52 GIRLS

"To Ramona" / Alan Price

Yes, I know the song was written by Bob Dylan. It's from his 1964 album Another Side of Bob Dylan, a somewhat amusing title in retrospect, since it featured pretty much the same folk-singer side of Bob Dylan that had taken the Greenwich Village clubs by storm in 1961. The only shift was that he was moving away from political protest songs and becoming -- as this song so amply demonstrates -- more personal and poetic. But compared to what happened on his next album, when he "went electric," this was nothing.

To be quite honest, I don't like the Bob Dylan version -- especially not after having heard this tender cover, sung in Alan Price's husky Geordie tenor.

The word is -- and who would ever doubt the word? -- that Bob Dylan wrote this song about Joan Baez. Considering that Alan Price hung out with Dylan and Baez during Dylan's 1965 UK tour, most memorably chronicled in the D. L. Pennebaker documentary Don't Look Back, it seems only fitting that Price should later cover this song on his 1966 album A Price On His Head.

This sure is one hell of an ambivalent, complicated song. Our singer clearly loves this girl, but he's also lost patience with her idealism, her hunger for acceptance. Underneath all the verbiage, it's still a kiss-off song, despite the romantic waltz tempo, the sweetly looping melody. But where Dylan's nasal croon betrays exasperation and disdain, Alan Price's smoky voice adds a note of wistful regret that redeems the whole song. 

 

Dylan paints her as an innocent rube -- "watery eyes," "cracked country lips," "returnin' / Back to the South" -- which doesn't seem fair when you think of Baez, already a major voice in the folk-protest movement when young Bobby Zimmerman washed up in New York City, fresh from Minnesota.  Sure, some of the bitterness in his voice is explained by knee-jerk protest folkie scorn for the system that's been wasting her soul: "It's all just a dream, babe / a vacuum, a scheme, babe / That sucks you into feelin' like this" and, later in the song,  "fixtures and forces and friends . . . that hype you and type you / Making you feel / That you gotta be just like them." But there's still a cruel personal subtext.

 

Maybe I'm being unfair to Dylan. No doubt at one point he really did love Joan Baez. ("Your magnetic movements / Still capture the minutes I'm in" -- if that isn't a sexy line, I'll eat my whatever.)   But having seen how badly he treats her in Don't Look Back, I've got my guard up.

 

For all those word-crammed verses only mask the fact that he's basically given up on her. He blames her for self-sabotage -- "Yet there's no one to beat you / No one to defeat you / 'Cept the thoughts of yourself feeling bad" -- and in the last verse, he washes his hands of her problems: "For deep in my heart / I know there is no help I can bring / Everything passes / Everything changes / Just do what you think you should do." In other words, hasta la vista, baby. 

Yet I think of Alan Price, quitting the Animals at the height of their popularity because touring drove him so crazy, and I sense he is a bit more on the side of the idealistic dreamer than opportunistic Bobby D ever could be. Even as he disengages, there's a rasp of sorrow in his voice as he sings, "And who knows, maybe / That some day baby / I'll come cryin' to you." When Bob Dylan sings this, I don't buy it, but Alan Price's rueful shiver of self-honesty sells it.

Do I think Bob Dylan is a great songwriter? I do indeed. But he's not an artist that touches my heart. Alan Price, on the other hand...

51 DOWN, 1 TO GO

WEDNESDAY SHUFFLE

Is it Wednesday again already?  Where did the time go?  See what you miss when you spend three days fighting off a computer virus...

1. Somebody Stole My Car / The Kinks
From Phobia (1993)
I always get a kick out of Kinks car songs -- "Drivin'," "A Gallon of Gas," "Motorway" -- even this speedy little punk-flavored number about urban street crime.  Well, I've never seen Ray Davies drive a car but I'm told he's quite the, er, dashing motorist...


