1973 Versus 2015

large_v43ez7xKqqbM35phWHqlq27P1jwSunday, as I was [cue robotic voice] circuiting through satellite channel choices, I ran across Woody Allen’s Sleeper, a movie I found hilarious when I first saw it in 1973 at the Ultravision Theater. The Ultravision is now long gone but in those days was a part of a shopping center located on the corner of Ashley River Road and Highway 7, about five miles north of the downtown peninsula of Charleston, South Carolina.

In the forty-two years since, much has changed around Charleston. For example, Highway 7 in those days was still wooded in spots but now has been renamed Sam Rittenberg Boulevard. We’re talking five lanes of suburban sameness, what James Hillman aptly describes as “the nowhere that is everywhere,” that ubiquitous stretch of fast food franchises, retail outlets, and convenience stores leading into virtually every city in the USA.

The plot of Sleeper tracks Miles Monroe, a latter-day Rip Van Winkle who subjected unwillingly to cryopreservation in 1973 awakens 200 years later to confront the brave new world of the future. In case you haven’t seen it, the movie’s a sort of conflation of Huxley and Hemingway, sci-fi futurism meets the Spanish Civil War, at once a farce and homage to Buster Keaton, the Marx Brothers, and Charlie Chaplin — a dystopian comedy.

Seeing the film again got me thinking about the tricky business of trying to predict the future, an exercise fraught with potential failure. Brave New World missed the monorail at times; 1984, perhaps a more accurate prophecy, nevertheless got some aspects of the future wrong as well.

Watching Sleeper, I started wondering, “How different is a day in 1973 when the movie was released to a day in 2015?” We’re talking 42, not 200 years, but that’s almost half a century, and we’re in a new millennium.

Pretend you’re an anthropologist, detached from our culture. Remember, younger readers, that 1973 was pre-digital, the age of the 8-track cassette, the first non-radio music available for cars and trucks. No email, no personal computers, though some people did have touchtone phones.

What would it be like to have been in suspended animation for the last 42 years and suddenly to find yourself in the year 2015?

* * *

Awakening in 2015 versus 1973

Dick Tracy's Two-Way Radio Watch

Dick Tracy’s Two-Way Radio Watch

Rather than an ac/dc alarm clock radio chiming you into consciousness, chances are your wake-up mechanism is a small computer roughly the size of a pack of cigarettes but much thinner. This device also offers the ability for you to look at your friends while you communicate with them, whether they’re across the street or half a world away — it’s the “picture phone” futurists used to dream of as a earthshaking marvel — but the truth is that you virtually never use its visual capabilities to communicate with your friends or family, nor do you, in fact, use it to talk to people as you would on a more conventional phone. You prefer to “text” them, to type super-abbreviated messages, like “OMG, CSL!”

Dressing for Work

Surprisingly, dress hasn’t changed all that much at all. No unitard suits with rocket logos hang in the closet. In fact, half the young people you see at the college could be either Bob Dylan or Joan Baez circa ’65.

 

Dylan '65

Dylan ’65

2015 hipster

2015 hipster

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Preparing Breakfast

Although invented in 1946 and marketed as Radarange, microwaves weren’t widely available for residential use until the late-70’s, so the unfrozen-you might be surprised that you can zap a bowl of oatmeal in a minute and a half, but chances are you’d rather pull into the drive-thru lane at Bojangles for some artery-clogging ham biscuits because retrieving the oatmeal from the cabinet, pulling the milk from the fridge, and punching in the cooking time of the oatmeal is way too much trouble.

In fact, one of the significant differences you might notice if you were to awaken after a 42-year nap is the epidemic in obesity that characterizes your 21st century community.

Commuting

Same ol’, same ol’ — no flying cars, no monorails, no individual jetpacks.

Mass transit hasn’t progressed at all. The T in Boston is even dingier than it was in ’73.

In fact, the coolest vehicles on the roads are the oldest, e.g. that 1973 VW microbus that you just passed driven by some old man with a ponytail.

Here in Charleston, you find routes have widened lane-wise and a skinny lane on the shoulder is reserved for bicycle traffic but that the traffic is terrible, Manhattan-like, bumper-to-[fiberglass]- bumper.

DUI non-licensed drivers still putt around on mopeds with cardboard license “plates” that read “Moped.”

