Dylan, Ochs: A Conversation

(Artistic License Taken)

Thursday night I’d anticipated going to the documentary Phil Ochs: There But for Fortune. This edited instant message conversation took place between me and my blogger friend Rawrah (http://rawrahs.blogspot.com/ or see “Links” on this site):

Rawrah: From what I’ve read he hated Dylan. Ochs would torture himself to write and Dylan would simply pull magic out of his ass.

Me: For sure Ochs poked fun at Dylan. In one of his songs (forgot the name) he did it in a self-deprecating way. But I would call Dylan’s lyrics poetry, not magic.

Rawrah: Ochs believed in what he was singing. Dylan rejects the idea of “meaning” in his songs.

ME: Hell, I’ve used that line about my Matt Jacob books. Don’t make it true.

Rawrah: You might bullshit but that doesn’t make Dylan a liar.

ME: Trudat—but I still think he’s doing a throwaway.

Rawrah: Good to be a mind reader, huh?

ME: Asshole. It’s interesting. Dylan is talked about at the music studio. Probably ’cause I bring him up.

Rawrah: About whether he actually knew what he was saying in his songs?

ME: No. Because I say he’s the most important songwriter in our lifetime. The argument is usually about his “musicality.” I’m hit with “He can’t sing and his music is at best rudimentary, if that.” I say the poetry of his lyrics supersedes—but that don’t really fly at a music school.

Rawrah: I think people attribute a lot more depth than is actually displayed.

ME: Thanks, pal.

Rawrah: I read he’d skim a newspaper and dump out three or four songs of lyrics. Or eavesdrop on a conversation then spew out its essence. A savant.

Me: Depends on the definition. Savant means “sage” or, as in “idiot savant–an intellectually disabled person who exhibits extraordinary ability in a highly specialized area, like mathematics or music. Gotta be a stretch to call Dylan intellectually disabled.

Rawrah: Why? Some say most people have “savant” potential but few have the series of experiences to trigger it.

ME: You know, we’re writing my Monday post. You mind?

Rawrah: Feel free.

ME: Thanks. See, what I think when you talk about Ochs’ needing to struggle to write and Dylan “pulling it out of his ass,” is their difference in ability to access the subconscious. Take Robin Williams…

Rawrah: Uh oh.

ME: When he’s on a talk show and somebody says something that clicks you can almost see the door to his subconscious open and out comes a riot. But a crafted riot. So I’m saying that Dylan’s door was more open than Ochs but that Ochs got there anyway and both used craft to hone their message into art.

Rawrah: And isn’t that the real difference between Ochs and Dylan. Ochs had to work to create—to say nothing about living his ideals—and Dylan didn’t.

ME: I probably call that the difference between genius and not. As for living ideals, don’t forget Dylan helped ignite a movement and Ochs ending up killing himself

Rawrah: Now who’s the asshole? I’d say there are truly gifted people and when their particular gift intersects at precisely the right circumstance, what emerges is magic.

“Please… could somebody just go ahead and WikiLeak whatever it is Bob Dylan has been singing for 50 years?” Bauart

Harbingers Of A Boston Spring

Soot-covered snowpiles

City soot covered snow mounds.

Potholes that can be seen before driving into them.

Dirty snow.

Boston University students wearing shorts and tees in 35 degree weather to get a jump on their tan.

Dirty snow.

J.D. Drew complaining about an injury on the second day of spring training.

Dirty snow.

Sue chirping about her first red-winged blackbird.

Dirty snow.

Ten dollar drop in monthly heat bill.

Dirty snow.

Autos stretched around the blocks of car washes.

The expectation of another large snowstorm.

Dirty snow.

AND WHEN SPRING FINALLY ARRIVES:

A month of monsoon rain, meltage, and flooded basements.

“It’s not the load that breaks you down. It’s the way you carry it.” Lena Horne

Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

BEWITCHED

It was mid October 1967, the Wisconsin air chilly, the sun bright.  The long drawn out discussion was over—those who wanted to be arrested inside the commerce building would block the Dow recruiters’ doors and those who didn’t would line its corridors.  Or protest outside.

I quickly realized that any distinction about committing civil disobedience was moot.  We were stuffed inside the building like sardines in a can.  No one could tell who was blocking a door and who wasn’t.

A university rep gave us a chance to leave before police would be called in to clear the building but no one made a move. I guess we thought that, at worse, they would push us outside—if we thought anything at all.

Then the tear gas bombs hit and the sardines, blinded and choking, began pushing and pulling each other in a deteriorating meltdown of rage and confusion.  Facemasks lowered, a phalanx of riot geared cops descended, indiscriminately swinging clubs in every direction.  We were red meat in front of Dobermans. Men, women, it didn’t matter. Blood flew in all directions.

They cleared the building with brute force but as we stumbled into the sun, eyes tearing, coughing, gagging, we saw the enormous swell of the crowd—many of whom had come to watch or were simply going to class but had now joined the ranks of outside protesters appalled by what they had seen.

