DYLAN IN THE PARK 8-12-08

DYLAN IN THE PARK

Although I’ve been trapped in the heart of Manhattan for the past twelve years, the hog-eyed borough of Brooklyn was as mysterious to me as Lewiston, Maine or Mexico City. After exiting the F Train by Prospect Park with everyday commuters, I stopped off for refreshments at a tiny bistro. In the garden, beneath a caravan tent, the waitress poured a FROTHYBrooklyn Lager for me while fondling my upper torso. Greek music and incense filled the air as the scraping of cutlery against plates was offset by birds chirping in stereo. A grey tabby proudly displayed his furry white belly for the patrons, then suddenly whacked a pebble and chased it down the cellar steps. I had to extricate myself from this charming backyard Brooklyn scenery and figure out how I was going to get into Dylan’s sold out performance at Prospect Park.

As evening sky grew dark, I was struck with the realization that my mission was futile. I wasn’t able to find a reasonably priced ticket or scam my way in, so I joined thousands of Brooklynites who were content squatting or milling about the bandshell perimeter. Any view of Dylan or the stage was completely obstructed, and from my vantage point I could hear the music, but it wasn’t loud enough to get off on. I sulked during spotty performances of Rainy Day Women and Lay Lady Lay. A generic set list ensued. Dylan shuffled out the wonton soup, egg rolls, chicken and broccoli, pork fried rice, orange slices and fortune cookie like so many times before. On the grassy knoll, I sat amongst those spread out on blankets. Lonesome Day Blues was apropos for my situation, and well played. Dylan and the band really laid into a fiery offering of When the Levee Breaks. However, an obnoxious Bensonhurst couple bickered non-stop right behind me. They were unhappy with the concert series, Dylan, each other; they were born pissed off. A sullen-faced brown dog sidled-up by my side and licked my face for a minute or so. “Bones come here, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed the embarrassed dog owner. I was fond of Bones, but I decided to relocate.

Sandwiching the next segment with the old timey swinging ping pong waltzes Spirit on the Water and Behind the Horizon, the concert felt like a summer’s eve on the Coney Island Boardwalk, circa 1941. Picnickers, dog walkers and curiosity seekers peacefully paraded around the perimeter of the bandshell. In my line of vision was a poster promoting Issac Hayes’s July performance at Prospect Park - one of his last. R.I.P. Shaft! “You know you hurt me, you gave it to me, you socked it me mama, when you said goodbye, oh mama, walk on by.” Highway 61 Revisited was muscular; you could hear Stu’s guitar squeal and screech. Netitie Moore was cathartic. I needed to be closer to the Cowboy Band. Summer Days grooved - an amalgamation of all of Dylan’s vocal and musical stylings on this night. With Russian bombs raining down on former Soviet soil, Dylan’s performance of Masters of War was wicked. Resumption of the Cold War loomed in the air, but It’s Alright Ma, it’s life and life only.

Better tardy than not at all, I found out where the cool kids were chillin to Dylan. Up on the hill where the asphalt cuts through the greenery, and the bicyclists and hipsters hang, the music was thundering. The hypnotic flashing neon lights of the NYPD mini jeeps effortlessly danced amidst the towering pines beneath the egg white omelet moon. I should have been in this spot all night. Dylan was deep inside Like a Rolling Stone, 20,000 New Yorkers were in awe, and I was at one with the universe. Thunder on the Mountain was out of control, everything exploded from its essence. Blowin in the Wind was anti-climatic after that one-two punch, but Sweet Jesus, we were in the park, with the Maestro, on a sweatless, starless night in a City Park. Saturday Night at the Borgota beckons.


SHAFT

MY OLD SCHOOL 5-24-08

................................................My first college house, New Paltz..................................Dylan's childhood home, Hibbing

MY OLD SCHOOL (Guadalajara wont do)

After enduring Memorial Day Weekend traffic on my way to New Paltz, I hopped off the bus and headed straight to China House. Everything remained the same: same white triangle-framed house; same tiny sign with red lettering that reads – CHINA HOUSE, same waitress. The carpets haven’t been shampooed since I first ate here twenty years ago, and it’s still two-star cuisine featuring mystery meats. The only change over the years was a sign that was put in the window about seven years earlier: “GOOD NEWS: WE HAVE BROWN RICE.” Yes, that’s fantastic news, welcome to the new Millennium.

