“It’s the price of oil, the war for the spoils, where’s your bucket for the big bailout? Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, we got a lot to drink about…”

Forgive my unlicensed quoting of a Jimmy Buffett song (for an intelligentsia-marketed publication no less), but it seems to me that today is a great day to develop some alcoholism. Now, I don’t mean to mock anyone with a serious problem (get some help?), but a recovering alcoholic got us into this mess. Shouldn’t our law-professor generalissimo be able to realize that maybe voicing withdrawal plans that are as intelligible as a monophonic recording of Bob Dylan singing the Tax Code in hurricane-force winds might not be the best strategy to adopt? That may be a bit harsh, but I should like to think that Il Duce is smart enough to experience a little déjà vu when he hears his withdrawal plan float out past that mole-colored mole on his lip. And I’m not likening Obama-fo-yo-Mama to Mussolini, but all of this plebeian pandering is reminiscent of the 30s in Europe, ain’t it?

It occurs to me (your local card-carrying GOP-er) that the withdrawal plan el Presidente has been handed to read to the public is strikingly similar to dear-old-W’s “wait-and-see” approach that had Hillary (this is actually her plan donchaknow) and Her Hell-kittens in a hullaballoo not too long ago.  Just don’t let anyone named scaevola (Latin, look it up) know that, holy shit, there are similarities between our two indelible parties.

“What if we’re wrong”, I question myself, “what if we just happen to be overreacting to the health-care debate?” That’s possible, but what’s also possible is that I’m still disgusted with the rabidity that Obama-disciples display; don’t let’s criticize the Phrenologist-in-chief, “he’s won a peace prize” (don’t worry, no “piece” puns here); “he’s ‘fixed’ the economy” (my collie is wincing).  Bullshit, he’s just as little as Clinton ever did, except Obama has a Senate in his favor, in HIS FAVOR!

By the by, the economy still isn’t fixed, but it’ll be worsened by spending ourselves deeper into Chinese debt. We can’t fix healthcare with a public option and it’s very foolish for Liberals to compare it to the VA. There won’t be an up-swell in new industry by placing increasingly devious barriers to job-growth. There won’t be any major success in Iraq and Afghanistan until either of those nations decides it wants success and the citizenry actively seeks to extirpate the fascist-fundamentalist coalition which has hijacked the same faith which sponsored Battuta’s journeys to China. I used to be an optimist, you know.

The fact is that the Change-Meister-in-chief has failed to bring his “change.” Don’t get me wrong, everyone in Washington politics needs to be taken out for an afternoon of electroshock, but it starts at the top.  I know it’s a tired line, but the hype generated by our President was obviously better suited for campaigning than leading.  I mean, anyone could get elected with that kind of plebiscitary doling.

Headlines are punchlines folks and there’s not much we can do about it, except pour shots and bitch until someone comes along worth supporting. We’ve got a lot to drink about…

A Review of Bob Dylan’s bootleg release Tell-Tale Signs

By Evan Lisull

If Bob Dylan isn’t the Goethe of America, he’s certainly a contender. As is befitting such a figure, who Bob Dylan is — what he stands for, what his songs mean, what his presence means about his country — will never be definitively decided. Dylanophiles will debate his various manifestations long after his death, but from an outsider’s standpoint there are two main Dylans of consideration. The first is Young Dylan, our sleepy-eyed, folk hero of Greenwich Village, protest singer and mellifluous whine of the Hippie Movement. This Dylan died a twin death in 1966– once, on stage in Manchester, with a simple order (”Play it fuckin’ loud!”); again, in a motorcycle accident, outside of Woodstock, New York.

The second Dylan was a bit of surprise, emerging long after Jimi had choked and Joplin had overdosed, an itinerant whose mind was out of his time, a bluesman in an era of Madonna and novus ordo seclorum. Yet this is the Dylan who has lived with us today, and it is the Dylan who is featured in the latest release from the seemingly endless bootleg series.

