Dylan

these lyrics my mother sent me this morning, after we'd talked a bit about the media campaign that scorches the earth now to stop Trump.





Oh the foes will rise
With the sleep still in their eyes
And they’ll jerk from their beds and think they’re dreamin’
But they’ll pinch themselves and squeal
And know that it’s for real
The hour when the ship comes in

The Media are having the dream for most people.

Goddamnit I hope Trump wins and flushes the whole media machine down the fucking toilet.

It's really pathetic he won this Nobel for literature, yeah. I think they're trying to "appeal to" people who are too stupid to read books.

Personally I dont know a better 20th century poet.

I know of poets who have written work as good, or maybe better but not of this volume, consistency and philosophical depth.

I'd compare him to Dostoyevsky sooner than I'd compare any 20th century US literator to a Russian - Dylans soul is vast  and entirely human. The only rock artist that ever wrote a lyrics worth remembering except Jim Morrison. But he's better than Morrison, if I just count the structure of his writing. He has the best rhymes too, I think.

The prize was well deserved, even though the committee has been degraded by giving out peace prizes to warcriminals, this is at least sane.



The lyrics above are perfectly descriptive of what is happening to the Clinton type now. Dylan was never a "liberal", of course, he is entirely existentialist.

Sure, but he's already won awards, and he is a musician. Calling song lyrics poetry is fine, they certainly have poetic value, but in terms of an award specific to literature it seems strange to me.

Honestly, the distinction of lyrics from literature is new to me. I see lyricists like this in the tradition of Homer, Ovid, etc.
(By the way, I guess the liberals try to make an anti Trump point with this, but Id always guess Dylan would lean towards Trump. If he is anything it is gritty, bare bones and skeptical.)

I suppose my reservartion comes from how highly I value literature as fiction in novel form. Written fiction novels are a class of their own, I would even feel weird about any poetry winning a literature award. We could have a separate award for poetry, definitely. But novels are unique, written literature as fiction novel form is truly distinct, takes different skills and tells a coherent story over the course of a book. I would separate good poetry from good fiction in terms of style, format, intent and meaning as well as the skill it takes to do both, a totally different skill set. Basically I would like written fiction in novel book form to receive distinctly high praise, but of course poetry deserves high honors too.

I'm not sure if one's outlook described as "liberal" has much to do with it, I've heard liberals both praising and decrying the decision.

I can surely see the point. But Ive usually had zero connection to the narratives and styles of the recent decades of winners of this category, as far as I tried them - to me literature is about narrative, about being able to evoke an arc in the soul, to set a motion in flight, that forever entwines itself with the narratives of ones soul. Granted Ive been a bit overexposed to Dylan due to my mothers love of him, but this also has his narratives exposed enough that I see them peeling open and overflowing with soul.

As a rapper, I appreciate a certain type of rhyme, that comes casually, entirely unexpected, like this, from the song Joey :

One day they blew him down in a clam bar in New York
He could see it comin' through the door as he lifted up his fork

this to me is already more deeply the spirit of literature most books. He knows words are souls, truly, and he knows story.

Yes I see your point. I'm still biased though,since even though we can reduce poetry to "novel fiction" in the sense that poetry can still somewhat tell a kind of story (more like a snapshot of one), and we can reduce novel-fiction to "poetry" in the sense that a novel can and should still be somewhat poetic-deeply human and lyrical in its style and imagery, they remain separate things in my mind. Neither better or worse than they other, but converging them into the same category seems to falsify something essential about each one. Maybe I'm just being cranky.

Nah, I think it's a valid objection. But Im just on the other side of it,  on account of Dylans particular style of poetry, involving really very long, consistent and only philologically, not semantically poetic structure.

Let me quote two of such songs from one of his albums.

