos to ads for cars (no, really, I saw a local ad with a weatherman doing much the same thing, dropping cards that built on the promise of really good deals on cars. I'm guessing the homage was not intentional). Bob Dylan was punk before there was even a thing such as punk, because he defied what his audience expected of him at the time.
From 1965 to 1967, he toured with the Hawks, who, when he suffered a mysterious motorcycle accident, would start jamming with Bob in Woodstock, New York. Eventually to become The Band, they went on to achieve their own success with the trio of voices now sadly all gone: Richard Manuel, Rick Danko, and Levon Helm. The pressure on Dylan was intense, and hatred over his "new direction" so fierce that he could very well have been another victim of the wave of assassinations that swept the world in the Sixties.
What amazes me is that he not only survived that intact physically but also mentally (though I'm sure the drugs he took and probably still takes helped a lot). In an era where people can become famous for just being famous, Bob Dylan actually stands out as someone who, except on rare occasions, never really settles for being "Bob Dylan." He's not willing to sit still and let others define him, even if (like me) they like the older version of him, from back in whatever particular era his music spoke to them. For me, it's hard to top his mid-Sixties period (culminating in Blonde on Blonde) and honestly, if I had to live with only the three albums he put out from 1965 to 1966, I'd be good.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Marvin Gaye, "Got to Give It Up, Pt. One"
Let me be upfront about this: I love music so much that it pains me that I can't express my love for it in the manner I'd chose to. Or manners: I can't play an instrument or sing to save my life (though I can sing to annoy people with my voice and I used to play the hell out of an old three-stringed guitar that was in my family since the Seventies and looked it). I also can't dance. At all. I make Carlton Banks look like Barishnikov, basically. Whenever I've broken out in a dance on the floor, people have wondered aloud if I'm suffering a seizure. I'm not even sure if I'm kidding about that.
But still, I love music, and expressing my love for it is hard to do if I can't at least try to boogie down with my bad self from time to time. Mostly in the privacy of my own room, where (back when I had a CD player) I could blast music and just let myself go, free from the shame that someone could be watching me (unless someone was watching me...I don't know much about our neighbors, there could be some real pervs out there). But since the death of my old laptop and my inability to start up a new iTunes account, I've pretty much had to confine myself to head-bopping along to whatever CD I've got going in my car. Dancing in the car is not only not what a car was built for, it can actually be dangerous for you and your fellow drivers. Imagine the pile-up if "Got to Give It Up, Pt. One" by the immortal Marvin Gaye came on over the radio and you just let loose. You'd be on the news, and not in a good way.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised that my ability to dance isn't that great; I am white, after all (just kidding, some white people have rhythm. Justin Timberlake, for one...and some other guy, but really it's just JT). But I do remember in the past, way back in the Eighties, when my aunt and her friend would be out in the driveway trying to break-dance, and I'd try to join in. The song I associate most with that was Billy Ocean's entire body of work ("Caribbean Queen" and "Get Out of My Dreams (Get Into My Car)"). For a brief moment, I could convince myself that my moves would impress the cast of Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo, but I was really just fooling myself.
(Sidebar: Everyone jokingly refers to Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo as the best sequel ever, but no one seems to remember the original. Was it denied a place in mock-hilarity history because of its bland name, or its inability to rock the "Electric Boogaloo" tag early, as a pre-emptive strike on the sequel's claim to fame?)
Anywho, I long to dance, to dance in a way that doesn't embarass myself or those around me. But it's just not to be. And I think, in the long run, I'm okay with that. I even refer to my style of dancing (if it can indeed be called that) as "happy dancing," because I'm just happy to be moving. Too many times I've been at dances (okay, none since high school) where I could've got up on the dance floor and made an ass of myself but I didn't. My rep in high school wasn't the greatest (I was already regarded with disfavor for the crime of having glasses and actually reading books...for...fun), so it wouldn't have been that bad to get up at the prom and at least try a slow dance with one of the two girls I was kinda into at that time. But alas, I did not.