2. Don't Think Twice, It's Alright / Bob Dylan
From The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan (1963)
A classic bit of talkin' blues from Bobby D., heavy on the harmonica wheeze.  Indeed, he does seem like a freewheelin' chap from this song, back when he still sorta had a voice; it's tracks like this that remind me why he is a songwriting god. But, really, there ain't no use in turning on your light, gal.  

3. "You Shouldn't Be Sad" / The Kinks
From Kinda Kinks (1965)
Ray Davies trying to be the Beatles.  This never worked out for Ray, I don't know why he even tried.  A charming track, nevertheless.

4. Tell Me More And More And Then Some / Nina Simone
From After Hours (compilation)
Now here's the goods. Is it jazz?  Is it blues? Is it protest folk?  All of that and more, from the incomparable Nina Simone.  This is what cool intellectuals were listening to when I was in kindergarten; I can just imagine the superior snickers when they heard bands like the Animals record Nina songs like "Don't Let Me Misunderstood." The lady is untouchable. 

5. The Good's Gone / The Who
From The Who Sings My Generation (1965)
And again from 1965, the Who trying to sound like the Kinks, slowed down and draggy (different drugs).  

6.  Circles / Ten Years After
From Cricklewood Green (1970)
The last great gasp of sincere folk rock, before prog rock spoiled the whole deal. Or maybe it already had by then -- how should I know?  I remember seeing this album in people's record collections in college, but I don't think I EVER listened to it before last year.  And even then it was only because Inaki told me to. But it's a dreamy number, with that hazy Alvin Lee guitar -- an instant fave.

7. Love Train / Keb' Mo'
From Big Wide Grin (1998)
I love Keb's Delta-blues spin on this old Gamble & Huff Philly soul classic (the O'Jays, if I recall correctly).  Keb's original material is so good, we tend to forget how superb his covers are, too.  When he sings this song, it's peace-and-love he's talking about, a real populist anthem -- and believe it or not, it works.

8. 22 Miles To Bristol  / Greg Trooper
From Popular Demons (1998)
More banjo!  Troop drops into folk-ballad mode a lot on this album; there's a restless insistence to this plaintive road song that hooks me in every time.  Is the singer a touring musician?  A trucker? A bank robber on the lam?  Whatever you want.


9. Pink Bedroom / John Hiatt
From Two Bit Monsters (1980)
Early Hiatt, in his Costello wannabe days, but still a hoot -- a jittery, jangly ode to a teenage princess ensconced in her girly-girl bedchamber. 

10. Kamera / Wilco
From Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (2002)
Might as well give in to the Americana groove.  Wilco's sellout album -- at least if you listen to some message boards -- is still my favorite, I have to confess.  I  love the loungey beat of this song, its numb dazed groove, those sneaky little hooks.  So sue me.
 

"Simple Twist of Fate" / Bob Dylan

This one goes out, through the spiritual ether, to Tom Gallagher. Tom and I agreed about a lot of music but, pig-headed as I can sometimes be, I always refused to share his love for Bob Dylan. You've gotta know I was just being contrary, reacting against the knee-jerk Dylan worship of my generation. Of course Bob Dylan's a brilliant songwriter -- he just doesn't speak to me.

He spoke to Tom, though. Tom was a true believer, and respecting his musical opinions as I did, I always cut Dylan extra slack just for Tom's sake. So here I am tonight, missing Tom like hell, and one thing that comforts me is spinning a little Dylan in his honor. A story song, of course -- one of Dylan's little novels-in-song -- this one from Blood On The Tracks, an album that even I am forced to admit is freaking genius.

Just follow Dylan's loser lovers, fumbling their way through a doomed affair: "They sat together in the park / As the evening sky grew dark, / She looked at him and he felt a spark / Tingle to his bones." Soon enough they're in a hotel, and not just any hotel, but "a strange hotel with a neon burnin' bright" where he "felt the heat of the night / Hit him like a freight train." Funny how just that abrasive singing voice, the strummed guitar, a wheezy harmonica interlude, can draw you into their world and suddenly turn sexy like that.

