You Cannot Beat Dylan...

[Madame Pandora]

The man is a poet, no...he is THE poet. And as long as there is breath in his body, he is the coolest thing that walks the Earth.

Yeah yeah yeah...IMHO, whatever.

Dispute this:

SAD EYED LADY OF THE LOWLANDS
Music & Lyrics By: Bob Dylan

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, who among them 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 among them do they think could 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 leave 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 leave 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?

 

[Mistress]

Love Dylan

 

[DarlingBri]

I love Dylan...

...on paper. Problem is, when he opens his mouth, I can't understand a fucking thing out of it.

 

[Mistress]

Cracks up laughing! thats understandable, my baby sister Mal use to do a good impression of him without trying to. She was about 4 years old then, and of course, we all know how kids talk. She would go about the house saying, "Trees, flyin' in d'air..flyin' in d'air."
My dad would roll and swear she sounded like him, and she did lol..it was cute.

 

[Cyan BloodsBane]

Who



?????

 

[Ezzy]

Dylan a great poet and a great...

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.




Dylan

 

[Laurel]

I think Edie Sedgewick would disagree, and so would Andy Warhol - if either were alive. He fucked up their relationship right proper.

 

[Starfish]

It's alright, Ma


Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows even the silver spoon
The hand made blade, the childs ballon
Eclipses both the sun and moon
To understand you'll know to soon
There is no sence in crying


Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool's gold mouthpiece
The hollow horn plays wasted words
That prove to warn
That he not busy being born
Is busy dying


Temptaion's page flies out the door
You follow, find your self at war
Watch waterfalls of pity roar
You feel to moan but unlike before
You discover
That you'd just be
One more person crying


So don't fear if you hear
A foreign sound to your ear
It's alright Ma, I'm only sighing


As some warn victory, some downfall
Private reasons great or small
Can be seen in the eyes of those that call
To make all that should be killed to crawl
While others say don't hate nothing at all
Except hatred


Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Made everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh colored Christs that glow in the dark
It's easy to see without looking to far
That not much
Is really sacred


While preachers preach of evil fates
Teachers teach that knowledge waits
Can lead to hundred dollar plates
Goodness hides behind it's gates
But even the president of the United States
Sometime must have
To stand naked


And though the rules of the road have been lodged
It's only people's games that you got to dodge
And It's alright Ma, i can make it.


Advertising signs that con you
Into thinking you're the one
That can do what's never been done
That can win what's never been won
Meantime life outside goes on
All around you


You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand with nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ear to hear
That sombody thinks
They've really found you


A Questiion in your nerves is lit
Yet you know there is no answer fit to satisfy
Insure you not to quit
To keep it in your mind and not forget
That it is not he or she or them or it
That you belong to


Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing Ma, to live up to


For them that must obey authority
That they do not respect in any degree
Who despise their jobs, they're dignities
Speak jealously of them that are free
Cultivate their flowers to be
Nothing more than something
They invest in


While some on principles some baptized
To strict party platform ties
Social club in drag disguise
Outsiders they freely criticize
Tell nothing except who to idolize
And then say God bless him


While one who sings with his tongue on fire
Gargles in the rat race choir
Bent out of shape from society's pliers
Cares not to come up any higher
But rather get you down in the whole
That he's in


But I mean no harm nor put fault
On anyone who lives in a vault
But it's alright Ma, if I can't please him


Old lady judges watch people in pairs
Limited in sex, they dare
To push fake morals, insult and stare
While money doesn't talk, it stares
Obscenity, who really cares
Propaganda, all is phoney


While them that defend what they cannot see
With killer's pride, security
It blow the minds most bitterly
For them that think death's honesty
Won't fall upon them naturally
Life sometimes
Must get lonely


My eyes collide head on with stuffed graveyards
False gods, I scuff
At pettiness which plays so rough
Walks upside down inside handcuffs
Kick my legs to crash it off
Say okay, I have had enough
What else can you show me?


Ane if my thought-dreams could be seen
They'd probably put my head in a guillotine
But it's alright, Ma, it's life and life only

~B. Dylan

 

[RonG]

Dylan is The Reader's Digest Condensed Guide to the sixties generation. Great promise and ideas squandered away with a lack of discipline and character. He definitely wrote some powerful lyrics but I always wonder "What If . . ." had he not spent so much time on dope.

