NOTHING OF IMPORTANCE

The Bard (ca. 1817), by John Martin

I am watching Dylan: Revealed.

On Netflix.

If you are looking for music like the Last Waltz you are going to be disappointed. There is little by the way of music.

But I learned something.

I watched Charlie Rose recently and he was interviewing an English Actor with whom I have little experience; and yet I am familiar with Bill Nighy. I always get a kick out of Bill.

He had a part in Love_Actually. (A silly nonsensical take on xmas in London!. But I loved the film—so what?)

Nighy went to all the proper British Schools for training and such. And in Love Actually he plays this nothing musician who apparently had one or two big time tunes and was lost forever as far as the public was concerned.

He ends up taking off all his clothes playing some silly xmas tune and is revived.

Bill is wonderful. He wanted to play in Pinter Plays or those written by Stoppard or Brenton or Gill…

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_nighy

But he normally eschewed Shakespeare. And the manner in which he handles his anti-Shakespearean slant with Rose is wonderful. Hahahahah.

This actor maintained that Dylan was his favorite singer!

This comment from Nighy just amazed me!

WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THIS GUY THINKING ABOUT?

And then I relistened (is that a word) to some older Dylan songs.

And I thought:

WHAT IN THE FUCK IS THIS GUY TALKING ABOUT?

And….

Instead of staying mad and incredulous I thought:

Hell, I would rather listen to Dylan than anybody else.

And singers are merely poets with music played in the background; recalling that the original poets of 5,000 years ago sung! (Well Homer’s work is only 2900 or 2800 years old and it was sung! But Homer was reciting or revising or editing songs a thousand years before he ever hit the pavement and all the Biblical stories (at least in Genesis) were sung a thousand years before publication…)

Streisand has a voice.

A perfect voice it has been stated.

But did Frank actually have the perfect voice?

Compared to that trio we used to worship decades ago from Italy, I DO NOT THINK SO.

I watched Mick on SNL and here is this 68 year old tooth pick who changed music forever fifty years ago.

Did Frank ever last 50 years? Really? From a numbers standpoint? (Yeah I know Rush gets good numbers and he is a fat, unread, unlettered, unabashed sucker of corporate dicks…)

Not like Mick.

And Mick cannot and never could carry a tune like Frank.

But I would choose Mick every frickin time!

Back to Dylan.

Who was this Jewish kid from Northern Minnesota who could not even complete one quarter at the U of M anyway?

I have written before of residing in Bobby’s old region. When I first arrived here I was so afeard of the elements but I was stuck by a couple natural and not so natural sounds.

There was the wind and there was the sound of the train.

In mining country, even today, those forlorn sounds of the train whistles and the unending (or so it seems sometimes) sound of the Canadian winds from the North will haunt you at 2 AM.

And this snide, sarcastic tone of the number one song writer over the last fifty years somehow sunk into our consciousness (and even unconsciousness) far more truly than Ira or his brother George!

In my humble opinion anyway.

Nighy’s second favorite SINGER OF ALL TIME was John Lee Hooker!

Geeez.

I aint no fan of opera or even Streisand for chrissakes.

But this intellectual who shunned Shakespeare all his goddamn life was intrigued by Dylan!

Dylan is and was one of the worst singers that I ever witnessed my entire life.

He is and was terrible.

But the actor did not say:

Hey, Dylan is one of my favorite poets or writers.

He said:

Dylan is by far my favorite singer!

I recall watching a cut where Bob sings for El Papa!

It was terrible and the Pope looked quizzical to say the least!

But he took me back to John Lee Hooker.

As an aside.

Scorcese’s ‘monumental’ tribute to Dylan was fun.

But he had simply taken Don’t Look Back and added pages; I mean My Back Pages and my front pages for chrissakes.

If I had been the producer for Don’t Look Back, I would have sued the Italian’s version for copyright infringement.

This documentary just gives you a sense of the poet’s development and his life.

It is different and hard to handle if you are not just a little bit drunk and in a total depression.

But we treat Dylan as a god.

A lesser god, but damn every god I ever read about was a lesser god for chrissakes.

Yaweh was, at one time, a lesser god!

I mean even Jesus was a lesser god.

I mean he was the Son of God (even though simple arithmetic will tell you that in the New Testament Jesus refers to himself most of the time as the Son of Man for chrissakes!)