It's an iconic American scene, like an Edward Hopper painting: "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." Now there's poetry for you, so cryptic it's almost Biblical. (Yeah, I know, I strongly suspect it's all smoke and mirrors and means nothing, but it sure does sound good.) I love how he soars upward on those final rhymes, breaking loose from the talking-blues monotone.

Then of course the girl disappears, he realizes too late that he misses her, and he's left to wander the lonely byways by himself. In verse four, okay, Dylan stretches for a few extra rhymes: "He hears the ticking of the clocks / And walks along with a parrot that talks, / Hunts her down by the waterfront docks / Where the sailors all come in." But you have to admire him for trying that aaab rhyme scheme; in this case, more is more. In the last verse, he finally drops the third-person mask and comes clean: "I still believe she was my twin, / But I lost the ring. / She was born in spring, / But I was born too late / Blame it on a simple twist of fate." I don't know, that goofy last verse endears itself to me. That's part of its folky charm.

If everybody I know didn't revere Bob Dylan, I'd find it a lot easier to be a fan. There's nothing keeping me from it but my own cussed nature. But just tonight, Tom, I'll let down my guard and love Dylan with you. Somewhere, I know you're listening too, and digging it.

Simple Twist of Fate sample

"I Want You" / Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Elvis Costello

A pretty obvious song title, eh? Aren't approximately eighty percent of all rock songs about this same topic? (The other twenty percent, of course, being the "I Don't Want You" songs.) Still, here are three very different takes on the same idea, and today I played them back to back. Guess who won?

Dylan's "I Want You" is the earliest, from Blonde on Blonde (1966), and compared to the others it's downright chipper. It's a delightful song, but not particularly seductive. The stream-of-consciousness lyrics describe a bewildering cast of characters flitting in and out -- the guilty undertaker, the drunken politician, the dancing child with his Chinese suit -- Dylan could do this kind of talking-blues thing in his sleep by then, and his tone of voice is mischievous. (Between that and the busy harmonica, I really do get the sense that he's "doing Dylan"). But yeah, when he finally gets around to singing about the woman he desires, there is something appealing about his whiny moan, obsessively repeating "I want you / I want you / Honey, I want you / So bad." Well okay, Bob, if it'll shut you up. . . .

Three years later, here comes John Lennon, doing his "I Want You" (or, excuse me, "I Want You (She's So Heavy)") on Abbey Road. I see this as the rival song to Paul McCartney's lust-drenched "Oh! Darling", and despite my known weakness for Paul McCartney, John actually gives Paul a run for his money this time. He has taken the inarticulate desire of Bob's chorus and applied it to a whole song, the lyrics of which are -- and I quote them in their entirety -- "I want you / You know I want you so bad / I want you / You know I want you so bad / It's driving me mad / It's driving me mad / She's so heavy." For seven minutes and forty-seven seconds. But hell, who bothers with lyrics when you're swamped by lust? To call this a "song" is to miss the point; it's all about the sensuous textures of that dense orchestration -- the hypnotic licks and thrusts of George Harrison's guitar line, the relentless pulsebeat of McCartney's bass, and electric organ fills by Billy Preston buzzing at the edges like synapses firing. You surrender to it, get lost in it, unmoored in time, brain and body disconnected -- and then, abruptly, it stops. Just. Like. That. You practically need a cigarette once it's over.

I have read that Elvis Costello had Lennon's song in mind when he wrote "I Want You" for his 1986 album Blood & Chocolate, that he was consciously trying for that same obsessive quality. Of course, being Elvis, he puts lyrics back into the equation -- lots of lyrics. Snarky lyrics. Nasty lyrics. Because it's not just desire, it's unrequited desire, and the folksongy platitudes of the intro degenerate soon into Elvis's hoarse jealous rage against his lover.