They did a great job of masking over the coke stuck to his upper lip in "The Last Waltz"

 

[cymbidia]

Odds and Ends

Dylan is The Reader's Digest Condensed Guide to the sixties generation. Great promise and ideas squandered away with a lack of discipline and character. He definitely wrote some powerful lyrics but I always wonder "What If . . ." had he not spent so much time on dope.

And what if his being so stoned so often allowed the expression of his creativity? "What if's" are pointless. What isn't disputable is that Life Magazine named him one of the 100 most important Americans of the 20th Century.

When i was still in Brownies, my mom came home with a copy of his first album and made me listen to it. She told me it was going to change music forever. My mom, the complete antithesis of the mother in Almost Famous, was more right than either of us knew.


I plan it all and I take my place
You break your promise all over the place
You promised to love me, but what do I see
Just you comin' and spillin' juice over me
Odds and ends, odds and ends
Lost time is not found again

Now, you take your file and you bend my head
I never can remember anything that you said
You promised to love me, but what do I know
You're always spillin' juice on me like you got someplace to go
Odds and ends, odds and ends
Lost time is not found again

Now, I've had enough, my box is clean
You know what I'm sayin' and you know what I mean
From now on you'd best get on someone else
While you're doin' it, keep that juice to yourself
Odds and ends, odds and ends
Lost time is not found again
-Bob Dylan, 1975

 

[CelestialBody]

Sure you can!!!

 

[Madame Pandora]

Okay...

I like Depeche Mode just fine. Are you REALLY comparing them to Dylan, or just trying to whip me into a frenzy so that I go harass a few employees for agressions they didn't inspire?

MP

 

[CelestialBody]

Nah-no comparison.

 

[KillerMuffin]

Poetry is subjective MP darlin. I don't particularly care for Dylan. I can beat him, I have a stick. I liked that freak Jim Morrison's stuff better than Dylan. Though when it comes down to it, it's very hard for poetry to move me, or lyrics that pass as poetry, without the music to go along with it.

Dylan doesn't touch me.

 

[KillerMuffin]

I like this one:

What's left inside him ? Don't he remember us ?
Can't he believe me ? We seemed like brothers.
Talked for hours last month,about what we
wanna be.I sit now with his hand in mine,
but I know he can't feel...
No one knows,what's done is done,it's
as if he were dead.
I'm close with his mother,and she cries end-
lessly.Lord how we miss him,at least what's
remembered.It's so important to make best
friends in life,but it's hard when my friend
sits with blank expressions
No one knows,what's done is done,it's
as if he were dead.
He as hollow as I alone,now.
He as hollow as I alone,a shell of my friend
just flesh and bone,there's no soul,he sees
no love.I shake my fists at skys above.
Mad at God.
He as hollow as I converse,I wish he'd
waken from this curse,hear my words
before it's through.I want to come in
after you
My best friend
He as hollow as I alone.

 

[Madame Pandora]

Poetry is subjective MP darlin.

Next you'll tell me there's no Easter Bunny.

MP

 

[KillerMuffin]

It's an Easter Exotic Dancer! Just ask my dad.

The Horse Latitudes

When the still sea conspires an armor
And her sullen and aborted
Currents breed tiny monsters,
True sailing is dead
Awkward instant
And the first animal is jettisoned,
Legs furiously pumping
Their stiff green gallop,
And head bob up
Poise
Delicate
Pause
Consent
In mute nostril agony
Carefully refined
And sealed over

 

[Madame Pandora]

It's an Easter Exotic Dancer!

ROFLMAO! I've GOT to get by YOUR neighborhood shopping mall....

MP

 

[Purple Haze]

DYLAN RULES!

Mostly because he made the Beatles better songwriters, and in turn made everybody else better songwriters. By showing that popular music can be more than songs about the Twist or girls named Donna, a musical renaissance, so-to-speak, flourished where he and others used music to take a stand, or to point out the unobvious. His voice is irritating to some, but so is being told there's a booger on your face. I prefer his redition of "Tambourine Man" to the Byrds', but I so love the Byrds for their taste in songwriters.

