Bob Dylan’s Worst Line Ever

Last week there was a Simon Pegg retrospective at our local cinema and Slim invited me back to his one bedroom apartment after we watched an early showing of “Shawn of the Dead”. Slim had prepared dinner and by that I mean he had peeled back the tin foil edge of a take-out carton of butter chicken, removed the cardboard lid, and handed me a plastic fork and a can of Old Style lager. He then lapsed into one of his silences.

I found myself noticing the beads of condensation on the clear plastic lid of the steamed rice container. The rice was long past fluffy. The evening stretched before me like a Sunday in Ottawa. My only recourse was to ask Slim an irritating question.

“So, Slim”, I said, “who do you think is the better poet, Bob Dylan or Leonard Cohen?”

Slim’s  face wrinkled in disgust. “Bob Dylan’s not a poet”, he snapped,“ he’s a poetic songwriter”.

“And Leonard Cohen is…..?”

“Leonard Cohen is a poet who writes songs”.

“Ok then, what’s your favorite Bob Dylan line, verse, whatever”

“I can only think of the bad ones”

“So what’s the worst Bob Dylan line ever?”

Slim blinked once like he was accessing a folder in his brain with an internal mouse.

“John Wesley Harding, ‘As I walked out One Morning’, third verse:

‘Depart from me this moment

I told her with my voice’.

It’s like saying ‘there’s going to be a jailbreak somewhere in this town”

“But that’s “Thin Lizzy”.

Slim looked like he had taken a sip of battery acid.

“My point is they are expressing the obvious just for the sake of a rhyme. It’s obvious that the jailbreak will be at the f….ing jail and how else will he tell her except with his voice, they’re in a field, for f… sake!”

“Oh”, I said, reaching for a poppadum.

The Most Over-rated Album of All Time

This is a continuation of a previous blog, titled: “Bob Dylan’s Worst Line Ever”.

After Slim’s brief outburst, he lapsed into silence again and did his impression of a lizard sitting on a rock. The not unpleasant smell from the Indian take-out mercifully masked the usual faint odour of sour sweat emanating from Slim’s bedroom. His bedroom door was closed, a yellow light leaked through the gap between bottom of the door and the threadbare carpet. The room  pulsed  in a vaguely sinister way.

I began to panic; he could pull out his blueprints of the Star Ship Enterprise at any minute. I was about to ask him why so much depends on a red wheelbarrow, but thought better of it. I reached for my phone.

“Slim”, I said, “I was looking at Rolling Stone’s list of the top 500 albums of all time, the other day, do you want to see it?”

“Not really”, he replied.

“Ok”, I tried, “what do you think is the most over-rated album of all time?”

“All right”, he sighed, ”show me the top 10 albums.”

I passed him my phone and he studied the list for a few minutes, then pounced.

“Number 7, ‘Exile on Main Street’, by the Stones”

“Really, why?”

“Because, it’s awful. It’s recycled 12 bar, refried boogie, Jagger sounds like a cat being neutered. It’s not even the seventh best Stones’ album. Creedence and The Band did this kind of thing a few years before and a lot better. This is the sound of the Stones throwing in their creative hand and saying, ‘enough, we’re tired’. It’s the artistic equivalent of taking a package holiday to Majorca. Look, it’s listed higher than ‘The White Album’ and ‘Kinda Blue’. Absolute bollocks!”

“Kind of…”

“What?”

“It’s ‘Kind of Blue’ not ‘Kinda Blue’

Slim looked at me like he was wondering why he bothered to speak to the rest of the human race at all.

“Well”, I said,”why do you think Rolling Stone rates it so high?”

“Because, it’s a Keef album and, to rock critics, Keef embodies the rock and roll spirit, the dead romantic hero, except he’s not dead. He’s the guy who would never have hung out with them at school. Plus, there’s this legend of the Stones hunkered down in a house in France recording the album, escaping from the tax man where in fact, Mick, Charlie and Bill never stayed at the house probably because they didn’t want to be around Keef’s junkie friends. Anyway, Mick didn’t think much of the album at all”.

“Really?”

“Look it up”.

So I did.

This is Mick Jagger talking about ‘Exile’ in “According to The Rolling Stones” (Chronicle Books, San Francisco):

Exile on Main Street is not one of my favourite albums”.

