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Pretty used to being with Gwyneth

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Jean Cocteau and Jean Marais

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Entries in bob dylan (3)

Sunday
Dec062009

In Which Bob Dylan and John Lennon Were Earlier Versions of Someone

When John Lennon Met Bob Dylan

by ELEANOR MORROW

We would normally be rung a couple of weeks before the recording session and they'd say, 'We're recording in a month's time and you've got a week off before the recordings to write some stuff.' ...so I'd go out to John's every day for the week, and the rest of the time was just time off. We always wrote a song a day, whatever happened we always wrote a song a day.... Mostly it was me getting out of London, to John's rather nice, comfortable Weybridge house near the golf course.... So John and I would sit down, and by then it might be one or two o'clock, and by four or five o'clock we'd be done.

- Paul McCartney

Things were once so easy for The Beatles. Their influences were women and whatever Carl Perkins songs they'd take for the album. The Lennon-Bob Dylan scene from D.A. Pennebaker's Don't Look Back was far from the first time John Lennon mincingly met Bob Dylan, from whom he may have thefted a number of self-involved "makeovers" over the years. The offending footage is like raising the curtain on The Wizard of Oz.

In his autobiography Chronicles, Dylan is relatively charitable about how he viewed The Beatles, although he was still courteous enough to put the proper distance between them and him.

The Beatles: not gay. Dylan biographer Howard Sounes described the meeting between Lennon and Dylan this way:

Lennon said later he was "very high and stoned," but he looked healthier than Bob, who appeared painfully thin and very pale. For a while, the banter was charming, like a scene from a Beatles movie. Lennon snapped off smart comments and Bob giggled. "Do you suffer from sore eyes, groovy forehead, or curly hair?" Lennon asked, in his comedic voice. "Take Zimdon." When the car passes a couple kissing in the street, Bob directed the camera to them. "Oh! Oh! Get those two lovers over there," he said, brightly. But his words became increasingly slurred and muddled. Toward the end of the segment, he begged chauffeur Tom Keylock to hurry to the hotel because he said he was about to vomit.

No one could become something else like Bob, and Lennon may well have discerned another direction for his career, one that would immediately stray from straightlaced songwriting efforts. Lennon saw a darker version of himself, and reached across a taxicab to inhabit it like another costume. The rest of The Beatles weren't far behind.

in belfastDylan would later have a long talk with all The Beatles, and although he can't really be blamed for breaking up the group, we can assume he didn't preach solidarity:

In London, Bob met up again with Dana Gillespie, and received The Beatles at the Mayfair Hotel. Bob Johnston flew in from America to assist in the recording of British concerts, and sat up most of one night while Bob rapped to The Beatles. Johnston believes the experience changed the group forever. "All four of The Beatles were in his hotel room and he talked to them all night long. They never even talked," he says. "When they came out the next morning they were John Lennon and George Harrison and Paul McCartney. They weren't The Beatles." As McCartney has said, "Dylan was influencing us quite heavily at that point."

tom murrayClinton Heylin's biography of Bob accounts for a similar event that's become somewhat apocryphal:

The occasion when Dylan descended from Woodstock to meet The Beatles, at their New York hotel, may have become overly imbued with Import, but on the night of August 28, 1964, two cultures fumbled for a common creed via a bag of weed.

bob & allen ginsbergIn the company of Victor Maymudes and Al Aronowitz, Dylan ascended the Delmonico elevator that evening to meet the current arbiters of change in pop culture. When he entered the Beatles' suite and went in search of 'what he usually drinks, cheap wine,' he was informed by Brian Epstein that they only had champagne. Apparently offered some pills, Bob suggested some pot and proceeded to roll a joint. As the Fab Four partook for the first time, enlightenment apparently dawned, though in the cold light of the following morn, it proved illusory.