The mini-computer we carry can give us directions while we drive, which truly seems futuristic. Road maps are obsolescent. You can choose either a male or female voice and actually speak into the mini-computer and ask the voice for information.

On the Job

Whether you’re an employee at Boeing, a Seven-Eleven, or a school district, cameras record your comings and goings. Your mini-computer is also equipped with a camera, so it’s not only Orwell’s Big Brother keeping tabs but also corporate brother and little brother — literally, your little brother might record a video of you committing some act of malfeasance.

Chances are, if you work indoors, you spend hours dealing with email, and if you don’t delete them on a daily basis, they proliferate like tapeworms, and even if you’re framing houses in the great outdoors, emails ping in your pocket like pinball machines as your mini-computer receives messages, from not only friends but also from corporations and even conmen.

TMI.

Writing

typewriterOh my God! No more retyping a page because you typed too close to the bottom, no more correction tape, no more spelling errors! You can cut passages and paste them into your document. Virtually any fact can be looked up on a computer, vital information like Lumpy Rutherford’s actual first name on the ’60’s sitcom Leave It to Beaver. It’s the information Age.

 

Happy Hour

After work, you still go to a bar, but chances are you can’t smoke in there, and the number of different beers is staggering. The 25 cent happy hour Bud has given way to the $8 “Avery, the Maharaja Imperial India Pale Ale.” Beer experts slosh malted beverages around their palates distinguishing piney aftertastes and assessing the wattage of the hops.

Evening Entertainment

Broadcast news has not changed one iota – a white male reads to you in between reports from far flung locales.

On the other hand, you can suck virtually any movie you want to see out of the sky instantaneously, even old flicks like the Marx Brothers’ A Night at the Opera, a film impossible to see in ’73 unless it miraculously appeared at an arthouse cinema or on the late late show on TV.

You can also record television programs and stop them to go to the toilet, which still looks essentially like it did in 1973.

1973 toilet

1973 toilet

2015 toilet

2015 toilet

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Or you can groove to music you can purchase 24/7 and listen to immediately. Wanna hear “Working Class Hero” by John and Yoko? No problem. You can download it on your mini-computer for a dollar and a quarter.

A working class hero is something to be
A working class hero is something to be

(As far as entertainment goes you’re a king or queen).

Keep you doped with religion, and sex, and T.V.

Politics

Here’s something that might surprise you. The nation has lurched way way rightward. The Republicans running for president today would consider Richard Nixon a commie. He after he wrote this in 1973:

It is time to bring comprehensive, high quality health care within the reach of every American. [We should] assure comprehensive health insurance protection to millions who cannot now obtain it or afford it, with improved protection against catastrophic illnesses. This will be a plan that maintains the high standards of quality in America’s health care. And it will not require additional taxes.

The current president, although a centrist by European standards, is branded a socialist by his opponents.

Despite the rightward shift in the country, when it comes to social issues, people are much more open-minded. A majority believe gays should have the right to marry, a concept that was as alien in 1973 as the idea that many leading candidates running for the presidency in the 21st century would reject science, not only evolution but also objective data documenting rising temperatures.

Religion

Many have left traditional churches that conduct liturgical services and have also abandoned fire-and-brimstone preachers. Instead, they hang out in jeans at megachurches on Sundays and listen to Christian rock performed by live bands.

Many others have abandoned religion altogether.

Still fewer proclaim, as they have for the last 2,000 years, that the end time is near.

Overall

These changes have all occurred in my adulthood and therefore I take them for granted. What would seem like a miracle in ’73 – for example to freeze the live broadcast of a football game, back track, and watch a play again in slow motion — seems mundane.

We’re distracted, alienated, walk down the street with our earbuds booming as we stare into that ubiquitous device that we think we can’t live without while songbirds fly over us unheard and unseen.

Still, I can watch a Shakespearean performance virtually whenever I want to, which in a way makes me richer than Nebuchadnezzar.

Sleep 2.0.1

painting by Jefferey Batchelor

painting by Jefferey Batchelor

In 1985, I lost the knack of sleeping, and I blame it on Porter-Gaud School. Even the year before I started teaching there, I slept, if not like a baby, like a serene thirty-something who enjoyed the more than occasional malted beverage and could count on eight interrupted hours.

