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Dylanology: Keats With a Guitar -- "Visions of Johanna"
nytimes ^ | January 9, 2000 | nytimes

Posted on 12/31/2002 11:41:32 AM PST by dennisw

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1 posted on 12/31/2002 11:41:32 AM PST by dennisw
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To: dennisw
Bob bump.
2 posted on 12/31/2002 11:44:58 AM PST by Huck
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To: dennisw
People tend to overanalyze Bob Dylan and place him on too high a pedestal. He is a great songwriter, perhaps the best of his generation. I never get tired of hearing his music. But I don't see him as changing the world or anything.
3 posted on 12/31/2002 12:07:59 PM PST by SamAdams76
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To: Huck
Funny, I was just thinking of the song, "John Wesley Harding" the other day -- don't know why. Thinking that if someone had not known who Bob Dylan was, and had heard only that song, that someone would have wondered how such a no-talent could ever have managed to get recorded in the first place.

Dylan has some high points, true, and I don't mean to slam him generally. Two of my oldest friends played in his bands for a long time, and always said he was a great boss and great fun to play with.

4 posted on 12/31/2002 12:24:05 PM PST by MoralSense
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To: SamAdams76
As popular music goes, Dylan's is better than most. But it doesn't rise to the level of poetry, let alone Keats. Only a card-carrying member of the hippy generation would think it did.

I don't know if Keats had a guitar, but as it happens I know that Shelley did. When my Aunt was a young woman she collected Shelley memorabilia and among various first editions she had Shelley's guitar. It had woodworms in it and had to be fumigated. Many years later she donated it with the rest of her collection to the Boston Athenaeum.
5 posted on 12/31/2002 12:40:09 PM PST by Cicero
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To: Huck
He can disclaim it, but it sure sounds like poetry to me.
6 posted on 12/31/2002 12:54:35 PM PST by fnord
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To: dennisw
God, Shakespeare, Dylan . . . not in that particular order or anything.
7 posted on 12/31/2002 1:35:10 PM PST by Ganymede
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To: dennisw
Speaking of the devil who checked out in the back of a Caddie 50 years ago tonight (or maybe tomorrow morning!)
8 posted on 12/31/2002 1:43:35 PM PST by Revolting cat!
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To: lucyblue
Ping.....Happy New Year!
9 posted on 12/31/2002 1:49:19 PM PST by Purdue Pete
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To: SamAdams76
 

 

Andrew Motion, the British poet laureate, created quite the stir this fall when he hailed Bob Dylan as one of the greatest artists of the century and proclaimed "Visions of Johanna," from Dylan's 1966 album "Blonde on Blonde," the best song lyric ever written.

_______________________

 

 

Visions of Johanna

Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin' to be so quiet?
We sit here stranded, though we're all doin' our best to deny it
And Louise holds a handful of rain, temptin' you to defy it
Lights flicker from the opposite loft
In this room the heat pipes just cough
The country music station plays soft
But there's nothing, really nothing to turn off
Just Louise and her lover so entwined
And these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind

In the empty lot where the ladies play blindman's bluff with the key chain
And the all-night girls they whisper of escapades out on the "D" train
We can hear the night watchman click his flashlight
Ask himself if it's him or them that's really insane
Louise, she's all right, she's just near
She's delicate and seems like the mirror
But she just makes it all too concise and too clear
That Johanna's not here
The ghost of 'lectricity howls in the bones of her face
Where these visions of Johanna have now taken my place

Now, little boy lost, he takes himself so seriously
He brags of his misery, he likes to live dangerously
And when bringing her name up
He speaks of a farewell kiss to me
He's sure got a lotta gall to be so useless and all
Muttering small talk at the wall while I'm in the hall
How can I explain?
Oh, it's so hard to get on
And these visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn

Inside the museums, Infinity goes up on trial
Voices echo this is what salvation must be like after a while
But Mona Lisa musta had the highway blues
You can tell by the way she smiles
See the primitive wallflower freeze
When the jelly-faced women all sneeze
Hear the one with the mustache say, "Jeeze
I can't find my knees"
Oh, jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule
But these visions of Johanna, they make it all seem so cruel

