Mississippi

No sé qué tiene esta canción, pero para mí es hipnótica:



Every step of the way we walk the line
Your days are numbered, so are mine
Time is pilin’ up, we struggle and we scrape
We’re all boxed in, nowhere to escape

City’s just a jungle; more games to play
Trapped in the heart of it, tryin' to get away
I was raised in the country, I been workin’ in the town
I been in trouble ever since I set my suitcase down

Got nothin' for you, I had nothin' before
Don’t even have anything for myself anymore
Sky full of fire, pain pourin’ down
Nothing you can sell me, I’ll see you around

All my powers of expression and thoughts so sublime
Could never do you justice in reason or rhyme
Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long

Well, the devil’s in the alley, mule’s in the stall
Say anything you wanna, I have heard it all
I was thinkin’ 'bout the things that Rosie said
I was dreaming I was sleepin' in Rosie’s bed

Walkin' through the leaves, falling from the trees
Feelin' like a stranger nobody sees
So many things that we never will undo
I know you’re sorry, I’m sorry too

Some people will offer you their hand and some won’t
Last night I knew you, tonight I don’t
I need somethin’ strong to distract my mind
I’m gonna look at you ’til my eyes go blind

Well I got here followin' the southern star
I crossed that river just to be where you are
Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long

Well my ship’s been split to splinters and it’s sinkin' fast
I’m drownin’ in the poison, got no future, got no past
But my heart is not weary, it’s light and it’s free
I’ve got nothin’ but affection for all those who’ve sailed with me

Everybody movin’ if they ain’t already there
Everybody got to move somewhere
Stick with me baby, stick with me anyhow
Things should start to get interestin' right about now

My clothes are wet, tight on my skin
Not as tight as the corner that I painted myself in
I know that fortune is waitin’ to be kind
So give me your hand and say you’ll be mine

Well, the emptiness is endless, cold as the clay
You can always come back, but you can’t come back all the way
Only one thing I did wrong
Stayed in Mississippi a day too long

Bob Dylan

Stay (forever) young, stay foolish

(Vía OpenCulture)

Seven more days, all I gotta do is survive

I been good, I been good while I been waitin’
Maybe guilty of hesitatin’, I just been holdin’ on
Seven more days, all that’ll be gone

Bob Dylan

(En Spotify solo he encontrado una versión de Ron Wood.)

Billy 4

(Esta versión, que me gusta mucho, la canta Oh Susanna, a la que he descubierto gracias al programa musical en podcast The Miller Tells Her Tale.)




There’s guns across the river about to pound you
There’s a lawman on your trail like to surround you
Bounty hunters are dancing all around you
Billy, they don’t like you to be so free.

Campin’ out all night on the veranda
Playin’ cards ’til dawn in the hacienda
Up to Boot Hill they’d like to send ya
Billy, don’t you turn your back on me.

They say that Pat Garrett’s got your number
So sleep with one eye open, when you wander
Every little sound just might be thunder
Thunder from the barrel of his gun.

There’s always another stranger sneaking glances
Some trigger-happy fool willing to take chances
Some old whore from San Pedro’ll make advances
Advances on your spirit and your soul.

The businessmen from Taos want you to go down
So they’ve hired mister Garrett, to force you to slow down
Billy, don’t it make ya feel so low-down
To be hunted by the man who was your friend.

So hang on to your woman, if you got one
Remember in El Paso once you shot one
I’ll be in Santa Fe about one
Billy, you’re going all alone

Gypsy queens will play your grand finale
Down in the Tularosa alley
Down in La Rio Pecas valley
Billy, you’re so far away from home
Billy, you’re so far away from home

Bob Dylan

Forever Young

Happy birthday, maestro!




(Sin ojos: espero que el vídeo funcione...)

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

Bob Dylan

In Bob We Trust

El martes que viene, día 24, Bob Dylan cumple 70 años.

Como buen fan, cuando me he cruzado con el artículo de un camarada en The Guardian titulado ni más ni menos que "In Bob We Trust", lo he tenido que leer.Y me ha encantado :)

Dylan has been omnipresent for the past 50 years, yet we know next to nothing about him. [...]

He seemed to have found his voice again as he ruminated on mortality and communed with the ghosts of the great bluesmen.