However, in August of 1985, the night before my very first day of teaching high school, my eyes popped open at 3 am like two too tightly wound window shades springing to the top of the sill.

Suddenly, I’m awake and awake and awake. That inaugural night, I kept repeating in my head, “I got to get asleep, I got to get asleep, I got to get asleep,” huffing along like “The Little Train That Couldn’t,” but I didn’t drift off until  a scant forty minutes or so before the alarm was set to blast me awake.

So, of course, I shuffled muck-headed through that first day like an extra from Dead Men Walking, making, as zombies tend to do, a bad impression.

This pattern of sleepless nights has persisted ever since, and I have written about my chronic insomnia HERE (seriously) and HERE (comically).

However, I swear on my freshly deceased mother’s grave, I’ve never suffered insomnia quite as bad as last night/this morning, so to try to block out those para-paranoid thoughts that swarm like bats at 3am on weeknights, I composed an Italian sonnet in imitation to Sir Philip Sidney’s famous Sonnet 39, “To Sleep.” It’s an intricate form, with iambic pentameter as its meter and an abbaabbacdecde rhyme scheme that severely limits vocabulary. I thought that the exercise would wear me out as I lay there Homer-like in the dark without pen or paper, but alas, it did not.

So here it is, and I dedicate it to my fellow insomniacs.

 

                                          To Sleep 2.0.1

“Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care” – Macbeth

Yo, Morpheus, you sadistic bastard,
Where the fuck are you? Snorting crystal meth
with the Sand Man? Can’t you see I’m a wreck,
tossing and turning like mad — backwards,
sideways? Even bedbugs have left in distress
in search of a habitat less turbulent. Fuck,
man, I swear I’ll put a noose around my neck!
My sleeve of care has unraveled past my wrist,
all the way up to my elbow! Swerve in a sestet?
How? Why? Nothing changes hour-after-hour:
drip drop drip drop drop drop drop – disturbing
thought follows disturbing thought. My sweat-
ing self craves relief! You have the power,
sweet Morpheus, to sing me to sleep. Sing!

Leaf Subsides to Leaf

for my brother David on his 59th birthday

 

Apartment buildings
rise in time-lapsed
construction.

Their parking lots
fill with cars
that start
to come and go
like ants in lines of labor
faster and faster.

Inside, on the wall,
the fluttering
day calendar
sheds its leaves
like confetti.

Last fall snapped
like a twig.

Winter opened and closed
like the door of a freezer.

This spring, a sneeze.

The coming summer, a sigh.

Swoosh . . .

david

Review of Bob Dylan Concert 17 April 2015

Here’s what to expect — and what not to expect — in the early 2015 dates of Bob Dylan’s Never Ending Tour.

Do expect a prompt beginning right around 8 PM when the lights go down, the audience reacts, the musicians take the stage, and the lights come up again dimly. Dylan doesn’t like the have his photograph taken — it’s forbidden — and the relatively darkened stage makes capturing a decent image virtually impossible. On the two occasions when the stage is well lit, if you attempt a surreptitious snap, beware of flashlight wielding ushers who will spot-light you in the act and bark at you like a hall monitor.

17 April 2015 photo by Ned Moore (who received a tongue-lashing for attempting to preserve history)

17 April 2015 photo by Ned Moore (who received a tongue-lashing for attempting to preserve history)

Don’t expect the audience to arrive on time, to be able to sit still and listen, or to remain silent during the performance. Throughout last night’s show at the North Charleston Performing Arts Center, audience conversation constantly hummed beneath the music like static. Of course, you could blame Dylan for not keeping their attention, but I suspect these folk would behave the same way during the Sermon on the Mount, especially if they had been swilling down beer and overworking their kidneys.

Do expect a superb, tight band: guitarists Stu Kimball and Charlie Setxon, bassist Tony Garnier, drummer George Receli, and multi-instrumentalist Donnie Herron playing mostly steel guitar but also banjo and fiddle. As my companion James T Crow aptly observed, these musicians performed more like an orchestra than a band, like an ensemble working together inventively and unselfishly for the sake of each individual song.