“…when I listen to Exile it has some of the worst mixes I’ve ever heard. I’d love to remix the record, not just because of the vocals, but because generally I think it sounds lousy. At the time Jimmy Miller was not functioning properly. I had to finish the whole record myself, because otherwise there were just these drunks and junkies.”

Exile is really a mixture of bits and pieces left over from the previous album recorded at Olympic Studios…..These were mixed up with a few slightly more grungy things done in the South of France. It’s seen as one album all recorded there and it really wasn’t.”

“So there’s a good four songs off it, but when you play the other nineteen, you can’t, or they don’t work, or nobody likes them, and you think, ’Ok, we’ll play another one instead’. We have rehearsed a lot of the tunes off Exile, but there’s not much that’s playable.”

Template

Template” is a sculpture by the Chinese artist, Ai Weiwei. It is made from old wooden doors from demolished Chinese houses. At an exhibition, in Kassel, Germany in 2007, the sculpture collapsed after exposure to wind and rain. Ai Weiwei decided to leave it in its collapsed state. In an interview, he explained that nature had taken his work  and re-shaped it, perhaps made it better, had done something he could never have done. Slim has this to say:

Template

Ai Weiwei, Ai Weiwei, Ai Weiwei

Give your head a shake

Cease these po-faced utterances.

Yes, the forces of nature

Can create great wonders:

The Grand Canyon, for example.

But what we have here

Is a tornado in a trailer park.

Havoc has been wreaked.

You left your sculpture out in the wind and rain

And the wind and rain have done their thing.

Let us not pretend

That this is anything more

Than a failure to read the weather report.

The Level Of Discourse (Donald Trump,The Republican Party and Hitler Analogies)

The Level of Discourse

I want to say a few words

About the level of discourse

How low can it go?

How low can it go

When a candidate for the presidency

Of the United States

Gets up on television

And mocks, mimics, ridicules

A disabled man

And the media endlessly debate

Whether he intended to or not

When he plainly did

And the members of his party

Refuse to criticize him

Refuse to say that

This is beneath our dignity,

Perhaps dignity

Has left the room

Has left the United States of America,

And these same party members

Pride themselves

On their rugged individualism

Their boots on the ground machisimo

And oh how they love their Hitler analogies

But when a trumped up

Pumped up tin pot bully

Emerges from their own ranks

They are too chickenshit to say anything

How low can it go?

The level of discourse

How low can it go?

 

Taking the Piss

Taking the Piss*

 A man on crutches

carrying a catheter bag

full of urine

leaves St. Paul’s Hospital

wearing a tee-shirt

that says:

Dreams start here.

*According to Wikipedia “Take the piss” may refer to the expression piss-proud, which, and this is a stretch, in turn refers to the morning erections caused by a full bladder pressing upon nerves that help affect erection. This is considered a “false’ erection, and hence someone who is “piss-proud” would be taking credit where none is due, and taking the piss out of them would be an attempt to discredit them using mockery.

Another theory is that back when urine was used in the process of fixing dye to wool, urine was brought by canal to the wool mills in the North of England. Naturally transporting urine was less rewarding financially than transporting, for example, wine, so when asked what they had on board the boatmen would reply “I’m taking wine”. The inevitable reply to this would be “No, you’re taking the piss”.

This could all be true or perhaps Wikipedia is taking the piss.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taking_the_piss

Slim at the Vancouver Folk Festival

Slim at the Vancouver Folk Festival

One hour into the folkfest

and a mellow, minor key, melancholy

is seeping into Slim’s bones,

he feels it like an arthritic ache

and he wishes that someone

would duck walk across the stage

shooting staccato bursts of distorted guitar

at the chilled out, Tilley clad audience

who, unlike Slim, have a default mode

other than anger.

The Twenty Second Read

The Twenty Second Read

A couple of days ago, I was looking at my WordPress reader and I came across a poem by Robert Okaji called “The Nightingale”. Robert is a fine poet, check out his blog at robertokaji.com. Anyway, the reader as per usual just showed the first few verses, and a word count, then as I looked down I noticed a message at the bottom saying”20 sec read”.