Late Dylan is fascinating: the darkness, the obsession with time draining away, the refusal to stop touring even with a voice as rough as sandpaper. He transcends criticism now. [...]

I have a framed photograph of the young Dylan on the wall next to my desk. He is thin, wearing jeans and a check shirt, looking straight at the camera with a hint of arrogance, hands in pockets, his guitar case sitting on the road beside him. He is standing outside, in what looks like an empty car park, surrounded by pools of water. He is alone, self contained, at one with himself in this alien landscape. He has a slight smile, as if he has some secret information. Yet he never spells it out, never makes it easy for us. That may be why the love affair endures; the mystery remains. The answer is still blowin’ in the wind.

In 2005, the Guardian asked me to review a Dylan gig. This was probably a mistake as the chance of an objective assessment was nil. The reviews editor may have realised this when I tried to give the show seven stars. I remember becoming tearful during Visions of Johanna, one of his truly great songs, which even the ultra-reductive late Dylan is incapable of reducing to rubble. A man standing beside me saw me making notes through the tears. “We’re just crossing the ocean with Bob,” he said. “Write that down.” And I did, because he had summed up what it means to be a Dylan fan. We are on a voyage, and the voyage never ends.

Hala.

(En el Círculo de Bellas Artes se le rinde homenaje el propio martes con una charla entre el pedorro de Benjamín Prado y el fenómeno de Rodrigo Fresán; un concierto de Christina Rosenvinge, Nacho Vegas, Amaral y Hugues Augrey y una sesión del DJ Santi Alcanda.)

34

...Ah, but I was so much older then
I’m younger than that now...

Bob Dylan, en My Back Pages

...and if there is eternity I’d love you there again

De nuevo, necesito chute de música. Y aunque no parecía ser lo que más me pegaba, por alguna razón acabo escuchando Planet Waves, el disco que Dylan sacó en 1974, justo antes de su glorioso Blood on the Tracks. En mi kabeza lo tengo por un disco menor pero hoy me ha parecido grandioso.

No tengo dudas de que soy un Leonard-Cohen-kind-of-guy, y de que no existe canción de amor ni remotamente parecida a I'm your man, pero escucho Wedding song y me flipo. Y eso es exactamente lo que necesito ahora mismo.

No encuentro el vídeo en Youtube (sólo hay versiones de fans) y tampoco está en Spotify, así que os tendréis que conformar con la letra (que no leeréis, of course :)

I love you more than ever, more than time and more than love
I love you more than money and more than the stars above
Love you more than madness, more than waves upon the sea
Love you more than life itself, you mean that much to me
Ever since you walked right in, the circle’s been complete
I’ve said goodbye to haunted rooms and faces in the street
To the courtyard of the jester which is hidden from the sun
I love you more than ever and I haven’t yet begun
You breathed on me and made my life a richer one to live
When I was deep in poverty you taught me how to give
Dried the tears up from my dreams and pulled me from the hole
Quenched my thirst and satisfied the burning in my soul
You gave me babies one, two, three, what is more, you saved my life
Eye for eye and tooth for tooth, your love cuts like a knife
My thoughts of you don’t ever rest, they’d kill me if I lie
I’d sacrifice the world for you and watch my senses die
The tune that is yours and mine to play upon this earth
We’ll play it out the best we know, whatever it is worth
What’s lost is lost, we can’t regain what went down in the flood
But happiness to me is you and I love you more than blood
It’s never been my duty to remake the world at large
Nor is it my intention to sound a battle charge
’Cause I love you more than all of that with a love that doesn’t bend
And if there is eternity I’d love you there again
Oh, can’t you see that you were born to stand by my side
And I was born to be with you, you were born to be my bride
You’re the other half of what I am, you’re the missing piece
And I love you more than ever with that love that doesn’t cease
You turn the tide on me each day and teach my eyes to see
Just bein’ next to you is a natural thing for me
And I could never let you go, no matter what goes on
‘Cause I love you more than ever now that the past is gone

Bob Dylan


Hala.

Si tienes que irte, vete...

...si no, de aquí no te escapas hasta mañana...

:-P

El mejor Dylan cantado en francés por unos ingleses.

Qué grande, coño.



