There is a melody in the background

 

January 17, 2014  (I was 69)

 

There is a melody in the background

a melody you may not hear

but the xylophone notes that float

in thought sound clear

 

There is a tune I hang the word upon

and the word is carried along a drift

from the tones of the vibraphone

serenading the cerebellum

 

It hums a song of balance and dance

It is a presence a pose and a posture

The inspired movements of romance

an equilibrium in which you’re lost

 

There is a consonance of concordant harmony

the incidental music of the mind

we find synchronized and euphonious

waiting for your expression

 

a convergin’

 

from this week of December, 2008  (I was 64)

 

         a convergin’

 

it was just a coupla nights ago

the rhythmic pluck of an ol banjo

comin outta the raydeeo

matched the scratch on the distant track

motion and notion ‘prochin nickedynack

banjo sang train sang and I sang back

Near the end of LIFE

 

from this week of September 29, 1972  (I was 27)

 

         Near the end of LIFE

I’m flipping through the pages of LIFE

listening to a recording of Woody Guthrie

and wondering at the circumstantial evidence

that he fathered Bob Dylan.

 

Bobby was born at the age of twenty-one

(a conception right out of the Old Testament)

That leaves Woody in one place only

(amazing the way the metaphor leads one away…)

 

Anyway, I’m flipping the pages pf LIFE

must have been back in September of ’72,

maybe October, there is a P.O.W.

and his liberated wife.

 

It’s the kind of article I can’t read

I already believe everything I’ve ever heard

about the War.  The War.

The concept is incredible, the War,

 

There are other things in it too,

a European starlet and great ads.

It all sells to the great camping American

and it’s the best satirical review around.

 

Bob Dylan has bad breath

 

from this week in July, 2017 (I was 72)

 

Bob Dylan has bad breath

used to be fresh as a new thought

now as stale as any old man in the park 

Quite some time ago he wrote his mother

to say he still brushed his teeth 

Now she’s gone and he may have stopped 

The newspaper on the bench has an ad for dental implants 

Every old item could use an extraction

stuffed with a wad of newsprint to stop the bleeding

before another toothless song mumbles out

 

Dylan is as Dylan does

 

from this week in June, 1978 (I was 33)

 

                           Dylan is as Dylan does

         Bob Dylan just finished touring Japan and Australia.  From what

I’ve read, he was well received, particularly in Australia where he

featured new arrangements of old works.  Rolling Stone reports he

has three albums ready for summer release (two in Japan) and will be

launching a European tour after completing a seven night warm up in

Los Angeles.  New music is to be introduced on the tour.

         I find all this entirely appropriate.  As much as I’d like to hear

that he had pulled up his Winnebago next to the little bar in Sunol, and

that his crew was unloading equipment, and this guy had been sent by

Dylan himself to tell me to come down the hill for the little show, I think

it good that he has chosen to assert his international stature instead.

People are going to listen to Dylan a hundred years from now, so there’s

no reason they shouldn’t listen to him now.

         I have not heard, however, that he has planned to join the Bill

Graham tour of the Soviet Union.  It is obviously important that he play

there.  Certainly ambassador William G. has thought to annex Robert Z.

for the Moscow connection.  After all, we already know how well Jimmy C.

likes him.

The saxophone

 

March 20,2000  (I was 55)

 

The saxophone

held upright on its stand

could be a lavish pipe fitting

awaiting installation

under the sink of someone rich

Melodious golden plumbing

to be played by breath of water

in cold staccato spurts

or a warm flow of languid notes

that everyone knows

come straight from the eternal river

I’m envious of the facility of fingers on strings

 

from this week in February, 2019  (I was 74)

 

I’m envious of the facility of fingers on strings

to vibrate the air with music

the vision of the artist who perceives the light

in the colors applied to the canvass

the discipline of an athlete who has honed a body

to accommodate the requirements of motion

I admire the sequences of deduction

that narrow the scope of speculation

regarding the possibility of purpose

Life at 33 1/3 rpm

 

February 5 1979  (I was 34)

 

         Life at 33 1/3 rpm

More than three generations now

lives have moved around together

toward the center groove

 

Those three guitars

and those drums have been

augmented supplemented and orchestrated

 

And every five years

different punks set up in garages

to try to scare the neighbors

 

Every ten years

another Eisenhower generation

believes dancing is the answer

Whenever -song

 

January 30, 1977  (I was 32) 

-third verse added 1/8/17

 

         Whenever  -song

Whenever you walk out the door

it’s me that’s gone

I’d cross the line if I knew

the side you’re on

I’m blind, resigned

don’t know what I can do

See too much when I start lookin’

Babe, I been lookin’ at you

 

