A threadful of Dylan lyrics to celebrate his well earned Nobel Prize

[Seagull58]

Best two songs (at the time of writng) Visions of Johanna and Mississippi. Every time I play the latter I don't want it to end. So much passion/compassion/ regret/ tenderness/ honesty/ fallabilty - brilliant tune and performance and then a another couple of great versions on the Bootleg series.

Visions of Johanna is his best piece of writing.

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

 

[DavidinSouthampton]

Got to be joking.

If this is worth a Nobel prize, there is still hope for Sting and Bono.

@pretentioustwats

In terms of poetry, nothing that Sting or Bono has ever written would ever hold a candle to most, if not all of, Dylan's work.

I could have used the word "oeuvre" there, but feared it might be a bit pretentious.

 

[Thunder Bolt]

Not political or anything profound, just a straight up love song, but it is beautiful:

Well, if you’re travelin’ in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine

Well, if you go when the snowflakes storm
When the rivers freeze and summer ends
Please see if she’s wearing a coat so warm
To keep her from the howlin’ winds

Please see for me if her hair hangs long,
If it rolls and flows all down her breast.
Please see for me if her hair hangs long,
That’s the way I remember her best.

I’m a-wonderin’ if she remembers me at all
Many times I’ve often prayed
In the darkness of my night
In the brightness of my day

So if you’re travelin’ in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine

Most of those lyrics are taken from an old English folk song, which was recorded a few years later, by Simon & Garfunkel, with the original words to Scarborough Fair.

 

[spring hall convert]

Pistol shots ring out in the barroom night
Enter Patty Valentine from the upper hall
She sees a bartender in a pool of blood
Cries out my God, they killed them all
Here comes the story of the Hurricane
The man the authorities came to blame
For somethin' that he never done
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world
Three bodies lyin' there does Patty see
And another man named Bello, movin' around mysteriously
I didn't do it, he says, and he throws up his hands
I was only robbin' the register, I hope you understand
I saw them leavin', he says, and he stops
One of us had better call up the cops
And so Patty calls the cops
And they arrive on the scene with their red lights flashin'
In the hot New Jersey night
Meanwhile, far away in another part of town
Rubin Carter and a couple of friends are drivin' around
Number one contender for the middleweight crown
Had no idea what kinda shit was about to go down
When a cop pulled him over to the side of the road
Just like the time before and the time before that
In Paterson that's just the way things go
If you're black you might as well not show up on the street
'Less you want to draw the heat

Alfred Bello had a partner and he had a rap for the cops
Him and Arthur Dexter Bradley were just out prowlin' around
He said, I saw two men runnin' out, they looked like middleweights
They jumped into a white car with out-of-state plates
And Miss Patty Valentine just nodded her head
Cop said, wait a minute, boys, this one's not dead
So they took him to the infirmary
And though this man could hardly see
They told him that he could identify the guilty men
Four in the mornin' and they haul Rubin in
They took him to the hospital and they brought him upstairs
The wounded man looks up through his one dyin' eye
Says, wha'd you bring him in here for? He ain't the guy!
Here's the story of the Hurricane
The man the authorities came to blame
For somethin' that he never done
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world
Four months later, the ghettos are in flame
Rubin's in South America, fightin' for his name
While Arthur Dexter Bradley's still in the robbery game
And the cops are puttin' the screws to him, lookin' for somebody to blame
Remember that murder that happened in a bar
Remember you said you saw the getaway car
You think you'd like to play ball with the law
Think it might-a been that fighter that you saw runnin' that night
Don't forget that you are white
Arthur Dexter Bradley said I'm really not sure
The cops said a poor boy like you could use a break
We got you for the motel job and we're talkin' to your friend Bello
You don't wanta have to go back to jail, be a nice fellow
You'll be doin' society a favor
That sonofabitch is brave and gettin' braver
We want to put his ass in stir
We want to pin this triple murder on him
He ain't no Gentleman Jim
Rubin could take a man out with just one punch
But he never did like to talk about it all that much
It's my work, he'd say, and I do it for pay
And when it's over I'd just as soon go on my way
Up to some paradise
Where the trout streams flow and the air is nice
And ride a horse along a trail
But then they took him to the jailhouse
Where they try to turn a man into a mouse
All of Rubin's cards were marked in advance
The trial was a pig-circus, he never had a chance
The judge made Rubin's witnesses drunkards from the slums
To the white folks who watched he was a revolutionary bum
And to the black folks he was just a crazy ******
No one doubted that he pulled the trigger
And though they could not produce the gun
The D.A. said he was the one who did the deed
And the all-white jury agreed
Rubin Carter was falsely tried
The crime was murder one, guess who testified
Bello and Bradley and they both baldly lied
And the newspapers, they all went along for the ride
How can the life of such a man
Be in the palm of some fool's hand
To see him obviously framed
Couldn't help but make me feel ashamed to live in a land
Where justice is a game
Now all the criminals in their coats and their ties
Are free to drink martinis and watch the sun rise
While Rubin sits like Buddha in a ten-foot cell
An innocent man in a living hell
That's the story of the Hurricane
But it won't be over till they clear his name
And give him back the time he's done
Put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been
The champion of the world

