Mr. Tambourine Man
Dec. 16th, 2016 03:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947Take me on a trip upon
Your magic swirling ship,
My senses have been stripped
My hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels
To be wandering.
I’m ready to go anywhere,
I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade,
Cast your dancing spell my way,
I promise to go under it.
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man,
Play a song for me.
I’m not sleepy and there ain’t
No place I’m going to.
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man,
Play a song for me.
In the jingle jangle morning
I’ll come following you.
(Mr. Tambourine Man: Bob Dylan – 1965)
The announcement in October that Bob Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature was uniquely satisfying for me. It finally legitimized Dylan’s merit as a writer, poet, and artist, by putting him in the same category as W.B. Yeats, T.S. Eliot, Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz, and Seamus Heaney. Dylan occupies a special place in my life. I can mark my progress since adolescence by his career as a folksinger/songwriter, a rock legend, and finally a cultural icon. I can’t begin to measure the impact that Dylan has had on generations after generations of musicians, writers, and artists throughout the world. I hear his influences embedded in hundreds of the singer/songwriters and bands that succeeded him.
I learned to appreciate poetry in my junior year of high school under the guidance of a marvelous English teacher, Mr. Thomas McCambridge. He took our class from the staid beginnings of Tennyson and Longfellow, and introduced us to the modern styles of T.S. Eliot and E.E. Cummings. Words, metaphors, and similes began to take on a life that was more complex and compelling than the rhyming words of earlier poets. But there was still a wall between poetry and me, and I continued believing that poetry was an intellectual medium reserved for cultured intellectuals and academically certified practitioners. Then I heard Like a Rolling Stone, and poetry exploded.
I didn’t hear Dylan the way I heard regular rock and roll songs on the radio. Those songs were commercial tunes that concentrated on catchy rhymes and harmonies. Dylan, on the other hand, challenged you with words, metaphors, and allusions. I listened to Dylan’s songs and words and then plunged headfirst into their endless flow of possible meanings and interpretations. This was the kind of poetry Mr. McCambridge talked about, poetry that demanded attention – grabbed you by the throat, forced you to listen to the words, and demanded that you interpret their message. Like a Rolling Stone, and the other songs on Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited album, turned Rock and Roll on its head. The songs were too long, the orchestration was too simple, and the lyrics were too bizarre. And yet, the album seduced countless young people into falling for the allure and limitless capacity of poetry that was contained in his music.
The Something is Happening Tour marked a coming of age in my life. Dylan was the first musical artist I heard live in concert. It was 1965, the beginning of my Senior year of high school, when a friend, Russell Dalton, suggested that we go see him play at the Long Beach Municipal Auditorium in December. He told me he was tired of my endless ravings about Dylan’s Revisited album and he insisted we actually go and hear him play. I suspect that his real motive was to involve me in a double date so he could ask out a particular girl he had been mooning over. That night was my first rock concert and my first official date. Prior to this event the closest thing to a date was visiting a girl at her home under the watchful eyes of her parents, spending time with a girl at a school activity, or asking a girl to dance at the Sock Hops in the school gym after home football games. This was the first time I called a girl to asked her out on a date which entailed picking her up at home, meeting her parents, driving to the concert in Long Beach, and ending the evening at a pizza house before taking the girls home. It was a big deal. Yet, while I can’t remember the girl’s name, I have crystal clear memories of that night, the concert, and the songs that Dylan sang.
Tom Waits, the gravely voiced, fedora topped, blues singer was the opening act. I had never heard of him before, yet his songs and lyrics, a mixture of jazz and blues, invoked cinema noire images, and scenes of billiard parlors, forlorn and empty streets, and lonely nights. He was the perfect introduction to Dylan because his music also emphasized words and images instead of accompaniment and orchestration. Dylan’s performance was divided into two parts with a brief intermission. The first half was classic Dylan – a lone troubadour on stage with an acoustical guitar and a harmonica draped around his neck. This is the image of Dylan I will always keep with me: a man and his musical poetry, singing Mr. Tambourine Man, I Don’t Believe You (She Acts like We Never Met), and Desolation Row. He sang many of the songs on, what I thought at the time, was his debut album, Highway 61 Revisited, saving the electronically accompanied tunes for the second act. Songs like Tombstone Blues demanded concentration, but his hit, Like a Rolling Stone, brought down the house. That concert, and Dylan’s performance solidified my eternal support for him and his music. At the time, I was totally unaware of the historic musical significance of the album and this tour. For me, Dylan, the singer/poet, had sprung fully formed from the mind of some rock and roll god, with songs that were unique because they were more lyrical and poetic than anything else on the radio. They were almost existential. It wasn’t until college that I started filling in the back-story on Bob Dylan.