As McCartney put it afterrwards, "I was wandering around looking for a pencil because I discovered the meaning of life that evening and I wanted to get it down on a bit of paper...Mal handed me the little bit of paper the next morning...and on it was written, in very scrawly handwriting: THERE ARE SEVEN LEVELS."

with bob deniro and david blueYou can't mock The Beatles for listening to everything Bob had to say, although it was a heady measure of their innocence that they took this much advice from someone who was supposed to be their peer. After Lennon died, Bob Dylan dealt with a stalker and feared for his life. He retreated even further into a distressing amalgam of different selves, as Todd Haynes made a long point of indicating.

Earlier this year, Dylan passed unnoticed through a bus tour of Lennon's Liverpool home. It's hard to imagine what he thought he could take from such an experience. The answer is tied up in The Beatles innocently engrossed with whatever Bob had to say to them. If there's one thing Bob is good at it, it's bringing something new to something old.

Eleanor Morrow is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Manhattan. She tumbls here.

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"Honey, Don't" - The Beatles (mp3)

"Every Little Thing" - The Beatles (mp3)

"Eight Days A Week" -  The Beatles (mp3)

"Rock and Roll Music" - The Beatles (mp3)

 

Sunday
Oct252009

In Which This Is The Fifth or Sixth Time Around For Bob Dylan

And Man Gave Names To All The Animals

by ANDREW ZORNOZA

It is not clear if they are hobos, farmers, or townsfolk, but it is clear that they are four people down on their luck, and they stare out from the movie screen like dustbowlers from a Walker Evans' photograph. In the background, a weathered gray barn yearns for the sky. An American ruin, completing the picture.

I live in paved-over Brooklyn. The word "Americana" conjures in me, for no rational or defensible reason, the photographed image of that lone man standing in front of tanks at Tienanmen Square. Except that, in my mind, the tanks are actually rolling down Flatbush Avenue and the man is Chris Rock, stripped to his underwear.

Parenthetically, I do not think of Woody Guthrie's hardscrabble narratives or Osh-Kosh overalls.

But this is a movie and that means the picture is moving. A distinctly unamerican giraffe now enters the scene, serenely chewing on nothing at all as he poses behind the barn. Apropos of what?

The camera then pans out to take in a bandstand, where a man in white-face deeply contemplates the wood at his feet. The man in white-face wears a tight red jacket with gold tassles—an outfit that A) is so beaten it looks like it has survived the bombing of Dresden B) is of indeterminate purpose: circus? parade? military? It's impossible to tell.

He sings in a deep,reverberating voice. Cerebral gears engage, churning through this inversion of minstelry—but are wrenched to a stop by a pleasant moment of recognition.

acapulco

The man is Jimmy James, lead singer of My Morning Jacket. As Jimmy's song reaches a most achingly beautiful moment, he stretches out one single word: “Acapulco.” A cover. One of the most awful Dylan tunes of all time—on a first listen. A moment later, the song continues, beautiful once again—wait, wasn't this song awful?

I'm Not There is a glorious trainwreck of a movie. How it avoided going straight to DVD is more a testimony to the purchasing power of Dylan's army of committed fanboys and fangirls than it is to Todd Haynes art-house credentials.

But thank god for the fans—how long has it been since we've had a movie this self-conscious and painful? There is even a brief scene here with Black Panthers' Bobby Seale and Huey Newton waxing philosophical on "Ballad of a Thin Man." I practically could smell the marijuana smoke of the past wafting over the TV, over the Betamax case for Godard's Sympathy for the Devil....

What a great, brave, not-so-little, movie Todd Haynes has given us! This film addresses fame and persona more clearly (with a more challenging subject) than a million Basquiats and Walk The Lines and Fridas and Capotes and Pollocks all put together.

Dylan is largely an idiotic moron here, yet there's the nagging sense that he's onto something.

He is in some sort of purgatory, doomed to sing for eternity (excepting cigarette breaks marred by Samuel Beckett hitting him over the head with the Unnameable).