I tried to recall some of my hazy college days when I went to SUNY New Paltz. I lived in a light blue house where I terrorized my neighbors with a constant barrage of Dylan and Garcia. This house, strikes a resemblance to Dylan’s childhood home in Hibbing (see above). Today is Dylan’s birthday

It was a lush spring afternoon in Ulster County: seventy degrees, partly sunny skies, billowing clouds, a steady breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in the valley. I celebrated Bob’s sixty-seventh birthday by woofing down three chicken tacos and washing it down with several pints of Hoegaarden at Bacchus – a dark musty bar with billiards, hippies, decent food and over 400 varieties of beer. I could wreak substantial havoc if I were to be locked in their beer cellar/ cooler overnight. When I was a student, I spent more time at Bacchus than I did on campus.

I resided in and around New Paltz for ten years – a decade of my life blew by like a puff of wind. Somehow, the Huguenots found New Paltz in 1678 and built stone houses that still stand today. I paid a visit to Huguenot Street, the oldest continuously inhabited neighborhood in the U.S. with the possible exception being some areas that are still inhabited by Native Americans. After my historic stroll, I pulled up to the banks of the Wallkill River and watched her flow.

I lined up the I Tunes for Blaise’s 40th birthday party at his Mom’s house somewhere in the sticks of New Paltz. His family is originally Woodstock – they all dig Dylan. I started the evening off with “Thunder on the Mountain,” and encored with “Huck’s Tune” (“When I kiss your lips, the honey drips”) at 4 AM. After catching a nap on the porch, I watched the rising sun return. I also saw deer, blue jays, robins, and a woodpecker doing his thing – impressive sights for a city boy.

POSITIVELY MAINE

POSITIVELY MAINE 5-17-08

An alarm clock shakes you awake from the thick of strange dreams at 5:30 AM. You gather what you need for your trip to Lewiston, Maine and stuff it in a backpack. Manhattan is quiet except for the yellow taxis rushing the changing traffic lights – you flag one down and tell the driver that the destination is Penn Station.

On a train bound for Boston, you think about the good times you’ve had in Maine, especially that trip to Oxford when you were part of an invasion force of 100,000 Deadheads in town to see a pair of Grateful Dead concerts on Independence Day weekend in 1988. You blew off the second concert because you found out Dylan was playing at a Minor League Ballpark in Old Orchard Beach. You convinced your friend Perry to leave the Dead behind and join you. It was a prudent decision. With G.E Smith by his side, Dylan rampaged through an eighty minute set –something was born. You didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the first leg of Dylan’s Never Ending Tour. The Grateful Dead played their last show thirteen years ago (Jerry RIP), but Dylan’s still on the road, sounding better than he did twenty years ago. Dylan will be performing for you in Lewiston, tonight!

Drifting in and out of sleep, Hank Williams is yodeling in your headphones as you honky-tonk past Providence. After hopping on a Greyhound headed for Lewiston, you know three things happened there: 1) On May 25, 1965, Ali knocked out Sonny Liston in the first round of the weirdest Heavyweight Championship boxing match in history; 2) The Grateful Dead played at the State Fairgrounds on September 6, 1980, unleashing a thirteen song first set featuring a blazing “Sugaree;” 3) Your favorite periodical, The Farmer’s Almanac, gets published there. As the bus turns on to the quaint main drag of Lewiston, you notice there’s a store called Zimmie’s, and a few feet down the road there’s a bar called She Doesn’t Like Guthries. Enjoying the pleasant spring weather and sipping iced-coffee at the Bon Bon Café while in the company of attractive hippie girls, you remember why you’re drawn to arcane Maine.

At Chick-A-Dee’s, a twin lobster feast with two Shipyard Export Ales and a Glenlivet on the rocks only costs $47.95. Feeling omnipotent, you make a donation to the Lewiston Little League team, dropping three dollars in the collection bucket. A taxi takes you to the see Dylan at the Androscoggin Bank Colisee which was formally known as the Central Maine Civic Center. When Ali delivered his “Phantom Punch,” this venue was simply known as St. Dominick’s. Whatever you call it, it’s nothing more than a banal high school hockey rink with limited seating, exactly the type of place you love seeing Dylan at. The beer lines are long, you feel obliged to grab two.