Hundreds and hundreds were politicized that day including folks who’d never paid any attention to the anti-war movement.  And now actually began to listen.  It was a seminal moment, not only at the University but nationwide as people were stunned by what they had seen on television.

There are those who believe the anti-war movement of the Sixties failed.  From where I sat it was the genesis of long lasting social change: women’s rights, gay rights, poor peoples’ rights, and a vision of a world no longer built on the “survival of the fittest.”

And now, 42 years later I watch Wisconsin’s protesters, relive my memories, my beliefs about our lasting effects, but wonder whether  this year’s Madison augurs well for Amerika’s political direction or a losing stand against the country’s dark march.

BOTHERED

Detroit just announced that it is closing half of its schools and firing one half of its teachers.  Providence, because of “budget” rules, fired all their teachers. Boston’s school superintendent is trying to unilaterally close about half a dozen schools and you can pretty well imagine the neighborhoods she chose.

Health Insurance companies are creating hospital tiers. You want to go to a “good” one, you pay extra.  Virginia’s General Assembly passed legislation requiring abortion offices, clinics, and centers that perform first-trimester abortions to be regulated as hospitals—arguably the strictest requirement in the country.

Texas has committed 466 of the 1,239 state-sanctioned murders (executions) that have taken place in our country since 1975. And it’s Texas, by virtue of population, that designs much of the content of our nation’s social studies textbooks—content decided by a committee that includes a real estate agent and a dentist but no historians or economists. Corey Booker, a mayor I respect, makes it clear in Brick City, a TV documentary series about his administration, that he’ll cut everything possible to keep police and firemen happy.  And a couple of years ago The Boston Globe presented a pie chart that indicated almost 70% of the country didn’t believe in evolution.

I could probably write on forever, but would prefer, love it, if people would fill in their own blanks.

BEWILDERED

It was Wisconsin who voted in this governor.  Who voted out a fairly progressive senator.  Am I really surrounded by seven out of ten people who refuse to incorporate fossil evidence into their world view?  Have we totally given up trying to break the cycle of poverty that causes crimes to simply rely on catching and jailing those who commit them?  I know we’ve turned our backs onany notion of rehabilitation in our prisons.

And yet, and yet, there are people on the street fighting for the right of collective bargaining and unions in general.  People on the street struggling for a woman’s right to choose.  People on the street championing gay marriage and the actualization of “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”  People on the street demanding decent housing and food for the poor and disenfranchised.  Honorable lawyers working every day to keep innocent people of color out of jail.

I’d like to believe.  I hate the idea of doing a lemming into the sea but I smell the salt.  I hope it’s fucking age.

“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” -Robert Frost

Gonzo Nonfiction

In response to my last post, I received an email from a college friend who told me I had come to Madison in 1966, not 1965.  Possible, and I had a momentary thought of tracking down the “factual” date.  I didn’t, but the note got me thinking about my “Just sayin’” posts and what the hell I want them to be.  The first words that came to mind were “creative non-fiction.”  Turns out that’s already a formal term: “Creative nonfiction (also known as literary or narrative nonfiction) is a genre of writing that uses literary styles and techniques to create factually accurate narratives.”

Not what I do.  Sorry.  I’m much less interested in factual accuracy than in making a point or raising questions.

When I wrote Matt Jacob books, I started each one wanting to explore some issue, theme, or personal relationship.  Usually more than one.  During the writing process, those concerns often morphed or changed entirely—but themes, issues, and personal relationships were always my concern and always in the front of my mind.  They are the reason I’m writing again, be it posts, more Matt Jacob books, or different projects entirely.

Ironically, when I was writing “pure” fiction, an enormous number of people and critics accused me of writing fact.  That Matt Jacob was really me, despite clear knowledge they were reading fiction.  Said so right on the cover.  That alone taught me the line between nonfiction and fiction is often quite blurry.  (Particularly when a critic didn’t like what I wrote.  More about this another time.)

Well, I guess I can’t claim that my posts are straight nonfiction.  Nor are they fiction or even creative nonfiction.

That leaves Gonzo. See Hunter Thompson, known as the “creator of gonzo journalism.”

Of course, what I write has little or nothing to do with journalism.  Even in his whacky, drugged-out Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Thompson was covering an event.  But I’m much less interested in any particular event than how it affects me and connects to other people.  Perhaps I should term these posts Ego Nonfiction but I’m gonna just stick with “gonzo.”

Which is why when my cousin’s son Scott comment about “On, Wisconsin!” pleased me.

“Wait, does this mean liberals have occasionally been made, not born? Looking at you and my old man at that time – or what I thought I knew – I could have sworn you guys were just “always that way.” Interesting to read about this turn of events.  And raises questions for the next generation on how we got where we are.”

My story had conveyed the point I was trying to make.  And more importantly, had raised questions in his mind.  Dare I say “mission accomplished?”

But I do promise, if I decide to write anything journalistic, I’ll put a warning in its title and you can count on a fact check.  Maybe.

More to come.