Happy dancing, by the way, is a pretty good name for a mix CD you make for someone special. But I already did that, so don't copy me, fellow using-music-to-express-feelings emotionally-awkward young men.
Marvin Gaye is, to me, the greatest soulful singer of all time (Al Green is the greatest living one). What draws me to this song is the utter incongruity of his claim to being a shy wallflower when it came to dancing (anyone who thinks Marvin Gaye was ever shy about the ladies needs to get their head examined). But once he does start dancing, wouldn't you know it: He's a hit with the ladies. That's every nerdy white boy's fantasy, and it's only just out of reach because when we do actually break out the moves, we look more like a fish flopping on dry land. But we can dream, oh how we can dream. Music gives you the soundtrack to such imaginings, and it doesn't matter how clumsy we really are, hitting everyone and looking like Michael Scott instead of Michael Jackson. We're our own bosses of dancing.
But still, I love music, and expressing my love for it is hard to do if I can't at least try to boogie down with my bad self from time to time. Mostly in the privacy of my own room, where (back when I had a CD player) I could blast music and just let myself go, free from the shame that someone could be watching me (unless someone was watching me...I don't know much about our neighbors, there could be some real pervs out there). But since the death of my old laptop and my inability to start up a new iTunes account, I've pretty much had to confine myself to head-bopping along to whatever CD I've got going in my car. Dancing in the car is not only not what a car was built for, it can actually be dangerous for you and your fellow drivers. Imagine the pile-up if "Got to Give It Up, Pt. One" by the immortal Marvin Gaye came on over the radio and you just let loose. You'd be on the news, and not in a good way.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised that my ability to dance isn't that great; I am white, after all (just kidding, some white people have rhythm. Justin Timberlake, for one...and some other guy, but really it's just JT). But I do remember in the past, way back in the Eighties, when my aunt and her friend would be out in the driveway trying to break-dance, and I'd try to join in. The song I associate most with that was Billy Ocean's entire body of work ("Caribbean Queen" and "Get Out of My Dreams (Get Into My Car)"). For a brief moment, I could convince myself that my moves would impress the cast of Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo, but I was really just fooling myself.
(Sidebar: Everyone jokingly refers to Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo as the best sequel ever, but no one seems to remember the original. Was it denied a place in mock-hilarity history because of its bland name, or its inability to rock the "Electric Boogaloo" tag early, as a pre-emptive strike on the sequel's claim to fame?)
Anywho, I long to dance, to dance in a way that doesn't embarass myself or those around me. But it's just not to be. And I think, in the long run, I'm okay with that. I even refer to my style of dancing (if it can indeed be called that) as "happy dancing," because I'm just happy to be moving. Too many times I've been at dances (okay, none since high school) where I could've got up on the dance floor and made an ass of myself but I didn't. My rep in high school wasn't the greatest (I was already regarded with disfavor for the crime of having glasses and actually reading books...for...fun), so it wouldn't have been that bad to get up at the prom and at least try a slow dance with one of the two girls I was kinda into at that time. But alas, I did not.
Happy dancing, by the way, is a pretty good name for a mix CD you make for someone special. But I already did that, so don't copy me, fellow using-music-to-express-feelings emotionally-awkward young men.
Marvin Gaye is, to me, the greatest soulful singer of all time (Al Green is the greatest living one). What draws me to this song is the utter incongruity of his claim to being a shy wallflower when it came to dancing (anyone who thinks Marvin Gaye was ever shy about the ladies needs to get their head examined). But once he does start dancing, wouldn't you know it: He's a hit with the ladies. That's every nerdy white boy's fantasy, and it's only just out of reach because when we do actually break out the moves, we look more like a fish flopping on dry land. But we can dream, oh how we can dream. Music gives you the soundtrack to such imaginings, and it doesn't matter how clumsy we really are, hitting everyone and looking like Michael Scott instead of Michael Jackson. We're our own bosses of dancing.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Happy Birthday, Thomas Pynchon!