Leaning up against the corner of the stage, on the extreme far left side, Dylan’s looking at you as he surprises by opening with “Watching the River Flow.” You can only see Dylan; the black equipment cases in front of you block out the Cowboy Band. Perched behind his organ, Dylan’s a sheet of black from his top hat to shoes. He’s really digging deep and growling viscerally during “Lay Lady Lay.” Sweet looking ladies surround you, apparently this is where the groupies hang, vying to get into Dylan’s big brass bed. Between two romping blues remakes, Dylan delivers a delectable “Shelter From the Storm,” that’s unlike anything you’ve heard before, complete with a harp solo that flutters. The Cowboy Band sounds tight as they shine the light on the maestro.

It’s masterpiece theatre - Dylan breaks into “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll.” The musical backing is sparse and spooky as the words ricochet off the brick walls and low-lying rafters dangling overhead. This is incredible. Looking at the centrally located soundboard, you wonder if that’s where Ali took out Liston with that short choppy right in round one. Imagine the intensity in this building that night. Malcom X had been assassinated three months earlier; there were death threats to both fighters. The year was 1965; Ali and Dylan were two young men changing American society with their creative powers.

The hard charging beat of “Tweedle Dee & Tweedle Dum” emerges. Dylan zaps you into the 21st century with the opening number from Love & Theft, the CD you bought at the Nobody Beats The Wiz in the Garment District, on the morning of 9/11. The place is reeling and rocking, but Dylan suddenly motions for the band to abort the song halfway through. Alright, it’s time for track two of L&T, “Mississippi.” Is this really happening? It’s a mysterious dream. Dylan’s a howlin’ and growlin’ one of his modern day masterpieces, plinking ring tones on his keys. It’s a funky, shuffling arrangement with a distinct country & western twang. You’re ecstatic, you last saw “Mississippi” at the Beacon Theatre on Friday, April 28, 2005.

“Highway 61 Revisited” roars by, full throttle, as the band rattles this dinky rink in the middle of nowhere. You’re seduced by the serene and hypnotic beginning to “Workingman’s Blues #2.” Dylan sings, it’s poignant, yet the words sound like they are being barked out by a motivational speaker. It works. The eleventh song of the evening is another 1965 classic, “It’s Alright Ma,” in a new spot in the rotation. Disorientation sets in. You go score a brew, and leave a few brews in the urinal. “Spirit on the Water” follows, so you decide to get some chicken fingers and strike-up clever conversation with the girl who sold them to you before returning to the ceremony. The thirteenth song is “Ballad of Hollis Brown.” Everything is beautifully out of whack and surreal.

You relocate. You’re dancing and shuffling in Ali’s footsteps, in the center of the ring as the Cowboy Band explodes on “Summer Days.” Dylan boasts, “You can't repeat the past. I say, You can't? What do you mean, you can't? Of course you can.” Garnier and Recile grin and smirk confidently as they manipulate the tempo. Dylan jabs at his keys offbeat, hitting the wrong notes at the right time, just like a jazz master. Freemen and Herron are plucking leads; Stu’s doing his thing. It’s old-time swing music in a dance hall – Looney Tunes with cat and mouse professionalism. You howl in disbelief when you realize “Ain’t Talkin” is the final statement of the set – a dark apocalyptic epic for the finale. The preacher sounds incredible; acquire the tape, you must.

The Dylan eye logo banner drops, everybody gets up and prances around to “Thunder on the Mountain.” You’re awed by Dylan’s new classics and how well they stand up along side his 60’s anthems. “The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind, the answer is blowin’ in the wind,” he sings; there’s a harp solo; the lights go out; he remerges in front of the stage with his Cowboy band; briefly accepts applause, and then Dylan disappears into the darkness.

Visions of Dylan # 9...4-28-08

A New Visions of Dylan Radio Show this Monday 4-28-08...9-11 PM

WBAI 99.5 FM New York

live stream...stream.wbai.org

Theme: Dylan in Hollywood

Dylan songs in movies and TV...rare tracks

starring:

Bob Dylan

Jerry Garcia Band

Jack Fate

Jimmy Hendrix

Billy Parker

Renaldo

Alias

Revolution in The Air 2-27-08

REVOLUTION IN THE AIR
PART TWO: TALES OF A COWBOY BAND IN MEXICO CITY 

One of the goals of my three day trip to Mexico City was to avoid a nasty stomach illness. I did well, in large part due to the Manhattan Deli.I feasted on turkeys slices and lox. Prior to Dylan's second performance, I was enjoying multiple margaritas (two for one happy hour), until I noticed a disturbance outside. Across the divide of the main road that cuts through the business district of the city, I noticed a sizeable gathering of protesters waving red flags. Their leader’s face was covered with a black scarf as he stood on top of a van with a mega phone barking out orders in Spanish. And the roar of thousands of rebels filled the air in response to the Big Cheese. I only know about ten words in Spanish, so this scene was a little unsettling.