The Angels are lesser gods.

The Pleiades’s are lesser gods.

The entire scope including the current horoscope (I shall never capitalize this word!) includes lesser gods.

I mean all of the Greek Heroes are lesser gods.

I could go on and on (as I usually do).

But basically, most gods we deal with in myth are lesser gods.

It is more fun to view the Scorsese epic.

And Don’t Look Back is still fun.

This documentary is not that much fun.

But it contains some disclosure.

Getting back to Don’t Look Back all I see is a young man high on drugs.

Every single time he is depicted in some press conference, he is higher than hell!

How do I know?

Well damn, look at him.

What the hell is the difference between Dylan and Keith Richards? Really?

I mean you can see that Neil Young is higher than hell in the tribute to Dylan, but he is not high all the time.

I wish to speak about Dylan’s language.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

O where ha’ you been, Lord Randal my son?
And where ha’ you been, my handsome young man?
I ha’ been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’ hunting and fain wad lie down.

An’ wha met ye there, Lord Randal my son?
An’ wha met you there; my handsome young man?
O I met wi’ my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’ huntin’ an’ fain wad lie down.

And what did she give you, Lord Randal my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?
Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’ huntin’ and fain wad lie down.

And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randal my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?
My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’ hunting and fain wad lie down.

And what becam of them, Lord Randal my son?
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?
They stretched their legs out an’ died; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’ huntin’ and fain wad lie down.

O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal my son,
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man,
O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down.

What d’ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal my son?
What d’ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?
Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down.

What d’ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal my son?
What d’ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?
My gold and my silver; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart an’ I fain wad lie down.

What d’ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal my son?
What d’ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?
My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down.

What d’ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal my son?
What d’ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?
I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down.

http://www.btinternet.com/~hanson/randal.htm

A HARD RAIN’S A GONNA FALL

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son ?
And where have you been my darling young one ?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue eyed son ?
And what did you see, my darling young one ?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son ?
And what did you hear, my darling young one ?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin’
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
I heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall

Oh, who did you meet my blue-eyed son ?
Who did you meet, my darling young one ?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded in hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son ?
And what’ll you do now my darling young one ?
I’m a-goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are a many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell and think it and speak it and breathe it
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my songs well before I start singin’
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s A-Gonna-Fall

http://dagblog.com/arts/ballad-lord-randal-8659

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y4sMSSm0x2A&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ziQx0cXV4nY&feature=related

BEST HARD RAIN AGONNA FALL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=syZkAlVvw0M&feature=related

BAEZ AT HER BEST

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kYsKt-eAjXk&feature=related

Joan in this rendition of one of Dylan’s songs, satirizes her lover’s terrible terrible voice. hahaahah

xxxxxx

Virgil begins his epic Aeneid thusly:

I sing of arms and the man, he who, exiled by fate,

first came from the coast of Troy to Italy, and to

Lavinian shores – hurled about endlessly by land and sea,

by the will of the gods, by cruel Juno’s remorseless anger,

http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Latin/VirgilAeneidI.htm

Virgil stole this method of presenting his epic from Homer of course:

 Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought

                            countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a brave soul did it send
hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs
and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the

                            day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first
fell out with one another.
  And which of the gods was it that set them on to quarrel? It was the...

http://www.greekmythology.com/Books/Iliad/I_Book_I/i_book_i.html

Neither poet began with the words:

I write.

No they began with the words:

I sing.

What the hell is singing?

(I have to go back to the supposed Apostle John in the New Testament:

In the beginning, there was the WORD!)

Not the song, but the Word.

This has nothing to do with nothing. hahahahah

I personally think that we all began chanting (singing or rapping?) in our individual tribal units 200,000 years ago; maybe as far back as 750,000 years ago when we were seafarers.

I was simply struck by this great great actor’s take on Dylan.

I have never in 60 years heard someone accuse Bobby of being a singer!

Mick and Keith loved, absolutely loved American Blues.

The Beatles loved Black singers.

Simon intentionally went to Africa to find and display a new sound.

I could go on and on here with this trend over the last 50 or 60 years.

The arts is not a subject easily defined.

I was just taken by Bill Nighy’s take on things as a journeyman actor from the Shakespearean Stage with little love for Shakespeare.

That’s all I got!

Except for a few songs of course.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hk3mAX5xdxo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ziQx0cXV4nY&feature=related