 

He clearly has put up a front all these years, but behind all of the strutting and nonsense and intimidation so clearly chronicled in Don't Look Back and Eat The Document...despite this and Dylan having the strongest aversion to being pinned down of any performer of our time...Dylan's off-stage inanities are as illuminating as his songs.

Definitions are the enemy of art. Words are definitions. We are surrounded by building blocks but are not blocks ourselves. We are vessels. Love minus zero equals no limit. Don't follow leaders. Watch your parking meters. The pump don't work cause the vandals stole the handle. Et cetera, et cetera.

Dylan's non-stop devil's advocacy and psycho babbling were not an act of distancing himself from the public. They were an intimate demonstration of method.

In order to get his songs balancing on multiple bleeding edges (irrational/rational; contemporary/past, emotional/intellectual) he had to dip into a primordial subconsious soup of armchair philosophy, Americana, and honest to goodness feelings.

And that's what poured out of the idiotic wind between his teeth when he was away from the stage. Everyone tuned him out or took him far too seriously then -- but the secret was there: you can't make sense out of soup, you just got to eat it.

You're not allowed to think very much in the current model of biography pictures. Even if Ray or Capote is shown to be flawed, the flaws are neatly presented. There is no real mystery. Citizen Kane has one sled named Rosebud that appears in two brief moments, these movies have battalions of sleds that encircle and follow the reader at every turn.

Todd Haynes has left the riddle behind and for that he should be applauded. Haynes insists that the young Bob Dylan was a slight black boy with the name of Woody Guthrie who carried around a guitar case that says, "This Machine Kills Fascists." What could be more ludicrous? Or better?

After being jeered as a Judas to the folk movement during the Free Trade Hall concert of May 17th 1966 (and having fans almost boo him off the stage), Dylan turns to Robbie Robertson and says, "Play fucking loud." The thump of Rick Danko's bass and Mickey Jones' drums drowns out the crowd in a decisive whoomp!

How little we knew then of who was on the right side. And how little it matters, if you're down in it.

Truthfully, I wasn't alive then. I have only experienced Dylan first-hand in Victoria's Secret commercials. Which is something like meeting Walt Whitman in a supermarket. It doesn't get much more surreal than that, does it?

Andrew Zornoza is the senior contributor to This Recording. He is the author of the photo-novel Where I Stay available from Tarpaulin Sky Press. He lives in Carroll Garden.

"Lay Lady Lay" - Bob Dylan (mp3)

"I Threw It All Away" - Bob Dylan (mp3)

"Peggy Day" - Bob Dylan (mp3)

Tuesday
May192009

In Which It Is An All Too Familiar Scent of Pine

Bands by Smell

by MOLLY LAMBERT

Elvis: Sweat, Meat, and Chunky Peanut Butter

Bob Dylan: Opium and Latkes

The Rolling Stones: Mothballs and Burnt Toast

David Bowie: Amphetamines and Astronaut Ice Cream

Lil' Wayne: NyQuil and Martian Dust

Jim Morrison: Vomit and Leather

Devendra Banhart: Body Odor and Thai Stick

Animal Collective: Grape Juice, Grass Stains, and Mildew

Radiohead: Yellowing Paperbacks In A Sudden Electrical Fire 

Mariah Carey: Champagne and Vaseline

Christina Aguilera: Marshmallows and Pleather

Prince: Purple Haze, Patchouli, and Pussy

Vampire Weekend: New Shoes and Old Money

Beyonce: Wig Glue and Hot Biscuits

The White Stripes: Stale Wet Cigarettes and After Dinner Mints

The Pixies: Beer and Meatball Sub Sandwiches

Amy Winehouse: Wine Coolers, Bourbon, Gin, Vodka, and Tartar Sauce

Iggy Pop: Demerol and Expired Eye Makeup

Madonna: A-Rod and Formaldehyde

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"Too Much" — Elvis Presley (mp3)

"Paralyzed" — Elvis Presley (mp3)

"Lawdy, Miss Clawdy" — Elvis Presley (mp3)

This Recording: A Rose By Any Other Name