Two dozen Policia in full riot gear were about 7 yards northwest of the entrance to the Manhattan Deli. They were crouched behind a 25 foot fence/ barricade, ready for action and retaliation. Maybe I should mention that the deli is located to the left of the American Embassy which is fortified with multiple fences and barricades, but with the right trajectory, a Molotov cocktail could have pierced through the front plate glass window sending employees, business executives, and one cat that was there just to see a Cowboy Band into a mad scramble for survival. For a few minutes, I felt like I was experiencing the movie Masked & Anonymous in real time. The margaritas eased my head and eventually the rebels peacefully paraded down the road due south. I paraded up the road north to the Auditorio Nacional to see the star of Masked & Anonymous, Jack Fate aka Bob Dylan.

Dylan sang love's praises during the three opening numbers before thrilling me with “Love Sick.” “I’m sick of love,” bam bang,”I wish I never met you,” bam/ bang, “I’m sick of love,” bam bang, “I’m trying to forget you.” Other highlights included “Rolled and Tumbled,” “My Back Pages,” “Ain’t Talkin,” “Like a Rolling Stone” and “Thunder on the Mountain.” Rolling Stone and Thunder were tour de force – pure ecstasy for Mexico. The venue was half filled on the second night which was fantastic for me. I freely roamed around enjoying the show from up close and personal vantage points. Dylan delivered another inspired performance in spite of the lackluster turnout.

That opening night was Something. Full color photos graced the front pages of two Mexico City daily newspapers. In bold letters, the Reforma proclaimed: Gracias Dylan! The crowds on both nights seemed genuinely thrilled with Dylan’s outings. Between scaling a pyramid, walking on historic sites, being in the thick of an almost violent protest and seeing two more great Dylan concerts, it was a helluva 48 hour rendezvous. Oh yeah, on Wednesday, I saw rhythm guitarist Stu Kimball (black porkpie hat and cranberry blazer) getting an afternoon shoeshine in front of the Sheraton Hotel. I smiled and waved to him, and he said, “Hey, what’s up man.” I was going to strike up a conversation with him, but I figured it was best not to disturb a giant while he's getting a shoeshine. There’s a heartwarming end for this final installment of Tales of Mexico City 2008.

Tangled Up in Tunes: Ballad of a Dylanhead is available in paperback and Kindle at www.tangledupintunes.com

Modern Times In Ancient Land

MODERN TIMES IN ACIENT LAND:

Tales From Mexico City 2008

It was a day only the Lord and Dylan could make. I had an action-packed 12 hours: climbed to the top of the Pyramid of the Sun – part of the colossal remnants from the archeological city of Teotihuacan dating back 2,000 years, stepped inside churches built in Mexico City during the early 16th Century, and saw a Cowboy Band ransack the most populated city in North America located in the gut of Mexico.

I purchased an inexpensive ticket for 275 pesos (about $25) for this performance at the Auditorio Nacional. My frugality landed me a less than desirable seat in the rafters and my second monumental climb of the day. I realized the folly of my ways and went to the hospitality desk to ask if I could upgrade my ticket. I knew this 14,000 seat venue didn’t sell out. A lovely Mexican maiden who spoke good English surrendered to my charms and handed me a third row, dead center ticket in the lower balcony for free. Dylan sounded great on guitar and vocals on a well executed “Raniny Day Women #12 + 35” and “It Ain’t Me Babe” opening.

All early reports about how tight the band has been this tour were validated with a resounding “Watching the River Flow.” That song seems to capture the pulse of the people of Mexico City. Maybe it was because my bewildered brain baked in the sun all day, but the ensuing “Masters of War” had me thinking about Mexican history. The United States has been the reigning Mater of War since its birth, but Mexico has experienced the ravages of war more than any other place in our hemisphere. Dylan led the charge perched behind his beloved keys; Austin’s Denny Freeman played some dazzling guitar solos.