Tell-Tale Signs is the eighth volume in this series, and, by and large, it is a scam designed to bilk Dylan fans and their IRAs for one last dime. This release is particularly egregious – while the list price for the two-disc set is $18.99, to get the three-disc version (along with a hardcover book) you must pay $129.99. Yet in spite of this, Tell-Tale Signs (the two disc set, anyways) is full of insights into Dylan’s creative process; even better, the CDs are filled with damn good songs. Cliche though it may be, Dylan’s back catalogue is superior to almost everyone else’s singles.

Some of his finer moments emerge in some of the purest blues that the man has ever released. His
original tribute, “High Water (For Charley Patton),” falls somewhere between George Thorogood and late Led Zeppelin; yet the playful voice games the resurrected bluesman plays, teasing falsetto before giving his best Tom Waits, outdo the guitar on this one. Dylan is not above a good cover (nor should he be), and this collection contains a version of Robert Johnson’s classic “32-20 Blues” (although Johnson is still the better guitarist). There is also a rendition of “Cocaine Blues”, which he rasps out all too convincingly; for a man who never (openly) struggled with the drug, he sure plays the part.

We also are allowed to imagine what might have been, as the CDs feature songs cut from the final version of famous albums or versions that were nixed for different takes. The alternative version of “Ain’t Talking”, for example, is a far more structured version than the chosen closer on Modern Times, and would have served far more effectively as a single. However, what it makes up for in cohesiveness it lacks in mysteriousness — by adding the fleeting plucking of an acoustic guitar, and a thirty second instrumental, the closing number becomes that much darker, that much more of a condemnation of, well, modern times. On the other hand, it is incredible that “Red River Shore” did not make the cut for Time Out of Mind — it represents some of the best of the newly lo-fi Dylan, a simple Southern ditty infused with the profound sense of wistfulness that pervades his slower numbers.

But the crux of the release revolves around the song “Mississippi.” A single from the 2001 release “Love and Theft”, the song is perhaps the epitome of the so-called “roots rock” that was used intermittently to describe Dylan’s last few albums. Both CDs lead off with a version of the song, and there can be no doubt that the forces that be have determined this to be perhaps the defining moment in Dylan’s closing epoch.

And it is here that we see the all-to-important transition that Dylan went through. Going back to the Tale of Two Dylans, it becomes apparent that the two-part story is incomplete — for the Young Dylan passed in ‘66, and the old Dylan was born (depending on who you ask) circa 1989. In between is what you might call the “Electric Dylan”, a Dylan full of torment and uncertainty, stuck between the end of utopianism and the wisdom of his old age. And while something can be said for “Hurricane”, there is something to said against the polished shlock of Down in the Groove (1989).

Both versions of “Mississippi” stand against this. The first version is about as low-fi as they come: a simple, piano guitar and a barely noticeable beat are both dwarfed by Dylan’s murmuring growl. He sings the tune in a solemn tone, as one might sing a hymn to oneself. The irony here is rich; for it is only after his “gospel years”, filled with soulless music, that he is able to express a religiosity in his music.

The second version, while not as sharp a contrast, brings out the sheer power of Dylan’s voice. Here, he lets his freak voice fly, and the growl takes on a sinister tone — you can practically see him sneering into the studio microphone, the upbeat backing jangle be damned. And while we have come to take this Dylan for granted, Tell-Tale Signs helps to remind us that it wasn’t always so.

Instead of Tell-Tale Signs, perhaps this volume should instead be entitled Highway 61 Re-Revisited. Yet this is not to imply that Dylan is simply rehashing his former glory; as one line in Mississippi’s last verse goes, “You can always come back, but you can’t come back all the way.” Dylan may have once gotten off the legendary interstate that serves as the backbone of American music; but as the nation’s muse knocks on Heaven’s door, it is refreshing to see that he has finally found his way back home, and that he is stronger for it.

Tracks from Tell-Tale Signs can be found online at npr.org.