I got up and went into the next room where I have a ceiling high Ikea bookshelf packed with poetry books and novels that I can’t throw out because I intend to read most of them again at some point. I pulled out the first poetry book that I bought (sometime in the seventies), The Collected Poems of TS Eliot, Faber and Faber. I opened the book at “The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock.”

“Let us go then, you and I

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table….”

That’s one of those images that snagged on my brain, the first time I read it, like windblown paper snagging on a bush. The poem was published in 1917, but to me it is a quintessentially modern poem with its antihero narrator, the outsider, the wry observer – “not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be”. My point is that I have read that poem many times since the seventies and will continue to read it because every time I do, I get something new out of it. So if today TS Eliot had a blog, although somehow I think he would prefer the relative permanence of paper, I hope WordPress reader would label his poem a “lifetime read”.

By the way, I tried reading Robert Okaji’s poem in twenty seconds, but all I could glean was that it was about a nightingale. So, I went back, a second, third, fourth time and each time I extracted more meaning from the poem. So, I would currently probably label this poem “20 seconds and counting”.

The Stack

Slim gets all industrial.

The Stack

And what a beautiful plume this is, Nigel,
a plume with time on its hands.
Look at it loping across the sky
like the tail of a giant Chinese Dragon.

Let’s hail a cab to find the plume’s end
where the last wisps of water vapour drift upwards
and a blue mist hangs,
and there it is
above the emptying parking lot
of the big box mall
in the western sky
before a bawling sun.

Lucinda Williams

Lucinda Williams

Lucinda Williams
Lucinda Williams
your voice is like a bruise
there’s no one out there
there’s no one out there
fit to tie your shoes.

Lucinda Williams
Lucinda Williams
your voice is gargled dust
you wrote the book
you wrote the book
on loneliness, love and lust.

Slim Discovers John Grisham

A few weeks back, Slim was about to board a plane when he realized that he had brought nothing to read on the flight. He rushed to the nearest airport shop where he was confronted with a row of paperbacks. Each paperback had the author’s name and the book title in embossed gold letters on the front cover; in each case, the author’s name was equal in size to the book’s title. He became fixated on the name, “Danielle Steel” – its one broad vowel, its five slender vowels, four of  them “e’s”; and what about all those “l’s”! It was like a little poem in itself.

His flight was called for the last time, so Slim quickly grabbed “Sycamore Row” by John Grisham and boarded the flight.

This is a great book, not great as in “the Great American Novel” or “great literature” but great as in “Great Britain” or the “Great Divide”. In other words it’s big, about 1.75 inches thick. Slim found the first half inch to be tough going. It’s a simple enough story at first. A small town Mississippi businessman, Seth Hubbard, suffering from an incurable disease hangs himself. Shortly after, Jake Brigance, a local lawyer receives a handwritten will in which Seth leaves most of his considerable wealth to Lettie, his black housekeeper, contradicting a previous will in which everything was left to his children. Naturally, the children are not pleased and everyone starts to lawyer up.

This book is packed with the characters, some of whom could be called “stock” or perhaps, “restocked”. It’s as if Grisham went to Character Depot and picked up a bunch of characters that other novelists had returned. There is a crusty, cranky judge and a couple of cranky, crusty older lawyers with or recovering from a drink problem. There is a black lawyer with a whole pack of race cards in his back pocket. The main character, Jake, also a lawyer, has one major flaw and that is that he has no flaws. The housekeeper, Lettie, is saintly and beyond reproach. Seth’s children and their children are venal, money grabbing losers who had no time for Seth when he was alive. Jake’s wife is long suffering and uncomplaining and of course there is a cafe on the town square where blue collar workers, farmers and deputies  gather for breakfast in the morning and there’s a waitress called Dell who trades insults with the customers and knows everyone’s business.

While reading about this café, called The Coffee Shop, Slim has a series of revelations. Dell is described as “a gum-smacking, sassy gal” who, while pouring Jake’s coffee, manages to “bump him with her ample ass – the same routine six mornings a week”.  Slim realizes that Grisham has actually assigned a physical attribute to one of his characters. Dell’s ass is “ample”. He realizes then that he has no idea what the main character, Jake, looks like. Is he tall, short, fat, skinny? Does he have black, blond, brown, grey hair? Is he bald? What does Jakes’ wife Carla look like? So far she is nothing more than five letters on a page. He then realizes that the only reason he knows that Dell’s ass is ample is because Grisham needs that ass to perform an action and that action would not have the same effect if Dell’s ass wasn’t ample. He can’t risk not describing Dell’s ass.