And then followed on the record by the amazing imagery of 'Isis.'

I married Isis on the fifth day of May
But I could not hold on to her very long
So I cut off my hair and I rode straight away
For the wild unknown country where I could not go wrong
I came to a high place of darkness and light
Dividing line ran through the center of town
I hitched up my pony to a post on the right
Went in to a laundry to wash my clothes down
A man in the corner approached me for a match
I knew right away he was not ordinary
He said, are you lookin' for somethin' easy to catch
Said, I got no money, he said, that ain't necessary
We set out that night for the cold in the North
I gave him my blanket, he gave me his word
I said, where are we goin', he said we'd be back by the fourth
I said, that's the best news that I've ever heard
I was thinkin' about turquoise, I was thinkin' about gold
I was thinkin' about diamonds and the world's biggest necklace
As we rode through the canyons, through the devilish cold
I was thinkin' about Isis, how she thought I was so reckless
How she told me that one day we would meet up again
And things would be different the next time we wed
If I only could hang on and just be her friend
I still can't remember all the best things she said
We came to the pyramids all embedded in ice
He said, there's a body I'm tryin' to find
If I carry it out it'll bring a good price
'Twas then that I knew what he had on his mind
The wind it was howlin' and the snow was outrageous
We chopped through the night and we chopped through the dawn
When he died I was hopin' that it wasn't contagious
But I made up my mind that I had to go on
I broke into the tomb, but the casket was empty
There was no jewels, no nothin', I felt I'd been had
When I saw that my partner was just bein' friendly
When I took up his offer I must-a been mad
I picked up his body and I dragged him inside
Threw him down in the hole and I put back the cover
I said a quick prayer and I felt satisfied
Then I rode back to find Isis just to tell her I love her
She was there in the meadow where the creek used to rise
Blinded by sleep and in need of a bed
I came in from the East with the sun in my eyes
I cursed her one time then I rode on ahead
She said, where ya been? I said, no place special
She said, you look different, I said, well, I guess
She said, you been gone, I said, that's only natural
She said, you gonna stay? I said, yeah, I might do
Isis, oh, Isis, you mystical child
What drives me to you is what drives me insane
I still can remember the way that you smiled
On the fifth day of May in the drizzlin' rain

Probably my favourite song to stick on and have a wail to after a few too many shandies.

 

[GT49er]

Most of those lyrics are taken from an old English folk song, which was recorded a few years later, by Simon & Garfunkel, with the original words to Scarborough Fair.

Apart from 'Remember me to one who lives there, she once was a true love of mine', and the word 'Fair', lyrically it bears hardly any resemblance to the original Scarborough Fair.

http://thebards.net/music/lyrics/Scarborough_Faire.shtml

 

[Icy Gull]

Most of those lyrics are taken from an old English folk song, which was recorded a few years later, by Simon & Garfunkel, with the original words to Scarborough Fair.

Nope sorry, apart from talking about a Fair it bears no resemblance to the Simon and Garfunkel Scarborough Fair

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1qaym4_bob-dylan-johnny-cash-girl-from-the-north-country_music

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfy4VVwg0ws

 

[GT49er]

Nope sorry, apart from talking about a Fair it bears no resemblance to the Simon and Garfunkel Scarborough Fair

Plus the couplet 'Remember me to one who lives there, she once was a true love of mine' as per the post before your's. Apart from that, agreed - nothing like Scarborough Fair.

 

[DavidinSouthampton]

Just one verse from a song that was written when I was about 10, and I'm 63 now.