Quote :

Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn, in the year of who knows when
Opened up his eyes to the tune of an accordion
Always on the outside of whatever side there was
When they asked him why it had to be that way, well, he answered, just because
Larry was the oldest, Joey was next to last
They called Joe Crazy, the baby they called Kid Blast
Some say they lived off gambling and runnin' numbers too
It always seemed they got caught between the mob and the men in blue
Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow you away
There was talk they killed their rivals, but the truth was far from that
No one ever knew for sure where they were really at
When they tried to strangle Larry, Joey almost got hit the roof
He went out that night to seek revenge, thinkin' he was bulletproof
Then, the war broke out at the break of dawn, it emptied out the streets
Joey and his brothers suffered terrible defeats
Till they ventured out behind the lines and took five prisoners
They stashed them away in a basement, called them amateurs
The hostages were tremblin' when they heard a man exclaim
Let's blow this place to kingdom come, let Con Edison take the blame
But Joey stepped up, he raised his hand, said, we're not those kind of men
It's peace and quiet that we need to go back to work again
Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow you away
The police department hounded him, they called him Mr. Smith
They got him on conspiracy, they were never sure who with
What time is it? said the judge to Joey when they met
Five to ten, said Joey, the judge says, that's exactly what you get
He did ten years in Attica, reading Nietzsche and Wilhelm Reich
They threw him in the hole one time for tryin' to stop a strike
His closest friends were black men 'cause they seemed to understand
What it's like to be in society with a shackle on your hand
They let him out in '71 he'd lost a little weight
But he dressed like Jimmy Cagney and I swear he did look great
He tried to find the way back into the life he left behind
To the boss he said, I have returned and now I want what's mine
Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow you away
It was true that in his later years he would not carry a gun
I'm around too many children, he'd say, they should never know of one
Yet he walked right into the clubhouse of his lifelong deadly foe
Emptied out the register, said, tell 'em it was Crazy Joe
One day they blew him down in a clam bar in New York
He could see it comin' through the door as he lifted up his fork
He pushed the table over to protect his family
Then he staggered out into the streets of Little Italy
Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow you away
Sister Jacqueline and Carmela and mother Mary all did weep
I heard his best friend Frankie say, he ain't dead, he's just asleep
Then I saw the old man's limousine head back towards the grave
I guess he had to say one last goodbye to the son that he could not save
The sun turned cold over President Street and the town of Brooklyn mourned
They said a mass in the old church near the house where he was born
And someday if God's in heaven overlookin' His preserve
I know the men that shot him down will get what they deserve
Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow you away

["Joey", Desire]

Quote :

Pistol shots ring out in the barroom night
Enter Patty Valentine from the upper hall
She sees a bartender in a pool of blood
Cries out my God, they killed them all
Here comes the story of the Hurricane
The man the authorities came to blame
For somethin' that he never done
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world

Three bodies lyin' there does Patty see
And another man named Bello, movin' around mysteriously
I didn't do it, he says, and he throws up his hands
I was only robbin' the register, I hope you understand
I saw them leavin', he says, and he stops
One of us had better call up the cops
And so Patty calls the cops
And they arrive on the scene with their red lights flashin'
In the hot New Jersey night

Meanwhile, far away in another part of town
Rubin Carter and a couple of friends are drivin' around
Number one contender for the middleweight crown
Had no idea what kinda shit was about to go down
When a cop pulled him over to the side of the road
Just like the time before and the time before that
In Paterson that's just the way things go
If you're black you might as well not show up on the street
'Less you want to draw the heat

Alfred Bello had a partner and he had a rap for the cops
Him and Arthur Dexter Bradley were just out prowlin' around
He said, I saw two men runnin' out, they looked like middleweights
They jumped into a white car with out-of-state plates
And Miss Patty Valentine just nodded her head
Cop said, wait a minute, boys, this one's not dead
So they took him to the infirmary
And though this man could hardly see
They told him that he could identify the guilty men

Four in the mornin' and they haul Rubin in
They took him to the hospital and they brought him upstairs
The wounded man looks up through his one dyin' eye
Says, wha'd you bring him in here for? He ain't the guy!
Here's the story of the Hurricane
The man the authorities came to blame
For somethin' that he never done
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world