Expect Dylan to look cool in a white suit and hat, to strike poses, to shuffle in minimalistic dance moves, to play the harmonica, and to shuffle back and forth between a piano on the side of the stage to center stage where he sings behind a mike stand. Don’t expect much from either his harp-blowing or piano playing, but expect every time he hits a note on the harp for the audience to erupt in delight as if Sonnyboy (Rice Miller) Williamson had just risen from the dead.

Also, if you’re a true Dylan fan, expect to be pleasantly surprised by his voice, which sounded much healthier than when I last saw him in May of 2013, and seemed to improve as the night went on. If you’re not a true Dylan fan, expect to be disappointed by its gravelly timbre and lack of range. As another concert companion, Keith Sanders, puts it, “You can always tell when somebody doesn’t know much about Dylan because they start off talking about his voice.”

Don’t expect a jukebox full of greatest hits. And don’t expect the three “standards” he plays — “She Belongs to Me,” “Tangled Up in Blue,” and “Blowing in the Wind,” to sound like the records — in other words, expect non-standard standards. However, expect to be blown away by the reconfiguration of “Blowing in the Wind.”

For the set list click HERE.

Ultimately, be prepared to see a legend showcase gems from his recent work in a sort of smorgasbord of American musical styles: shuffles, mambos, boogies, country waltzes, torch songs, blues laments, ’50’s pop.

Expect the concert to end around ten, for Dylan not to introduce the band, or to even bow. I don’t know if you can expect what we heard last night — a rare audible “thank you” and “we’re gonna take a short break.”

I see I’m at the end of my typed page, so as Dylan put it at the end of his MusiCares speech: “I’m getting out of here. I’m gonna put an egg in my shoe and beat it.”

Britt McHenry, Mistake Maker

One of the first rules of common decency when complaining about some corporate misfeasance is to preface your complaint with the acknowledgement that your audience is not truly responsible for the policy that has angered you.  The voice on the line in Bangalore isn’t the one who decided that channeling callers through a Minoan labyrinth of recorded messages is an efficient way to solve customer problems; he wasn’t the one who decided to hire as few employees as possible to bolster the bottom line so that the CEO will receive a bonus that equals the entire yearly Gross National Product of Burundi. I suspect the person on the line is facing worse problems than your current inability to connect to the world-wide web.

Until yesterday I had never heard of Britt McHenry, the ESPN reporter whose churlish tirade against a parking lot attendant got her suspended for a week from her duties, which means someone else will have to probe the profound thoughts of linebackers, point guards, and goalies. Someone else will have to engage in pleasant banter with the anchors.

McHenry as issued an apology: “In an intense and stressful moment, I allowed my emotions to get the best of me and said some insulting and regrettable things.  As frustrated as I was, I should always choose to be respectful and take the high road. I am so sorry for my actions and will learn from this mistake.”

Here’s a catalogue of some of the “regrettable things” she said to the attendant:

I have a degree and you don’t.”
“I wouldn’t work at a scumbag place like this.”
“Makes my skin crawl even being here.”
“That’s all you care about is just taking people’s money.”
“With no education, no skill set”
“Do you feel good about your job?”
“I could be a college dropout and do the same thing?”
“I have a brain and you don’t.”
“Maybe if I was missing some teeth they would hire me.”
“Oh yours? Cause they look so stunning.” (Criticizing the attendant’s teeth)
“I’m on television and you’re in a f**king trailer, honey.”
“Lose some weight, baby girl.”

Ms McHenry’s punishment is a week’s suspension from her job and the scorn being heaped on her by lesser people like me who are not on TV,  a blogger with not much of an audience.

If I were an ESPN exec, I might make her read Dickens Great Expectations or Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle or demand she spend her week off in Buffalo County, South Dakota, the most impoverished county in the USA.

Lessons to be learned (besides the fact that the employee at the towing yard  didn’t establish the parking statutes of the city): cameras, cameras, everywhere; also a megrims of humility is ultimately more attractive than the gorgeous smiles that orthodontics can create.  Believe it or not, some of us out here don’t hold ESPN reporters as paragons.

In fact, they, too, can offer some inviting targets for ridicule — even when they’re not bullying some poor woman doing her best to earn a living given the lot she’s inherited.

Just be thankful, Ms McHenry, that HL Mencken ain’t around to have a go at you.

