I wrote this almost three years ago, reflecting back on Labor Day 2003. I happened to think of it this week when I heard a piece of Bob Dylan’s new album. With a few truly remarkable exceptions, a couple of which are discussed here, Dylan has been phoning it in since he met Andy Warhol — who taught him that pigs will eat anything. And, yes, I’m off-topic again. And, no, I don’t know if I’ll do something like this every week. But this post dips at least one toe into the depths of depth, so it’s entirely possibly that you will emerge from this experience enriched, edified — or at least, I can hope, entertained.
Peter Pan at the CD rack…
It doesn’t matter what I say
So long as I sing with inflection
That makes you feel that I’ll convey
Some inner truth of vast reflection
But I’ve said nothing so far
And I can keep it up for as long as it takes
And it don’t matter who you are
If I’m doing my job then it’s your resolve that breaks
I’ve been thinking a lot about The Blues, which literally means the endlessly replicated, superficially variegated, ultimately massively redundantly meaningless Blues that was the focus of the Scorcese documania.
I said something stupid
Then I went and said it twice
Lord, I said something truly stupid
Didn’t I go off and say it twice?
I sold you the same old thing again
And suckered you in to paying full price
(I suckered you in to paying full price)
And that’s okay, really, because it’s stupid and useless and wrong, and just exactly as valuable as the paleolithic pottery people go ape over — for exactly the same reasons. The Blues is a primitive non-art made by people who had nothing to make art from — no instruments, no training, and no real talent except for a knack for hustling suckers. And that’s why this is such a wonderful work of art:
Because the hook brings you back
I ain’t tellin’ you no lie
The hook brings you back
On that you can relyThere is something amiss
I am being insincere
In fact I don’t mean any of this
Still my confession draws Read more