Four months later, the ghettos are in flame
Rubin's in South America, fightin' for his name
While Arthur Dexter Bradley's still in the robbery game
And the cops are puttin' the screws to him, lookin' for somebody to blame
Remember that murder that happened in a bar
Remember you said you saw the getaway car
You think you'd like to play ball with the law
Think it might-a been that fighter that you saw runnin' that night
Don't forget that you are white

Arthur Dexter Bradley said I'm really not sure
The cops said a poor boy like you could use a break
We got you for the motel job and we're talkin' to your friend Bello
You don't wanta have to go back to jail, be a nice fellow
You'll be doin' society a favor
That sonofabitch is brave and gettin' braver
We want to put his ass in stir
We want to pin this triple murder on him
He ain't no Gentleman Jim

Rubin could take a man out with just one punch
But he never did like to talk about it all that much
It's my work, he'd say, and I do it for pay
And when it's over I'd just as soon go on my way
Up to some paradise
Where the trout streams flow and the air is nice
And ride a horse along a trail
But then they took him to the jailhouse
Where they try to turn a man into a mouse

All of Rubin's cards were marked in advance
The trial was a pig-circus, he never had a chance
The judge made Rubin's witnesses drunkards from the slums
To the white folks who watched he was a revolutionary bum
And to the black folks he was just a crazy nigger
No one doubted that he pulled the trigger
And though they could not produce the gun
The D.A. said he was the one who did the deed
And the all-white jury agreed

Rubin Carter was falsely tried
The crime was murder one, guess who testified
Bello and Bradley and they both baldly lied
And the newspapers, they all went along for the ride
How can the life of such a man
Be in the palm of some fool's hand
To see him obviously framed
Couldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land
Where justice is a game

Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell
An innocent man in a living hell
That's the story of the Hurricane
But it won't be over till they clear his name
And give him back the time he's done
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world


["Hurricane", Desire]

They're surprisingly story-oriented lyrics and obviously make important points about society and law/policing. And they do develop characters, which is rare to see in a song.. this was more common in classic oldies rock but not usually at this level of detail.

Still, I don't feel differently, but maybe if I read the bulk of his lyrics I would.

Yes, only the whole oeuvre would give the density of a novelists work. You are right, it is oriented in the old tradition - Woody Guthrie is his only spoken of example.

Here's some poetry.

Quote :

Senor, senor, can you tell me where we're headin ?
Lincoln County Road or Armageddon ?
Seems like I been down this way before
Is there any truth in that, senor ?
Senor, senor, do you know where she is hidin' ?
How long are we gonna be riding ?
How long must I keep my eyes glued to the door ?
Will there be any comfort there senor ?
There's a wicked wind still blowing on that upper deck
There's an iron cross still hanging down from around her neck
There's a marcing band still playing in that vacant lot
Where's she held me in her arms one time and said, Forget me not.
Senor, senor, I can see that painted wagon
Smell the tail of the dragon
Can't stand the suspense anymore
Can you tell me who to contact here, senor ?
Well, the last thing I remember before I stripped and kneeled
Was that trainload of fools bogged down in a magnetic field
A gypsy with a broken flag and a flashing ring
He said, Son, this ain't a dream no more it's the real thing.
Senor, senor, you know their hearts is as hard as leather
Well, give me a minute, let me get it together
I just gotta pick myself up off the floor
I'm ready when you are, senor.
Senor, senor, let's overturn these tables
Disconnect these cables
This place don't make sense to me no more
Can you tell me what we're waiting for, senor ?


["Señor (Tales of Yankee Power)", Street Legal]

Well, speaking of musician/poets,

Leonard Cohen once said that he wanted to become the Canadian Bob Dylan.

I think he conquered that goal very well indeed.

And I think Leonard can be considered more of a poet than Dylan.

Taste cant be argued, but I find Cohen artificial in his lyrics, I can always see how he came up with them. Dylan is always genius, no matter where he goes or what he says.

He's not my favorite musician by any stretch, but he is the non-classical poet that baffles me most.

No argument.

I did play this song over and over when I had watched Natural Born Killers.





Speaking of killers though, I think these guys do well what Dylan does best.

Very strange twist to the original song Stagger Lee. The song dates back to 1895.