Southern Gothic Memories, Canine Edition

I’m not aAgnolo-Bronzino--1503-1572-----Portrait-of-the-dwarf--Morgante%0D%0AItalia people person. For example, although I’m a teacher, I don’t especially like young people. Don’t get me wrong — I don’t dislike children the way WC Fields disliked children; I wouldn’t conk one on the head for laughs — but I don’t like them any better than I like twenty-somethings, middle-aged people, seniors, etc. If anything, as demographics go, I like very old cognizant people the best, octogenarians and above, widows and widowers, withered folk who have seen it all, suffered irredeemable losses, but who have managed to maintain twinkles in their eyes.

(By the way, these withered creatures both disgust and terrify high school students. For example, Chaucer’s “The Wife of Bath Tale,” which describes the wedding night of a young knight and a very aged crone, sends viewable shivers of disgust up sophomores’ spines. If you don’t want your teenager to smoke, don’t try to scare her with lung cancer — she can’t relate to a death that far in the future — instead show her a photograph of WH Auden or Keith Richards. Explain that cigarettes break down collagen and lead to wrinkles.)

I feel the same way about dogs as I feel about people. I don’t like a dog just because it’s a dog, just because it’s a member of the species Canis familiaris, but I have loved certain individual dogs, especially ones that ended up living with me, even troubled ones, like psychopathic Jack (d. c.1990) and PTSD Saisy (d. 2014).

Jack and Sally  1986
Jack and Sally 1986

However, by far the best dog we ever owned was Bessie, an AKC-certified Golden retriever who was beautiful, loving, highly intelligent, and gentle.

To obtain Bessie, however, we had to venture into Flannery O’Connor territory, or if you prefer, a David Lynch movie, but before I start the narrative, I’d like to set a couple of things straight.

First, I’ve had the following account certified by fellow witness Judy Birdsong as basically accurate. In cases where our memories differ, I have deferred to her.

Second, I need also to stress that I have always sympathized with people with physical abnormalities. My father’s favorite work of literature was Cyrano de Bergerac, I identified with the protagonist of The Boy with Green Hair when I was a kid, and I consider Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man, as one of the most admirable human beings who ever lived.

So don’t judge me goddamnit!

* * *

Once upon a time, our older ten-year-old son Harrison had been asking for a dog, so Judy decided to surprise him and younger brother Ned, seven, with a golden retriever puppy for Christmas. We were living in post-Hugo Isle of Palms, SC, in a patched-up Cap Cod house with a large dog-friendly fenced back yard, and unlike our previous dogs, the aforementioned blood-thirsty Jack and his severely overbred pin-headed mate Sally, Bessie was destined to be a house dog.

The only problem was that Judy couldn’t find any golden retrievers for sale. We’re talking pre-Internet 1994 when you had to blacken your hands flipping through newsprint to find pets for sale. And like in an old movie, the days of the calendar were fluttering in the winds of time, being ripped off one by one as Christmas approached. Each morning, Judy scoured the want-ads, but still, no golden retriever pups for sale.

Then almost right before it would be too late to have the puppy appear on Christmas Day – eureka – a well-written ad purporting expertise appeared. The ad stressed that these pups had not been overbred, a problem endemic to such a popular breed, as the ad writer put it. Six were left — but going fast — reddish-hued golden retriever pups for sale for 150 bucks a pop. The only negative was that you had to drive to rural Berkeley County somewhere in the vicinity of Macedonia, South Carolina, to check them out, and so on a Saturday, we dumped the boys off somewhere and made the trek.

Judy had, of course, called the breeder, who impressed her with his phone presence, his well-articulated knowledge of all things golden retriever. He offered details on ancestry, points of origin. She liked the idea of the pups being bred in the country. She envisioned the puppies’ mother running Lassie-like through fields of alfalfa beyond wooden-fences, a white-washed clapboard farmhouse way back from the rarely traveled road, an aproned June Lockhart in the kitchen flipping flapjacks.

* * *

wilcox-county-ga-sibbie-road-abandoned-ford-mustang-chevrolet-chevy-chevelle-green-rusted-southern-gothic-americana-pictures-photo-copyright-brian-brown-vanishing-south-georgia-usa-2010The actual domicile was a largish non-mobile mobile home on a half-acre lot. I guess its owners would call it a manufactured house, but it didn’t look like a house but like a boxy trailer. In the weedy yard, two fossilized automobiles, one with yellowed newspapers inside stacked almost to the ceiling, the other leaning to its starboard side because of flat tires.