The peddler now speaks to the countess who's pretending to care for him
Sayin', "Name me someone that's not a parasite and I'll go out and say a prayer for him"
But like Louise always says
"Ya can't look at much, can ya man?"
As she, herself, prepares for him
And Madonna, she still has not showed
We see this empty cage now corrode
Where her cape of the stage once had flowed
The fiddler, he now steps to the road
He writes ev'rything's been returned which was owed
On the back of the fish truck that loads
While my conscience explodes
The harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain
And these visions of Johanna are now all that remain

Copyright © 1966; renewed 1994 Dwarf Music


10 posted on 12/31/2002 2:01:12 PM PST by dennisw
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To: dennisw; All
Everyone would do well to see him at least once (he won't be around forever, and neither will you). He tours constantly, so please make the effort; it's worth it.

I've seen him fifteen times, myself. Wish it was fifteen thousand.

11 posted on 12/31/2002 2:06:32 PM PST by Rocko
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To: Rocko
was = were
12 posted on 12/31/2002 2:07:16 PM PST by Rocko
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To: dennisw
My favorite Dylan song, one of the most moving songs of spiritual doubt and faith ever written. The one off the bootleg series is the best.

Every Grain of Sand

In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need

When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed

There's a dyin' voice within me reaching out somewhere, Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair.

Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake, Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break.

In the fury of the moment I can see the Master's hand In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand.

Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear, Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer.

The sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay.

I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame And every time I pass that way I always hear my name. Then onward in my journey I come to understand That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand.

I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light,

In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space, In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me.

I am hanging in the balance of a perfect finished plan Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.

13 posted on 12/31/2002 2:47:20 PM PST by Catphish
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To: MoralSense
He's not for everyone. I enjoy him a lot. There are some great songs on the John Wesley Harding album. I like "Drifter's Escape." But I know what you mean.
14 posted on 12/31/2002 3:54:53 PM PST by Huck
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To: Huck; MoralSense
I think JWH is a very good song. Maybe it was not as "deep" as some of his others, but he was constrianed by writing a soundtrack to a movie wasn't he? It is still a fun song that I remember from heart..

John Wesley Hardin, was a friend to the poor
He travelled with a gun in every hand
And all across the countryside, he opened many a door
But he was never known to hurt an honest man.

Down in Chaney county, a time they talk about
With his lady by his side he made a stand
And soon the situation there, was all but straightened out
For he was always known to lend a helping hand.

All across the countryside, his name it did resound
But no charge held against him could be proved
And there was no man around, who could track or chain him down.
For he was never known to make a foolish move.
15 posted on 12/31/2002 5:28:55 PM PST by Ahban
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To: Rocko
I second this encouragement for everyone to go see Bob when he comes back to the states. Rumor is that he will be doing less than 100 shows a year...so go see him when you can.
His band is awesome and his genius can't be matched.

Do a search on Bobdates to keep track of new concerts. (or visit bobdylan.com)

Dylan will be appearing on a new gospel CD this spring titled Gotta Serve Somebody. The CD has various gospel artists covering Dylan's gospel songs from Slow Train & Saved. Dylan duets with Mavis Staples on Gonna Change My Way of Thinking.
16 posted on 12/31/2002 6:07:36 PM PST by Tweeker
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To: Tweeker
He'll likely head back our way in March or April.
17 posted on 12/31/2002 6:19:10 PM PST by Rocko
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To: dennisw
Fifteen jugglers
Fifteen jugglers
Five believers
Five believers
All dressed like men.

Tell your mama not to worry 'cause
Yes, they're just my friends...

18 posted on 01/01/2003 12:57:45 AM PST by fire_eye
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To: dennisw
Check out www.steveforbert.com for a songwriter who has Dylan's gift for lyricism but is infinitely more listenable.
19 posted on 01/01/2003 6:26:09 PM PST by KevinB
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To: dennisw
Dylan is o.k., I guess. Actually, he is a fine songwriter. But to compare him with Keats borders on blasphemy. "The Eve of St. Agnes" is a long poem, but read:

St. Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

. . . .

Out went the taper as she hurried in;
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

And for a strange take on Keats, read this Kipling short story. It may be a ghost story. I'm not entirely sure.

"Wireless"

20 posted on 01/01/2003 6:58:45 PM PST by AnAmericanMother
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