 

By the way, who says “sassy gal” anymore? Elsewhere in the book, Grisham describes a prostitute in the bar which Simeon – Lettie’s no-good, drinking, gambling, philandering husband – hangs out, as “comely”; as in “as I walked out one morning, I met a comely maiden, on her way to the county fair”. It’s like he’s picking up his adjectives at a rural flea market.

Across the square from The Coffee Shop is the Tea Shoppe. This is where the white collar workers gather to discuss “interest rates and world politics” as opposed to “football, local politics and bass fishing”. What a neatly polarized world this is – black people, white people, blue collar, white collar. The poor white collar workers don’t get to discuss bass fishing and they have to meet in a café with an Olde Worlde name which further establishes them as effete and pretentious. Jake, on the other hand, though white collar, is accepted at the blue collar café, so right away we know he is authentic, he is to be trusted.

Chapter 17 takes place in the Tea Shoppe and here Grisham dispenses with names as well as adjectives. Nearly the whole chapter is taken up with a discussion between a lawyer, a banker, a merchant, an insurance agent and a realtor. These characters exist to provide background and update the reader on what is happening with the main characters. Lettie, for example, and her fast growing collection of family members have moved into a bigger house and there is a long discussion about how she can afford the rent. The merchant is there to ask the questions while the realtor, banker and lawyer are there to provide answers based on their respective professional expertise. The lawyer then takes center stage to answer questions on legal aspects of the case so that the reader is informed enough to understand what is going to happen in subsequent chapters. These characters then disappear.

This chapter gives perhaps the best insight into Grisham’s modus operandi. Every word he writes must serve or advance the plot, if it doesn’t, it is not required. After all, he has a town full of characters to keep moving and a story to tell and complex legal issues to convey in an understandable way and only 600 pages to do it in and Slim finds it irritating to be manipulated so obviously. At every turn, he can hear the whirring and clunking and banging and clanging of the mechanism driving this monster of a book but that’s not what really bothers him. What really bothers him is that he cannot put the book down. He really wants to know if Lettie gets her fortune and he is worried that her loser husband will gamble it all away and what about Jake? Will he make enough money from the case to buy that dream home for Carla? Will Jake, Carla and their daughter Hanna be safe because this guy who burned down Jake’s last house has just been released from prison and has a score to settle with Jake and Slim cares about them and he is nearly 300 pages away from finding out!

Poet’s Corner 12 – Slim’s Advice Part 3

In which, Slim ignores his own advice. See Slim’s Advice Part 2.

A Clear Day in Late October

 A clear day in late October

is like a call from the Governor,

a stay of execution.

It is just such a day,

the leaves on the trees bordering the soccer field

have abandoned that chlorophyll thing

and are leaking yellows and reds

like a paint store catalogue;                                                         

on the side lines, the soccer dads

bark and pace like chain-linked hounds

like dogs locked in parked cars on a sunny day,

while in the bushes, Thwarted Ambition

waits to join them

on the long journey home.

Photo: Chlorophyll molecule (Chlorophyll-a-3D-vdw, licensed under public domain)

Poet’s Corner 11 – Slim’s Advice Part 2

In which, Slim delivers a poem for aspiring poets.

So, after his outburst in the pub (see Slim’s Advice Part 1), Slim comes up to me, mutters an apology and mumbles something about having to learn how to control his anger.

“No problem” I said” it worked out fine in the end”

For a moment, there was a feeling between us that approximated warmth.

“Anyway,” he said “I wrote a poem for aspiring poets”

“Is it inspiring?”

Slim looked puzzled.

“You know, an inspiring poem for aspiring poets”.

My wordplay seemed to irritate Slim immensely. That warm feeling evaporated like sweat in the desert.

Here’s the poem!

Slim’s Advice

 Avoid autumn and death,

They’ve been done before;

There’s little more to say

On either score.

Also, waves like marathon runners

Collapsing on the shore,

The inexorable march of time,

Don’t go through that door.

 

By the way, as you have probably guessed the delicate-looking guy in the picture is John Keats, who pretty much nailed “Autumn” in 1819 at the age of 24.