Rap music from 1965:

SUBTERRANEAN HOMESICK BLUES

Johnny's in the basement
Mixing up the medicine
I'm on the pavement
Thinking about the government
The man in the trench coat
Badge out, laid off
Says he's got a bad cough
Wants to get it paid off
Look out kid
It's somethin' you did
God knows when
But you're doin' it again
You better duck down the alley way
Lookin' for a new friend
The man in the coon-skin cap
In the big pen
Wants eleven dollar bills
You only got ten

Maggie comes fleet foot
Face full of black soot
Talkin' that the heat put
Plants in the bed but
The phone's tapped anyway
Maggie says that many say
They must bust in early May
Orders from the D. A.
Look out kid
Don't matter what you did
Walk on your tip toes
Don't try "No Doz"
Better stay away from those
That carry around a fire hose
Keep a clean nose
Watch the plain clothes
You don't need a weather man
To know which way the wind blows

Get sick, get well
Hang around a ink well
Ring bell, hard to tell
If anything is goin' to sell
Try hard, get barred
Get back, write braille
Get jailed, jump bail
Join the army, if you fail
Look out kid
You're gonna get hit
But users, cheaters
Six-time losers
Hang around the theaters
Girl by the whirlpool
Lookin' for a new fool
Don't follow leaders
Watch the parkin' meters

Ah get born, keep warm
Short pants, romance, learn to dance
Get dressed, get blessed
Try to be a success
Please her, please him, buy gifts
Don't steal, don't lift
Twenty years of schoolin'
And they put you on the day shift
Look out kid
They keep it all hid
Better jump down a manhole
Light yourself a candle
Don't wear sandals
Try to avoid the scandals
Don't wanna be a bum
You better chew gum
The pump don't work
'Cause the vandals took the handles

 

[RonG]

Bob's art is art, and I don't believe his drug use (real, imagined, or exaggerated) had anything to do with it. To say that his talent has been squandered through a lack of discipline floors me. Please cite examples.

The number one characteristic of Bob's music over the course of his career has been honesty, number two has been humanity.

I am sorry for offending so many. Yes, I believe Bob Dylan wrote several great songs/poems. But to be fair, periods of his career (post Blood on The Tracks, including the "Born Again" period and stuff up to Jokerman) would pale in comparison to the brilliance of "A Hard Rain's A'Gonna Fall" (Punctuation?) or "My Back Pages". So, yes I love lots of his work but it is debatable if his dry periods creativity-wise were just the sort of thing lots of artists go through or if his penchant for mood alteration was involved. The man is brilliant, no doubt. Just he did ebb and flow.

And I wrote my original note far too quickly this morning at 0500 without adequate exposition. No more early mornings for me.

 

[Madame Pandora]

Ron,

I don't think what you said was offensive...I just wonder...

What does it say about a man's level of artistry when you can only weigh his lows against his own peaks?

Sure he had dry spells and failed experiments. I bet Michelangelo had a few sculptures that just sucked all to hell from time to time.

I'm not saying that Dylan is God...(well, not in this thread anyway) all I'm saying is that to me, no one touches him. He is top of the lyricist food chain and #2 - whoever it may be (and I guess that's a whole other debate) is a big rung down.

This is a man who said to John Lennon "I like your music, but your songs don't say anything." Fuck. Who else has got that on their resume?

He’s a bard and he hit hard, hit high, and hit often. This thread appeared because I finally found Sad-Eyed Lady on Napster and I was jazzed. I’m weird that way.

Music (like poetry) is just what KM said – largely a matter of perspective. You can't get an F on a question that asks your opinion. LOL.

MP

 

[Mensa]

Oh! I don't know about that

Get me a stick and I'll prove you wrong!

 

[Svedish_Chef]

Re: Sure you can!!!

I think Brandon is hotter! Oh wait, you weren't talking about 90210. Damn Aaron Spelling anyway. (I should leave before MP pulls out the machete.) My fav lines are from a Depeche Mode song, remade by Veruca Salt.

OK you better tell me which song that was before I shoot myself.

 

[CelestialBody]

Somebody

 

[CRaZy]

My god!!! I don't believe it. I just saw Bob in concert last night. The man is an icon. Raw emotion even if the voice is a little jaded. The man defined lyrical poetry for three generations. In MVHO The Boss is the only other singer/songwriter who comes close. A stadium full of people giving a standing ovation speaks for itself. Aussies aren't given over to the whole emotional encore, standing ovation thing - usually it's rather uncertain and half-hearted. Not last night though. In concert he sings different melodies. Who cares? The words are what matter and they don't change.