Happily, for me, I hadn’t envisioned what the homestead of our future puppy might look like, so I didn’t suffer the cognitive dissonance Judy had to endure. No, this wasn’t the set of Lassie; it was more like some David Lynch movie set in the rural South. Or, to wax literary, the homestead of the Lucynell Craters of Flannery O’Connor’s “The Life You Save May Be Your Own.” In other words, Judy’s would-be plantation had dysfunction written all over it.

After exchanging dubious glances, we clanged our way up the metal steps, and I knocked politely on the metal door, expecting a chorus of howling or barking or at least something.

Silence.

I knocked again, louder.

Not a peep.

I banged on the door, thinking of B drive-in movies featuring chainsaws.

And then I heard a sound a muffled voice, some clumping. Was someone coming or not? Finally the door opened.

Standing there to greet us, propped on one aluminum crutch, stood a one-legged midget* in a Billy Pilgrim tee-shirt and cut-off denim shorts. He hadn’t lost his leg, but something had gone awry in utero; it hadn’t fully formed. I remember another embryonic non-formation going on with one of his hands, but Judy nixes this memory. She assures me that his disabilities were limited to being a “little person” with half a leg.


*I realize that some consider “midget” a pejorative term, but to me it seems less patronizing than “little people.” Plus I’ve had it with the never ending process of euphemizing euphemisms. Trust me, one day “little people” will become pejorative and the politically correct term will be “differently scaled humans.”

When I think of midgets, I think of the wonderful Land of Oz and squeaky “we-are-the-lolly-pop-kids” voices; however, this cat possessed that deep regionless baritone I associate with commercial voiceovers. He sounded like a radio announcer, and the walls of the living area of his minimally furnished house were lined with banks of computers at a time when computers weren’t ubiquitous household possessions.

He was unusually articulate; no wonder Judy had been impressed. Plus, he possessed the self-confidence of Sean Connery playing James Bond. Why hide the phocomelic limb with long pants pinned over the appendage? Shame seemed alien to him. The only negative I’ll lay on him was that he a sort of know-it-all, the way certain mechanically gifted people can be know-it-alls.

Bessie the Pup
Bessie the Pup

With him were two boys in their early teens, hardy and hale. We followed dad and sons to another room where the puppies were skidding around in a waterless kiddy pool. I remember urine in the pool; Judy doesn’t. We both agree the puppies were adorable — maybe four were left — and we chose the cutest and made arrangements to return to pick her up.

Money exchanged hands, and we said our good-byes. I decided not to mention the oddness of the encounter to Judy. How small-minded it seemed to me to even mention the disability. So what if the fellow from whom we had purchased our puppy was short and malformed? So what if we had spent a half hour in Flannery O’Connor/David Lynchville?

We returned to the car, I started the ignition, and Judy said, “That guy seemed soooooo familiar. Where do we know him from?

My mind screamed “WTF? You gotta be kidding me!!! What in the hell are you talking about?” but I merely said, as calmly as I could, “I’m fairly certain that I’ve never laid eyes on him.”

“No, think,’ she said. “Didn’t we know him in Columbia? I know we know him.”

Now things were really getting surreal.

“I’m absolutely certain I don’t know him. I’m certain I would remember him. He is one of the most singular individuals I’ve ever laid eyes on. Indeed, he might be the only midget I’ve ever talked to. Plus, he had only one leg. Trust me. I’d remember that. He’s not a very forgettable fellow.”

Judy’s still not convinced. However, we did end up running into him again at an outdoor concert later that spring, and as it turned out, Bessie didn’t turn out to be exactly genetically sound herself. She was born without knee sockets and needed an operation, but you couldn’t have asked for a better dog.

And how remarkable that her breeder could be so confident, so self-possessed. In that regard he stands head and shoulders above me.