Dylan was wearing a suit of black and a white top hat with a touch of grey, his Cowboy Band was in matching grey suits and black hats. Dylan popped the cork on a lethal “When the Levee Breaks.” “Some people on the road carrying everything that they own/ Some people got barely enough skin to cover their bones/ Put on your cat clothes mama put on your evening dress,” exalted the maestro. As our fearless leader provoked the third blitzing instrumental with some chunky organ riffs, he yelled, “Oh!” The Cowboy Band was led by the plucking of the Denny/Donnie combo, and the restless thumping of Garnier and Recile. Dylan ended matters by howling, “This is a day only the Lord, only the Lord can make!” Checkmate.

A reality check followed in a well received, yet anticlimactic “Spirit on the Water.” "Things Have Changed" was a powder charge throwing the evening back into spin cycle. “When the Deal Goes Down” and “High Water” were of the highest quality, and continued a symmetrical ballad/ rocker flow to the show. When Dylan sang, “The shacks are sliding down,” I thought of the all those poverty shacks piled on top of each other in the foothills surrounding Mexico City. It’s also noteworthy that the five songs just mentioned were the core of the show and they are all recent Dylan creations.

“Stuck Inside of Mobile” was bland and blunt. “Workingman’s Blues” was pure bliss, especially for those like me who enjoy rice and beans and Mexico City Blues, as Dylan sang like a bird on the horizon and Freeman whipped up another distinctive solo. “Highway 61 Revisited was extra vicious and elicited an enthusiastic standing ovation from the crowd. It reminded me of my tour guide during the day, Manuel. He’s a large native with an equally huge presence and white sombrero – a man of wisdom, though he spoke few words. Manuel was gunning our red van down from the pyramids toward Mexico City on Highway 85 at a 110 MPH clip. Highway 85 cuts through the heart of Mexico, east to west like Highway 61 slices through heartland of America, north to south.

After “Highway 61,” I heard a weird chant behind me, “Dill –awn, Dill –awn,” it took me a few moments to realize they were chanting for his Bobness. The Cowboy Band anthem, “Nettie Moore” followed. Hearing this and Workingman's Blues in the same show gave me chills. “Summer Days” was truncated. Dylan ended the set with his first "Like a Rolling Stone."  Dylan sang the often skipped verse, “You gone to the finest school alright miss lonely but you only used to get juiced in it."

“Thunder on the Mountain was a pure rush of adrenaline…best version… Mexico City was shaking. A nice harp solo introduced a fine “Blowin in the Wind” conclusion. There was a post-concert mob scene. At least 100 vendors were selling all sorts of Dylan merchandise: pens, stickers, shirts, posters, coffee mugs, shot glasses, etc. I picked up a few Never Ending Tour pens. Attention shoppers: clearance sale after tonight’s show.

Rest was hard to come by last night; I drifted in and out of strange dream sleep for a couple of hours. I felt like I had sucked the milk out of 1,000 cows, in one day. The mattress in my hotel room is like Formica. I would have rolled on to the floor, but this rug hasn’t been shampooed in half a century. It’s back to the nitty-gritty tonight, I’ll be tenth row.

More on the Mexico City journey in Chapter 20 of Tangled Up in Tunes: Ballad of a Dylanhead available in paperback and Kindle at www.tangledupintunes.com

VISIONS OF ELI

The Prodigal Son

Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad: for this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found…THE BIBLE…ELI MANNING 2008…I’m beginning to believe what the scriptures tell.

Giants 17-14

Jason Tuck you can’t stop him, you can only hope to contain him.

That third and ten from Eli to Tyree is the greatest play in American sports history.

Eli Manning …Super Bowl MVP

I’d like to “Pat” myself on the back. I predicted greatness for Manning when he was at his lowest point here on VOD… http://visionsofdylan.blogspot.com/2007/01/xmas-eve-with-eli12-24-06.html

A lot of people can say they believed in Eli, only I can prove it.

NewEngland 18-1, very very sad, ladies and gentlemen, very sad. Long Live the 1972 Dolphins!

The revenge factor is amazing. The Giants lost to the Patriots, Packers, and Cowboys (twice) during the season.

The Giants were the worst team in the NFL after week 2. Coughlin should have been fired. The New York Football GIANTS went on to win 11 straight road games - a feat that will never be duplicated.