I've put in bold a couple of lines that I have always taken very seriously. I wouldn't ever slate a film I hadn't seen, as some people (not necessarily on here) would. I am not a great fan of either Opera or Ballet for the most part, but (or perhaps so) I would not come on here and slag off stuff that other people might rave about. Even in terms of Rock Music, I am no great fan (in fact quite the opposite) of Queen or Led Zeppelin, but I don't mouth off on here about them at every opportunity.......

........Just sayin'.

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'.

 

[Brovion]

I seriously believe Dylan deserves a Nobel prize and that Those who allocate the prizes have done something long overdue to recognise the importance of "modern" culture.

Bob Dylan has been one of the most influential cultural AND literary figures for over 50 years.

And if thinking this makes me a pretentious ****, I am quite happy to be a pretentious ****.

Actually I think it's the opposite of pretentious, I think it's quite lowbrow. Not that there's anything wrong with that, I'm quite lowbrow myself, but aren't there enough populist awards? Especially for for music and musicians? Personally I feel the Nobel Prize should be 'hard', i.e. for writers who produce dense and impenetrable stuff that is brilliant but almost impossible to read, but gives us something to aspire to.

So I'm disappointed that the Nobel Prize has been 'dumbed down' to bring it to the same level as a Grammy. However as awards are all about opinions I accept that you and others won't share that view. And no I'm not a fan of Dylan, I think his lyrics are mainly doggerel with a bit of 'Sixth Form angst' thrown in. Again just my opinion which I accept you won't share.

However the floodgates are opened now. If they're going to give out Nobel Prizes to lyricists then I hope Ian Anderson gets one. Hell, even Attila's got a chance!

 

[Tyrone Biggums]

Nobel Prize for his lyrics and jail sentence for his voice.

 

[DavidinSouthampton]

Actually I think it's the opposite of pretentious, I think it's quite lowbrow. Not that there's anything wrong with that, I'm quite lowbrow myself, but aren't there enough populist awards? Especially for for music and musicians? Personally I feel the Nobel Prize should be 'hard', i.e. for writers who produce dense and impenetrable stuff that is brilliant but almost impossible to read, but gives us something to aspire to.

So I'm disappointed that the Nobel Prize has been 'dumbed down' to bring it to the same level as a Grammy. However as awards are all about opinions I accept that you and others won't share that view. And no I'm not a fan of Dylan, I think his lyrics are mainly doggerel with a bit of 'Sixth Form angst' thrown in. Again just my opinion which I accept you won't share.

However the floodgates are opened now. If they're going to give out Nobel Prizes to lyricists then I hope Ian Anderson gets one. Hell, even Attila's got a chance!

No, I don't share your view, but I respect the fact that you are at least able and prepared to come up with some cogent reasoning, argument and criticism about it - more of a "let's have a sensible conversation over a pint about it" rather than a "you're just talking cr@p" approach. When I was in the sixth form at school, I can well remember the encouragement towards working out and being able to express why you don't like something, rather than just dismissing it as rubbish. Some people might find that boring, but for me it means I enjoy what I enjoy probably all the more.

On another point, if a novelist produces something hard and impenetrable which is almost impossible to read, is he failing in terms of not communicating. A couple of years ago I bought John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath as something I thought I ought to read but would probably find tough going. I haven't enjoyed a novel as much in a long time. The quality of the writing is just so good.

Anyway, off to the AMEX now.

 

[Sorrel]

He was helped by not publishing much beyond his lyrics. Leonard Cohen, who I think writes much better lyrics than Bob spoils his case by also publishing several other books of poetry and prose. They can't give him the Nobel Prize without first considering the worth of those compared to other published poets.

But Bob got it for the American song tradition. That's the right way of giving the prize and it wouldn't have happened without the more recent "homage" albums that Bob has done since 2001.

I don't think you can separate the words from the performances, though I do think others can do the performances just as well - if not better. As for lyrics, I like this verse from "Cross the Green Mountain" about the American Civil War. I like it because Bob - a keen believer in civil rights all his life - can also see the suffering and humanity on the other side of the war. Like all his songs it really works in performance, not on the page:

Stars fell over Alabama
And I saw each star
You're walking in dreams
Whoever you are
Chilled as the skies
Keen as the frost
And the ground's froze hard
And the morning is lost

 

[midnight_rendezvous]

My favourite Dylan song is 'Don't think twice' but as a stand alone lyrics it's 'I'm leaving tomorrow but I could leave today' from Song to Woody.