I still have no clue if I ever got what Gravity's Rainbow is about, but I love it for its weirdness anyway...
It's been a while since I put up anything here, and there's a good reason for that: I'm inherently lazy. As a writer or writer-to-be, this could be seen as a non-desirable trait, but there it is; sometimes the muse is alive and well, other times it's buried in Cheetos dust and too many afternoons spent watching No Reservations marathons. I can't be "on" all the time, people.
I will say that, in the absence of having anything to say, I've done a lot of reading the past few months, or perhaps more accurately, buying books that I will either eventually get around to reading or actually managing to do so before now. Don't worry, financially-minded friends; most of the purchases have been at used-book stores, the opiate to bookish masses like myself who a.) like trying to find obscure books that might not be at the megachains or library and b.) are kinda cheap. Not in a bad way (I suppose I'd spend money on surgery, if it were totally necessary), but cheap nonetheless.
But I think it's time to scale back on such non-extravagent spending sprees. I've been lucky in that my tax return hasn't been wasted on rims for my car or a grill for my teeth (or is it grills for my car and rims for my teeth? My knowledge of culture doesn't really extend past 1997). But that luck could easily run out, especially considering my automotive woes in the past (blown tires, exploding engines, terrorists demanding that I drive them to the bank...oops, shouldn't have told about that one). So I have to be careful.
One of the things I've noticed is that, for all the books I have bought, very few have been read yet by me. It's a pattern that usually occurs when I get home and the "new book" smell (or "very old book smell") wears off and I put it aside for something more substantial, like the second volume of Edmund Morris' bio of Teddy Roosevelt, or another collection of Get Fuzzy comic strips. But I've read some good ones: Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien springs immediately to mind.
Anyway, that's it for now, folks; hopefully I can go back to New Orleans in June (if not, Myrtle Beach will have to do, but I'm taking a vacation this summer. An actual vacation, not a "sit on my ass at home" vacation). So there's an incentive to save money instead of spending it. Will I manage to do so? Only the fates know for sure.
It's been a while since I put up anything here, and there's a good reason for that: I'm inherently lazy. As a writer or writer-to-be, this could be seen as a non-desirable trait, but there it is; sometimes the muse is alive and well, other times it's buried in Cheetos dust and too many afternoons spent watching No Reservations marathons. I can't be "on" all the time, people.
I will say that, in the absence of having anything to say, I've done a lot of reading the past few months, or perhaps more accurately, buying books that I will either eventually get around to reading or actually managing to do so before now. Don't worry, financially-minded friends; most of the purchases have been at used-book stores, the opiate to bookish masses like myself who a.) like trying to find obscure books that might not be at the megachains or library and b.) are kinda cheap. Not in a bad way (I suppose I'd spend money on surgery, if it were totally necessary), but cheap nonetheless.
But I think it's time to scale back on such non-extravagent spending sprees. I've been lucky in that my tax return hasn't been wasted on rims for my car or a grill for my teeth (or is it grills for my car and rims for my teeth? My knowledge of culture doesn't really extend past 1997). But that luck could easily run out, especially considering my automotive woes in the past (blown tires, exploding engines, terrorists demanding that I drive them to the bank...oops, shouldn't have told about that one). So I have to be careful.
One of the things I've noticed is that, for all the books I have bought, very few have been read yet by me. It's a pattern that usually occurs when I get home and the "new book" smell (or "very old book smell") wears off and I put it aside for something more substantial, like the second volume of Edmund Morris' bio of Teddy Roosevelt, or another collection of Get Fuzzy comic strips. But I've read some good ones: Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien springs immediately to mind.
Anyway, that's it for now, folks; hopefully I can go back to New Orleans in June (if not, Myrtle Beach will have to do, but I'm taking a vacation this summer. An actual vacation, not a "sit on my ass at home" vacation). So there's an incentive to save money instead of spending it. Will I manage to do so? Only the fates know for sure.
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