Thrill to the sound of Bob exiting The Ed Sullivan Show chased by a bear Sigh with relief as our heros pursuer turns its wrath on a bunch of retarded commie hunters Jerkily ponder Bobs metaphysical transformation into the bear Hmmm. I dont know if its because I already knew and loved the infinitely subtler version sung by elfin-lunged, Bob-sponsoring, non-moon-sized-vowel-enunciating, successful Pocahontas impersonator, Joan Baez, if its just that his voice mismatches the tune or if its because its total shwank.Įxcept, of course, that folk music is, or should be, as dynamic as its communal roots.ĭylans contribution was the, oh, such an extension of the process into his own time, a truism that is so bland and entropic I kind of wish I hadnt said it now. His debut, which I imagine is typically the sixth or so Dylan album people hear these days, comes like an hallucinatory episode during a bout of flu: I mean, fuck, his recording of House of the Rising Sun. The early-days renditions of trad and folk standards were commonly total shwank. Only after getting hold of random and generic Boilerplate Woody Guthrie Compilation did I develop a comparative idea of how totally modern the folk Dylan was and how green he used to be. That I now realise Oh Mercy was an exercise in trying to recapture the complexion of Blind Willie McTell ten times only heightens my contempt for that album.Īlso, there are incrementally fewer songs on each of these volumes, but each discs run-time comes in just over the 75-minute mark. The untainted Dylan, champion of youth, teller of the deluge, Guthrie wannabe, must have known the inevitability, for these very propensities and his times prescribed it: there could be no more Guthries to be like once American capitalism had made devils of fallen union men and took its warfare into the minds of the wretched survivors, stealing the economies, perverting the identities that simultaneously oppressed and radicalised them, til only the young and unlearned remained alive enough to shout their callow freedom There can be no more Ciscos and Sonnys and Leadbellys too when ageing is a sentence in marketplace pragmatism and global crises are something from which finance and euphemism shelter your offspring and no one elses, fuck knows they couldnt possibly be something thats happening to you.īauldie further records speculation as to why Dylan left the song off Infidels.
Lord Protect My Child, of course, is blathering didactic discharge contextualisesd by the disfiguring mole on Dylans soft, velvety cheeks and volume three amounts to a sad document of the man-as-production-lines decline and flirtation with the forfeiture of humanity that tends to reduce punchdrunk celebrity bohemians to serenading their own fucking faith, born again president-style. While parents will always be understandably anxious about their childrens future in the face of increasing global problems and crises, this song implies a strongly held faith that all will be well. As easy as easy, eh What the fuck is this, the learn-to-read-Dylan-songs-with-Bert-and-Ernie episode of Sesame Street.īauldie has need neither to reach for reasons to spod nor talk up the relative runts on volumes one and two, for which he offers interesting and informative background, not blathering didactic discharge like this: Also recorded for but not used on Infidels, Lord Protect My Child is a moving fathers prayer expressing a selfless concern for a childs future in a wicked world.
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