Bessie the Crone photograph by Jim Klein

Bessie the Crone photograph by Jim Klein

Dylan’s 2015 Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart Tour

Dylan-old-Blues-Eyes-AgainEvery time I go to see Bob Dylan, I figure it’s going to be my last, so when the concert’s over and the scarecrow graces us with a bow, I bid him a silent good-bye. I suspect I’ll do the same this Friday when Mighty Keith Sanders, Crafty Ned Moore, and I-and-I meet up at the North Charleston Performing Arts Center to witness the Master croak his way through a set list that is mostly melancholy. Dylan is obviously a restless man, a loner, no stranger to heartache yet wise enough to know it ain’t just about him.

Since I’ve argued HERE that Dylan deserves a Nobel prize in Literature, I thought I’d share my favorite lyrics from the tunes he’ll play Friday night, many of them works from recent albums.

“Things Have Changed”

People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed

“She Belongs to Me”

You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees

“Beyond Here Lies Nothing”

Down every street there’s a window
And every window made of glass
We’ll keep on lovin’ pretty baby
For as long as love will last
Beyond here lies nothin’
But the mountains of the past

Workingman’s Blues #2

I’m tryin’ to feed my soul with thought
Gonna sleep off the rest of the day
Sometimes no one wants what we got
Sometimes you can’t give it away

“Duquesne Whistle”

The lights on my native land are glowing
I wonder if they’ll know me next time ’round
I wonder if that old oak tree’s still standing
That old oak tree, the one we used to climb

“Waiting for You”

Well, the king of them all
Is starting to fall.
I lost my gal at the boatman’s ball.
The night has a thousand hearts and eyes.
Hope may vanish, but it never dies.

“Pay in Blood”

Another politician pumping out the piss
Another angry beggar blowing you a kiss
You got the same eyes that your mother does
If only you could prove who your father was

“Tangled Up in Blue”

She lit a burner on the stove
And offered me a pipe
“I thought you’d never say hello,” she said
“You look like the silent type”
Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burnin’ coal

“Love Sick”

I see, I see lovers in the meadow
I see, I see silhouettes in the window
I watch them ’til they’re gone and they leave me hanging on
To a shadow

“High Water” (For Charley Patton)

Well, the cuckoo is a pretty bird, she warbles as she flies
I’m preachin’ the word of God, I’m puttin’ out your eyes
I asked Fat Nancy for somethin’ to eat, she said, “Take it off the shelf”
As great as you are man, you’ll never be greater than yourself

“A Simple Twist of Fate”

A saxophone someplace far off played
As she was walkin’ by the arcade
As the light bust through a beat-up shade where he was wakin’ up,
She dropped a coin into the cup of a blind man at the gate
And forgot about a simple twist of fate

“Early Roman Kings”

Ding dong daddy
You’re coming up short
Gonna put you on trial
In a Sicilian court
I’ve had my fun
I’ve had my flings
Gonna shake em all down
Like the early roman kings

“Forgetful Heart”

Forgetful heart
Like a walking shadow in my brain
All night long
I lay awake and listen to the sound of pain
The door has closed forevermore
If indeed there ever was a door

“Spirit on the Water”

I wanna be with you in paradise
And it seems so unfair
I can’t go to paradise no more
I killed a man back there

“Scarlet Town”

If love is a sin, then beauty is a crime
All things are beautiful in their time
The black and the white, the yellow and the brown
Its all right there in front of you in Scarlet Town.

“Soon After Midnight”

It’s now or never,
More than ever,
When I met you I didn’t think you’d do,
It’s soon after midnight,
And I don’t want nobody but you

“Long and Wasted Years”

It’s been a while,
since we walked down that long, long aisle
We cried on a cold and frosty morn,
We cried because our souls were torn
so much for tears
so much for these long and wasted years.

“Blowin’ in the Wind

Yes, ’n’ how many times must the cannonballs fly
Before they’re forever banned?

He ends the with a Sam Smith/Mary Bilge cover of “Stay with Me” whose theme jives well with the above

Guess it’s true, I’m not good at a one-night stand
But I still need love ’cause I’m just a man
These nights never seem to go to plan
I don’t want you to leave, will you hold my hand?

Backed by killer musicians, the poor ragged old minstrel continues to travel the road “like Big Joe Turner looking east and west from the dark room of his mind.”  Sure, the set is dark, but what do you expect from an aging master?

It’s not like Yeats’ “Circus Animal Desertion” is a toe tapper.

William Butler Yeats

William Butler Yeats