 

[Worried Man Blues]

I pounded on a farmhouse
Lookin' for a place to stay
I was mighty, mighty tired
I had gone a long, long way
I said, "Hey, hey, in there
Is there anybody home?"
I was standin' on the steps
Feelin' most alone
Well, out comes a farmer
He must have thought that I was nuts
He immediately looked at me
And stuck a gun into my guts
I fell down
To my bended knees
Saying, "I dig farmers
Don't shoot me, please!"
He cocked his rifle
And began to shout
"Are you that travelin' salesman
That I have heard about?"
I said, "No! No! No!
I'm a doctor and it's true
I'm a clean-cut kid
And I been to college, too"
Then in comes his daughter
Whose name was Rita.
She looked like she stepped out of
La Dolce Vita
I immediately tried to cool it
With her dad
And told him what a
Nice, pretty farm he had
He said, "What do doctors
Know about farms, pray tell?"
I said, "I was born
At the bottom of a wishing well"
Well, by the dirt 'neath my nails
I guess he knew I wouldn't lie
He said "I guess you're tired"
He said it kinda sly
I said, "Yes, ten thousand miles
Today I drove"
He said, "I got a bed for you
Underneath the stove
Just one condition
And you go to sleep right now
That you don't touch my daughter
And in the morning, milk the cow"
I was sleepin' like a rat
When I heard something jerkin'
There stood Rita
Lookin' just like Tony Perkins
She said, "Would you like to take a shower?
I'll show you up to the door"
I said, "Oh, no! no!
I've been through this movie before"
I knew I had to split
But I didn't know how
When she said,
"Would you like to take that shower, now?"
Well, I couldn't leave
Unless the old man chased me out
'Cause I'd already promised
That I'd milk his cows
I had to say something
To strike him very weird
So I yelled
"I like Fidel Castro and his beard"
Rita looked offended
But she got out of the way
As he came charging down the stairs
Sayin', "What's that I heard you say?"
I said, "I like Fidel Castro
I think you heard me right"
And I ducked as he swung
At me with all his might
Rita mumbled something
'Bout her mother on the hill
As his fist had hit the icebox
He said he's going to kill
Me if I don't get out the door
In two seconds flat
"You unpatriotic
Rotten doctor Commie rat"
Well, he threw a Reader's Digest
At my head and I did run
I did a somersault
As I seen him get his gun
And crashed through the window
At a hundred miles an hour
And landed fully blast
In his garden flowers
Rita said, "Come back!"
And he started to load
The sun was comin' up
And I was runnin' down the road
Well, I don't figure I'll be back
There for a spell
Even though Rita moved away
And got a job in a motel
He still waits for me
Constant, on the sly
He wants to turn me in
To the F.B.I.
Me, I romp and stomping
Thankful as I romp
Without freedom of speech
I might be in the swamp

 

[whitelion]

How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, and how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Yes, and how many years can a mountain exist
Before it is washed to the sea?
Yes, and how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, and how many times can a man turn his head
And pretend that he just doesn't see?

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

Yes, and how many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, and how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, and how many deaths will it take 'til he knows
That too many people have died?

The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind.

 

[Albion my Albion]

One young american asked me what this nobel prize thing was about and who is bob dylan. Another thought he was from europe.

 

[Worried Man Blues]

Hey, he'd heard of Europe!

One young american asked me what this nobel prize thing was about and who is bob dylan. Another thought he was from europe.

 

[Bill Cassidy's tie up]

One of my favourites that was played at my brother in laws funeral. I don't think they realised it was 11 minutes long and the funeral overran . It was very emotional though

With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, do they think could bury you?
With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who could they get to carry you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?
With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?
With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?
They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever, ever persuade you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?
With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?
Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you?
Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

 

[Tarpon]

He was helped by not publishing much beyond his lyrics. Leonard Cohen, who I think writes much better lyrics than Bob spoils his case by also publishing several other books of poetry and prose. They can't give him the Nobel Prize without first considering the worth of those compared to other published poets.

But Bob got it for the American song tradition. That's the right way of giving the prize and it wouldn't have happened without the more recent "homage" albums that Bob has done since 2001.

I don't think you can separate the words from the performances, though I do think others can do the performances just as well - if not better. As for lyrics, I like this verse from "Cross the Green Mountain" about the American Civil War. I like it because Bob - a keen believer in civil rights all his life - can also see the suffering and humanity on the other side of the war. Like all his songs it really works in performance, not on the page:

What a great great song that is.
Sadly the epic 8 minute version does not appear to be on YouTube but this edited version is.
Probably in my top 10 Dylan songs.