C'est pas que je te demande
De faire que tu n'as jamais fait
C'est seulement qui'il fait trop tard
Et qu'il fait trop noir pour trouver la porte

[Estribillo (tras cada estrofa):]
    Mais si tu dois partir, va-t'en
    Mais si tu dois partir, va-t'en
    Si non, tu dois rester la nuit

C'est pas que je te demande
De prendre part dans ce jeu
C'est seulement, je n'ai pas de montre
Et tu demandes toujours l'heure par contre

Tu sais, j'aurais des cauchemars
Et aussi mauvaise conscience
Si je t'empêchais de faire
Ce que vraiment tu espères

La La La ...

Venía dispuesto a hacer oficial lo que es evidente: se me acabó el rollo, me estoy tomando un descanso del blog.

Pero me he cruzado por enésima vez con mi viejo amigo Bob y tengo que dejar aquí esto:

It was like a revelation when you betrayed me with your touch...

Hala.

You can play with fire but you'll get the bill

Grande Dylan, grande Norah!

La letra que canta Norah cambia el he original de Dylan por un she pero a mí, por supuesto, me gusta más cantársela a ella.

Por cierto, este disco de Norah con el grupo de Peter Malick se titula New York City ("such a beautiful disease", "qué hermosa enfermedad"... Je!).






Heart of mine be still,
You can play with fire but you'll get the bill.
Don't let her know
Don't let her know that you love her.
Don't be a fool, don't be blind
Heart of mine.

Heart of mine go back home,
You got no reason to wander, you got no reason to roam.
Don't let her see
Don't let her see that you need her.
Don't put yourself over the line
Heart of mine.

Heart of mine go back where you been,
It'll only be trouble for you if you let her in.
Don't let her hear
Don't let her hear you want her.
Don't let her know she's so fine
Heart of mine.

Heart of mine you know that she'll never be true,
She'll only give to others the love that she's gotten from you.
Don't let her know
Don't let her know where you're going.
Don't untie the ties that bind
Heart of mine.

Heart of mine so malicious and so full of guile,
Give you an inch and you'll take a mile.
Don't let yourself fall, don't let yourself stumble.
If you can't do the time, don't do the crime
Heart of mine.

Bob Dylan

Neguit

Una vez más, esa desazón tan familiar que he sentido muchas veces: busco y busco y no encuentro la música apropiada para mi estado de ánimo.

Acabo en el gran disco de Maria Muldaur de versiones de Dylan, Heart of mine.

No es exactamente lo que busco (a saber si existe...), pero me sirve.

Uf.

Insisto: pese a su imagen de cascarrabias, Dylan es un jodido cachondo.

La imagen y el sonido son bastante malos (VHS o similar del año 96), y hay que esperar algo más de un minuto para ver algo, pero el vídeo merece la pena (al menos para los flipadillos comme moi...):

I'll be your baby tonight

Close your eyes, close the door,
You don't have to worry any more.
I'll be your baby tonight.

Shut the light, shut the shade,
You don't have to be afraid.
I'll be your baby tonight.

Well, that mockingbird's gonna sail away,
We're gonna forget it.
That big, fat moon is gonna shine like a spoon,
But we're gonna let it,
You won't regret it.

Kick your shoes off, do not fear,
Bring that bottle over here.
I'll be your baby tonight.

Bob Dylan (cantada por Maria Muldaur)

El cachondo de Bob

Cualquier lectora habitual del blog sabe de mi debilidad por Bob Dylan. Son muchas las cosas de él que me gustan, pero la que más, sin duda, es que, pese a su pinta de viejo cascarrabias, es un puto cachondo. Como muestra, un botón:

Hace unos meses, en su programa semanal de radio, lanzó el rumor de que iba a poner su voz al sistema de navegación GPS de no sé qué coche. Y hubo varios periódicos "serios" que se lo creyeron, como cuentan en la revista Uncut que he comprado esta mañana, pese a que, añadía el bueno de Bob, "probablemente no debería hacerlo, porque, vaya donde vaya, siempre acabo en el mismo lugar: Lonely Avenue (la Avenida de los Solitarios).