Besides the commercial rock and roll on the radio, it was folk songs that permeated college life in the mid- 60’s. These were the songs of protest and youthful defiance that challenged the Vietnam War and the social injustices that seemed so apparent to the baby-boomer generation. It was at UCLA, in the Newman Center and the Student Union, that I heard the classic folk music of Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, Judy Collins, Gordon Lightfoot, and Peter Paul and Mary, and finally discovered some of the historic roots of Bob Dylan. It sounds naïve now, but until college I had no clue that the singer/songwriter of Like a Rolling Stone and Mr. Tambourine Man was the same guy who wrote Blowin’ in the Wind and Don’t Think Twice. While always a “fan” of Bob Dylan throughout my life, I never became maniacal about his music or his life. I didn’t buy all his records or CD’s, and I never bothered reading the countless articles and books written about him, or movies made about his life. I supposed I simply considered him an exceptionally gifted singer-songwriter. In fact, it wasn’t until 2005, when I saw Martin Scorsese’s documentary, No Direction Home that I finally got a clear picture of his early connections to the legendary Woody Guthrie, and American “roots-music”, and his migration to the folk music scene in Greenwich Village. I was especially shocked to learn of Dylan’s traumatic breakup with the folk world in 1965. By “plugging in” his guitar and playing electronic Rock and Roll at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival, Dylan scandalized the folk music purists. All by himself, Dylan became the solitary bridge between folk music and Rock and Roll, and he created the folk-rock genre that would dominate the late 60’s and 70’s, and influence musicians throughout the world for decades.
Certainly the awarding of the Nobel Prize for Literature to Bob Dylan was controversial, and numerous traditional poets and writers criticized it. Perhaps they were even as shocked as the Folk Music purists were in 1965 when Dylan “plugged in”. I was delighted. In true Bob Dylan fashion, while accepting the honor, he did not attend the Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm, on December 5, 2016 to receive his award. Instead he sent a humble and disarming letter of thanks to be read by the United States Ambassador to Sweden. In it, he said that he was honored in receiving such a prestigious prize and joining the ranks of so many giants of literature. At the same time, he let it be known that he never really considered the idea that his work might be “literature”.
“When I started writing songs as a teenager, and even as I started to achieve some renown for my abilities, my aspirations for these songs only went so far. I thought they could be heard in coffee houses or bars, maybe later in place like Carnegie Hall, the London Palladium. If I was really dreaming big, maybe I could imagine getting to make a record and then hearing my songs on the radio… Well, I’ve been doing what I set out to do for a long time now. I’ve made dozens of records and played thousands of concerts all around the world. But it’s my songs that are at the vital center of almost everything I do… Not once have I ever had the time to ask myself, ‘Are my songs literature?’ So, I do thank the Swedish Academy, both for taking the time to consider that very question, and ultimately, for providing such a wonderful answer.”
I think Dylan’s response was perfect. To me, he will always be the Tambourine Man, dancing and singing his songs. Over all these years, he was just a musician creating his art – writing and performing uniquely poetic songs. He wrote for himself first, and, perhaps, for an audience second. With or without and audience, he would always write and sing his songs. Perhaps Horace Engdahl, a member of the Nobel Committee, said it best in a speech he gave after the ceremony. In it he called Dylan, “a singer worthy of a place beside the Greek bards, beside Ovid, beside the Romantic visionaries, besides the kings and queens of the Blues, beside the forgotten masters of brilliant song Standards. If people in the literary world groan (at the prize for Literature going to a singer-songwriter), one must remind them that the gods don’t write, they dance and they sing.”
Your magic swirling ship,
My senses have been stripped
My hands can’t feel to grip
My toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels
To be wandering.