It is more than a little sick how much voyeuristic energy he puts into imagining her with another man: "It's the stupid details that my heart is breaking for / It's the way your shoulders shake and what they're shaking for . . . It's the thought of him undressing you, or you undressing. . ." and you can't help but picture these scenes too, peeping through the window right beside him. But as he goes on, repeatedly moaning "I want you," the time scheme gets fuzzy -- it appears he is still sleeping with this bitch, and his lust positively feeds on his jealousy: "I want to know the things you did that we do too . . . I want to hear he pleases you more than I do . . Did you call his name out as he held you down. . . . "

The arrangement is spare, just a discordant guitar, a monotonous shushing drum beat, a softly ominous bassline, and a few haunting organ accents. All you really focus on is Elvis' hollowed-out voice, a miserable and spiteful lament that quivers and rasps with hate and desire and -- well, this goes well beyond seduction in my book. It's absolutely terrifying. And yet . . . all I know is I want Elvis when he sings this. I don't want Bob, I don't want John, I don't even want Paul -- I want Elvis.

So I guess the song works.

"Tonight I'll Be Staying Here With You" / Bob Dylan

I guess I am at heart more of a country-music lover than I'd like to admit: My favorite Bob Dylan album has always been Nashville Skyline. Go figure. I guess Dylan purists were outraged when this album came out in 1969, but I didn't discover it until 1976, when I was living in England and missed the USA. What better cure for those homesick blues than a country-rock album with honky-tonk piano and pedal steel guitar? Up till then, I just didn't get Bob Dylan; more important, I never found Bob Dylan sexy. And then I heard Nashville Skyline and I perked right up. Mr. Dylan -- my, my!

I acknowledge that Bob Dylan's a great songwriter, but only a handful of his songs have ever wormed into my heart. Brilliant as his lyrics are, I'm put off by his persona most of the time, whether it's a fervent evangeliser, a hectoring preacher, a snarky social critic, or a tormented existentialist. I just don't want to spend extra time with any of those guys, and that prevents me from delving into his other albums. Feel free to tell me about the great songs I'm missing -- but life is too short, and I'm happy enough with Nashville Skyline.

Maybe it was that near-fatal motorcycle accident in 1966 that mellowed Dylan in time for Nashville Skyline (if so, the effect must have worn off later). Whatever happened, here he seems humanized and open-hearted and, oh, I don't know, even loveable.
Bob actually tried to sing on this album, and lo and behold, he found more melody in his nasal twang than ever before (or since). His crooning on "I Threw It All Away" is downright wistful; "Lay, Lady, Lay" has a delicate, husky sincerity that makes me shiver every time. (Am I not right, ladies?).

But I have a special place in my heart for "Tonight I'll Be Staying Here With You." With that easygoing loping tempo, the tossed-off piano trills, the upsliding guitar, it's got a certain self-effacing charm I'm always a sucker for. It begins with a helpless shrug of abandon: "Throw my ticket out the window / Throw my suitcase out there too / Throw my troubles out the door / I don't need them anymore / 'Cause tonight I'll be staying here with you." These lyrics aren't all that different from the folksongs Dylan started out with, and yet the syncopated arrangement, the lilting melody, the singing style puts an entirely different spin on it -- the way Bob tenderly flutters on "you" at the end of the line makes my heart skip a beat.

This is a song about carnal desire, make no mistake about it. And as the song's narrator sweetly wheedles his way into the woman's good graces -- "And my love comes on so strong / And I've waited all day long / For tonight, when I'll be staying here with you" -- I feel my own resistance just melting. Who can ever resist that sort of shambling charmer? He's no sleazeball; in fact in the bridge he seems downright polite: "Is it really any wonder / The love that a stranger may receive / You cast your spell and I went under / That's why it's so difficult to leave." Shoot, he's just trying to be gracious about accepting her hospitality. (Kinda like the guy in "Lay, Lady, Lay" -- "his clothes are dirty but his hands are clean / And you're the best thing that he's ever seen.")

But there's no mistaking what's gonna happen tonight, and the final verse is almost giddy with abandon. "If there's a poor boy on the street / Then let him have my seat / 'Cause tonight I'll be staying here with you." You sure will, honey. Only, just let me hit the replay button again, okay?