In the wider culture, the notion that Dylan has a sense of humour at all is something people still struggle with. A great example comes in the summer, when serious newspapers from The Guardian to The Washington Post pick up a throwaway line in the BBC's repeat of a Theme Time Radio Hour show, and run with the news that the singer is in discussions with "two car companies" to become the voice of their SatNav systems -apparently oblivious to the fact that Dylan says screwy stuff like that al the time in Theme Time. ("I probably shouldn't do it," he went on in the original broadcast, "'cause whichever way I go, I always end up in one place: on Lonely Avenue.")

Uncut magazine, January 2010 issue.


Lonely Avenue



Well my room has got two windows
The sunlight never comes through
I'm so sad and lonely, baby
Since I broke off baby with you

I live on a lonely avenue
Little girl, since you said you're through
Now I feel so sad and blue
It's all because of you
I could die, I could die, I could die
I could die, I could die, I could die
I live on a lonely avenue

My pillow is made of lead
And my cover is made of stone
I toss and turn every night
I'm not used to livin' alone

I live on a lonely avenue
Girl, since you said we're through
And I feel so sad and blue
You know it's all because of you
I could die, I could die, I could die
I could cry, I could cry, I could cry
I live on a lonely avenue
A lonely avenue

Ray Charles

Is your love in vain?

Do you love me, or are you just extending goodwill?
Do you need me half as bad as you say, or are you just feeling guilt?
I've been burned before and I know the score
So you won't hear me complain.
Will I be able to count on you
Or is your love in vain?

Are you so fast that you cannot see that I must have solitude?
When I am in the darkness, why do you intrude?
Do you know my world, do you know my kind
Or must I explain?
Will you let me be myself
Or is your love in vain?

Well I've been to the mountain and I've been in the wind,
I've been in and out of happiness.
I have dined with kings, I've been offered wings
And I've never been too impressed.

All right, I'll take a chance, I will fall in love with you
If I'm a fool you can have the night, you can have the morning too.
Can you cook and sew, make flowers grow,
Do you understand my pain?
Are you willing to risk it all
Or is your love in vain?

Bob Dylan

I am just a poor boy, baby,
Lookin' to connect.
But I certainly don't want you thinkin'
That I ain't got any respect.

Bob Dylan

NYC

En tres semanas viajo por fin a Nueva York.

Es un viaje muy especial para mí.

Tanto que, aunque me pongo al teclado con intención de explicar por qué, siento que no voy a ser capaz. Demasiadas ideas, demasiados años dejando que mi conciencia (y mi inconsciente...) sean invadidos por la cultura que emana (alguien diría que se fabrica) de allí (y también, sobre todo, de L.A.)

Se dice que NYC no es Estados Unidos, que es un lugar aparte. También, que (al menos por ahora) es la capital del mundo. Yo no lo sé. Pero sí sé que a mí me llama como ningún otro lugar.

De momento, estoy buscando planes para esos diez días, cosas que ver, que hacer (espero tus recomendaciones, g. ;-).

Ya he encontrado alguno: dando rienda a la parte friki que hay en mí (la disimulo bien, eh... :-P), he pedido invitación para pasarme por la Web 2.0 Expo, y poder ver en directo a alguno de mis gurús.

Pero sigo buscando cositas, y acabo de dar con una bien tentadora, aunque más por su punto simbólico que por lo que vaya a ser en la práctica: los días que estoy allí nada menos que el jefe de jefes, san Bob Dylan, toca en directo.

No creo que acabe yendo, porque las entradas cuestan una paaasta, y además las dos veces que lo he visto, aquí en España, no hacen que mis expectativas sean muy altas.

Pero, coño, es Dylan. Y en NY. Y yo soy un mitómano redomado. Eso tiene que signicar algo, ¿no?

Poesía

Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an italian poet
From the thirteenth century.
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burnin' coal
Pourin off of every page
Like it was written in my soul from me to you,
Tangled up in blue.

Bob Dylan

Eso es la poesía para mí.

The man in me

The man in me will do nearly any task,
And as for compensation, there's little he would ask.
Take a woman like you
To get through to the man in me.

Storm clouds are raging all around my door,
I think to myself I might not take it any more.
Take a woman like your kind
To find the man in me.

But, oh, what a wonderful feeling
Just to know that you are near,
Sets my a heart a-reeling
From my toes up to my ears.

The man in me will hide sometimes to keep from bein' seen,
But that's just because he doesn't want to turn into some machine.
Took a woman like you
To get through to the man in me.

Bob Dylan