I’m ready to go anywhere,
I’m ready for to fade
Into my own parade,
Cast your dancing spell my way,
I promise to go under it.
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man,
Play a song for me.
I’m not sleepy and there ain’t
No place I’m going to.
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man,
Play a song for me.
In the jingle jangle morning
I’ll come following you.
(Mr. Tambourine Man: Bob Dylan – 1965)
The announcement in October that Bob Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature was uniquely satisfying for me. It finally legitimized Dylan’s merit as a writer, poet, and artist, by putting him in the same category as W.B. Yeats, T.S. Eliot, Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz, and Seamus Heaney. Dylan occupies a special place in my life. I can mark my progress since adolescence by his career as a folksinger/songwriter, a rock legend, and finally a cultural icon. I can’t begin to measure the impact that Dylan has had on generations after generations of musicians, writers, and artists throughout the world. I hear his influences embedded in hundreds of the singer/songwriters and bands that succeeded him.
I learned to appreciate poetry in my junior year of high school under the guidance of a marvelous English teacher, Mr. Thomas McCambridge. He took our class from the staid beginnings of Tennyson and Longfellow, and introduced us to the modern styles of T.S. Eliot and E.E. Cummings. Words, metaphors, and similes began to take on a life that was more complex and compelling than the rhyming words of earlier poets. But there was still a wall between poetry and me, and I continued believing that poetry was an intellectual medium reserved for cultured intellectuals and academically certified practitioners. Then I heard Like a Rolling Stone, and poetry exploded.
I didn’t hear Dylan the way I heard regular rock and roll songs on the radio. Those songs were commercial tunes that concentrated on catchy rhymes and harmonies. Dylan, on the other hand, challenged you with words, metaphors, and allusions. I listened to Dylan’s songs and words and then plunged headfirst into their endless flow of possible meanings and interpretations. This was the kind of poetry Mr. McCambridge talked about, poetry that demanded attention – grabbed you by the throat, forced you to listen to the words, and demanded that you interpret their message. Like a Rolling Stone, and the other songs on Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited album, turned Rock and Roll on its head. The songs were too long, the orchestration was too simple, and the lyrics were too bizarre. And yet, the album seduced countless young people into falling for the allure and limitless capacity of poetry that was contained in his music.
The Something is Happening Tour marked a coming of age in my life. Dylan was the first musical artist I heard live in concert. It was 1965, the beginning of my Senior year of high school, when a friend, Russell Dalton, suggested that we go see him play at the Long Beach Municipal Auditorium in December. He told me he was tired of my endless ravings about Dylan’s Revisited album and he insisted we actually go and hear him play. I suspect that his real motive was to involve me in a double date so he could ask out a particular girl he had been mooning over. That night was my first rock concert and my first official date. Prior to this event the closest thing to a date was visiting a girl at her home under the watchful eyes of her parents, spending time with a girl at a school activity, or asking a girl to dance at the Sock Hops in the school gym after home football games. This was the first time I called a girl to asked her out on a date which entailed picking her up at home, meeting her parents, driving to the concert in Long Beach, and ending the evening at a pizza house before taking the girls home. It was a big deal. Yet, while I can’t remember the girl’s name, I have crystal clear memories of that night, the concert, and the songs that Dylan sang.
Tom Waits, the gravely voiced, fedora topped, blues singer was the opening act. I had never heard of him before, yet his songs and lyrics, a mixture of jazz and blues, invoked cinema noire images, and scenes of billiard parlors, forlorn and empty streets, and lonely nights. He was the perfect introduction to Dylan because his music also emphasized words and images instead of accompaniment and orchestration. Dylan’s performance was divided into two parts with a brief intermission. The first half was classic Dylan – a lone troubadour on stage with an acoustical guitar and a harmonica draped around his neck. This is the image of Dylan I will always keep with me: a man and his musical poetry, singing Mr. Tambourine Man, I Don’t Believe You (She Acts like We Never Met), and Desolation Row. He sang many of the songs on, what I thought at the time, was his debut album, Highway 61 Revisited, saving the electronically accompanied tunes for the second act. Songs like Tombstone Blues demanded concentration, but his hit, Like a Rolling Stone, brought down the house. That concert, and Dylan’s performance solidified my eternal support for him and his music. At the time, I was totally unaware of the historic musical significance of the album and this tour. For me, Dylan, the singer/poet, had sprung fully formed from the mind of some rock and roll god, with songs that were unique because they were more lyrical and poetic than anything else on the radio. They were almost existential. It wasn’t until college that I started filling in the back-story on Bob Dylan.