Whenever I talk to you darlin’

I get told

I’m not talkin’ about the weather

I’m talkin’ cold

I’ve left, deaf

Don’t need the report from you

Hear too much when I start listenin’

a wind blowing nothing new

        

Whenever I remember you

so much I forget

the failure and the pain

the emotional debt

I know I’ve lost touch

With all that I’ve felt

I’m not sure that it matters much

It’s part of the deal to get dealt

How’d they know in that song

 

January 3, 2011  (I was 66) 

 

How’d they know in that song

about the girl next door

When did they feel her satin hair

and see the sunshine in her eyes

 

How’d they know how afraid I was

to speak when she was near

how thrilled to be included

in the panorama of her smile

 

I thought only I imagined the honey

to be kissed from her lips in the moonlight

How can that taste be in the tone of his voice

singing with a sweetness only she can share

 

How could they feel my warm heart

drop into the dark and cold

How in the song did they see me

so quietly so suddenly so old

Blues Song

 

December 12, 1976  (I was 32)

                 

         Blues Song

You know and I know

we both know now

we don’t have time for

the shit comin’ down

 

This day’s goin’

that one’s gone

If we ask how long we’ve been here

we’ve been here too long

 

I see and you see

we don’t see eye to eye

I look at the ground

you look in the sky

 

From that room to this

we don’t even talk

Meeting in the doorway

your touch is a shock

 

This life is goin’

that one is gone

How long have we been here

We been here too long

Exertion –a song

 

September 20, 1976  (I was 31)

 

         Exertion –a song

Ply the oar

with might and main

hammer the tongs

with heart and soul.

Do double duty,

strain every nerve

take pains

 

Work toil strive and strain

take pains

 

Make the pilgrimage

smoke the pipe

Prepare the ground

and watch for rain

Summon with drums

cry the hue

maintain

 

Gasp pant puff and blow

take pains

 

At daggers drawn

risk a neck

face the opinion

and stare daggers down

Bite against the grain

alone and unarmed

take pains

 

Astute artful crafty and shrewd

take pains

If you walk by the fountain

 

from this week of September, 2014  (I was 69)

 

If you walk by the fountain

you will be calmed by its waters

If you walk in the desert

the hot sun will set to cool night

If you drift on the feathered breeze

you will light on the dewy grass

 

This is what the flute says

as you listen alone in dim light

Its notes bring the conscious breath

into plain sight the hum of life

From within her creative being

the musician colors the air

Hirth From Earth/Hirth Martinez

 

August 12, 2005  (I was 60)

 

Hirth From Earth/Hirth Martinez

Warner Bros. BS 2867 released May 1975

         Hirth From Earth is the album I’ve been waiting for, the album I’ve been expecting Harry Nilsson to make ever since Schmilsson.  But Hirth Martinez is not Harry Nilsson –or is he?  Compare the cover photos with those on Nilsson’s Duit On Mon Dei.

         From Earth is a superb album.  Robbie Robertson’s production is a part of the talent operating here, but all the songs were written by Martinez and the resemblances to The Band’s music are fleeting and understated.  There is a large orchestra, fifty musicians, twelve violins, but the orchestration is never overwhelming.  The strings, horns, synthesizers, congas and concertinas appear selectively throughout the program.  This is nicely embellished Roll and Roll, vamping from New Orleans jazz flavors to neo-vaudevillian ballad, and Martinez’s guitar work and vocals are the featured instruments.  Singing stretched postures, he evokes characterizations –at times the rasping madman of the mountains, at other times a Gaspby romantic playboy.  Through it all it’s the persona of Winter Again, that of a recently-aging poet, which seems to be the most personally reflective.

         My wife looked at the pictures and said, “Ah, that’s not Harry Nilsson.”  A friend who visited a few days said, “I played it twice.  I didn’t like it at all.”  So play it more than twice.     

Another Side of Bob Dylan

 

August 2, 2008, 1977  (I was 32)

 

Another Side of Bob Dylan Columbia Records KCS 8993; released Aug. 1964

         This was probably the album that confirmed Dylan’s greatness in my mind.  It was the one that taught me the instrument of Dylan’s voice was part

of the message.  I’ve always heard of the legendary phrasing of Frank Sinatra. 

I never could get it.  I get this.  Dylan’s dramati-comic intonations blow me away.  You pay upright attention to the delivery of these songs.  Their significance lies beyond rejection.  Their truthful beauty is beyond prettiness.  The ears must learn to read past the aural massage.  These images are hung out on the line with the wash, “Tolling for the outcast burning constantly at stake.” if there is nothing new under the sun, then the poet behind the times is the same one running ahead.