Besides the commercial rock and roll on the radio, it was folk songs that permeated college life in the mid- 60’s. These were the songs of protest and youthful defiance that challenged the Vietnam War and the social injustices that seemed so apparent to the baby-boomer generation. It was at UCLA, in the Newman Center and the Student Union, that I heard the classic folk music of Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, Judy Collins, Gordon Lightfoot, and Peter Paul and Mary, and finally discovered some of the historic roots of Bob Dylan. It sounds naïve now, but until college I had no clue that the singer/songwriter of Like a Rolling Stone and Mr. Tambourine Man was the same guy who wrote Blowin’ in the Wind and Don’t Think Twice. While always a “fan” of Bob Dylan throughout my life, I never became maniacal about his music or his life. I didn’t buy all his records or CD’s, and I never bothered reading the countless articles and books written about him, or movies made about his life. I supposed I simply considered him an exceptionally gifted singer-songwriter. In fact, it wasn’t until 2005, when I saw Martin Scorsese’s documentary, No Direction Home that I finally got a clear picture of his early connections to the legendary Woody Guthrie, and American “roots-music”, and his migration to the folk music scene in Greenwich Village. I was especially shocked to learn of Dylan’s traumatic breakup with the folk world in 1965. By “plugging in” his guitar and playing electronic Rock and Roll at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival, Dylan scandalized the folk music purists. All by himself, Dylan became the solitary bridge between folk music and Rock and Roll, and he created the folk-rock genre that would dominate the late 60’s and 70’s, and influence musicians throughout the world for decades.
Certainly the awarding of the Nobel Prize for Literature to Bob Dylan was controversial, and numerous traditional poets and writers criticized it. Perhaps they were even as shocked as the Folk Music purists were in 1965 when Dylan “plugged in”. I was delighted. In true Bob Dylan fashion, while accepting the honor, he did not attend the Nobel Prize ceremony in Stockholm, on December 5, 2016 to receive his award. Instead he sent a humble and disarming letter of thanks to be read by the United States Ambassador to Sweden. In it, he said that he was honored in receiving such a prestigious prize and joining the ranks of so many giants of literature. At the same time, he let it be known that he never really considered the idea that his work might be “literature”.
“When I started writing songs as a teenager, and even as I started to achieve some renown for my abilities, my aspirations for these songs only went so far. I thought they could be heard in coffee houses or bars, maybe later in place like Carnegie Hall, the London Palladium. If I was really dreaming big, maybe I could imagine getting to make a record and then hearing my songs on the radio… Well, I’ve been doing what I set out to do for a long time now. I’ve made dozens of records and played thousands of concerts all around the world. But it’s my songs that are at the vital center of almost everything I do… Not once have I ever had the time to ask myself, ‘Are my songs literature?’ So, I do thank the Swedish Academy, both for taking the time to consider that very question, and ultimately, for providing such a wonderful answer.”
I think Dylan’s response was perfect. To me, he will always be the Tambourine Man, dancing and singing his songs. Over all these years, he was just a musician creating his art – writing and performing uniquely poetic songs. He wrote for himself first, and, perhaps, for an audience second. With or without and audience, he would always write and sing his songs. Perhaps Horace Engdahl, a member of the Nobel Committee, said it best in a speech he gave after the ceremony. In it he called Dylan, “a singer worthy of a place beside the Greek bards, beside Ovid, beside the Romantic visionaries, besides the kings and queens of the Blues, beside the forgotten masters of brilliant song Standards. If people in the literary world groan (at the prize for Literature going to a singer-songwriter), one must remind them that the gods don’t write, they dance and they sing.”
Dylan et al
Date: 2016-12-17 01:54 pm (UTC)But the Dylan mystique is alive and well in Greenwich Village. Thanks for capturing your experience.
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