         The ambiguous “you” addressed by the narrator in To Ramona creates a personal association with the lyric.  It is here the connotations implicit in Dylan’s voice become important, plaintive and direct connections.  He is able to fire flaming arrows of relationship into moments of my life.  Lines I have listened to thirty or forty times suddenly ignite to illuminate a recent experience or encounter.   

         Dylan also tells stories.  I can’t understand why more people on the Iron Range don’t appreciate his fine art of comic bullshit.  There is a certain idealism, maybe a self-sacrificial purity.  Make no mistake about the contributions this man has made to America’s new poetry.  Can you imagine a recording of Walt Whitman reading from Leaves of Grass with some Civil War soldiers strumming guitar and banjo behind him?  Do not mistake the common product of pop records and disposable art with this man’s work.  The songs on this particular record have sounded through thirteen busy years.  I think they will speak through quite a few more.     

 

Family Music

 

July 17, 2009  (I was 64)

 

         Family Music

Once there was music

a pair of clarinets

in thin harmony and fragile strength

like hope and sunrise

bird call and answer

 

Once were molten golden notes

poured from bell of saxophone

pure liquid substance

permeated every room

like warmth and light

hits everyone around a fire

 

Once a complexity of melody

a galaxy of constellations

sparkled from a flute

to fill the density of heaven

like a continuity of wisdoms

that hold our myths together

 

Once there was music

made by those who could

Now only the percussive hammering

of one who could never hold a beat

An occasional lost echo

haunts a different reality

Song Intention

 

July 12, 2013  Kailua, Kona HI  (I was 68)

        

         Song Intention

The untold tale is the one we

live most fully now you see

beneath the layers of brown leaves

on the surface of memories

The primary consciousness dwells

in our deepest and darkest wells

and it’s echo makes you aware

that your shadow lives down there

 

It’s the untold tale that lurks beyond the light

the unsung song you hum through the night

 

The pulpy tale in the core seed

story essence not the deed

Mute awareness will not part

wrings itself to a cold dry heart

The energy source of our souls

costumes all our minor roles

unknown gems within the story

a subtle glow from the rocky quarry

 

It’s the untold tale that lurks beyond the light

the unsung song you hum through the night

At the Dance At The Land

 

May 28, 1977  (I was 32)

 

At the Dance At The Land

We got lost getting here.

Can you believe wrong roads

Named Woodstock and Altamont Avenue?

Barn hall open-beams, plank floors

Map of The Land tacked to the wall.

This knowledgeable collection of hippies has survived

Without a change of clothes since 1968

And they were here to dance tonight.

After a wine and pistachio stop we wound

Up Moody past Foothill College and down again

A number of times; gas station maps were of no help.

Everybody danced all night long.

The band was hot and we were addicted to bliss.

We were lost until we resolved to keep driving up

Roads we couldn’t believe –narrow hairpins

Moonlight reflections off hills, tunnel through tree shadows.

“Chains,” brought on the floor stomping

And the bass and drums rebounded off the walls

Right through your chest to end the first set with “The Shape I’m In.”

The band left them screaming for more.

imagined lyric for “Hawa Dolo” (Ali Farka Touré)

 

from this week in May, 2016  (I was 71)

 

imagined lyric for  “Hawa Dolo” (Ali Farka Touré)

   …find the song on YouTube and follow along…

 

So wild on the loose, wild on the loose, awhile

a girl on the loose awhile

 

A wild girl you don’t want to know, now on the loose

a runway, the bridge over, gone away

one astray, couldn’t stay, done runway

 

So why did she choose, wild on the loose, ask why

a girl on the loose away

 

The one who, she could run to, we all knew

the one day, she done runway, was to you

She goneway, and we all say, it was you

        

You own what you done that day

We owe what made her runway

Let you run free, not this day

oh me oh my, not this day         

A wild girl, she got lost, on one day

 

We know no excuse forgives

the life that the wild girl lives

but your abuse earns the noose on this day

You’ll hang high and we’ll sway

A wild girl, she was lost, on one day

Air Play

 

from this week in March, 1976  (I was 31)

 

Air Play

sitting in the studio longing

egg cartons stapled to the ceiling

listening to the tapes again

damning the fidelity

praying for air play

everybody’s gotta have air play

all we really need is air play

 

Diving from planes like bombs

We had to have a note from our moms

saying it was alright

she gave her permission

for us to have air play

air play air play

How can you open your chute

if you don’t have air play

 

Maybe the mikes are weak

but the voice is cutting

even on the tapes

through all this smoke

you can hear it it’s there

Programmer give us air play

air play air play

We deserve and demand air play

Who gives you the air play