Bob Dylan is my mother's age. While he finger-picked in Greenwich coffee houses, my mother was sitting in at a lunch counter in Lynchburg, VA., trying to get a cup of coffee for her African American sister in the movement. Mom went to jail, then married my dad after she got out, went on to protest the Vietnam war and try to change this world we live in.
I grew up hearing about Dylan. He wasn't God in my house - J.S. Bach was - but I knew my parents' friends worshipped him. All the more reason to ignore him when I hit my teens. I liked Patti Smith, the Talking Heads, the Slits, James White and the Blacks, sometimes the Ramones, always the Stones. Also worshipped George Clinton, and swam in a sea of early hiphop in my days on the Lower East Side, 1980-84. Dan Zanes and the original Del Fuegos were my pals in college. I had no idea why Dylan was so important - his style didn't appeal to me in those days. The myopia of youth.
Watching the PBS documentary last night I was struck by several things. One of them was how much the punky mannerisms of my generation owe to Dylan in 1966 - the twitching, hand flapping, downcast eyes, head thrown back with eyes still looking away, a glance at the audience and then a scowl into the distance. And how much our late 70s shouters owed to his growl.
Another thing I realized, not last night but three years ago at a Tikkun conference in New York just after 9/11, is how Dylan's songs last. We sang "Blowin in the Wind", a congregation of progressive Jews, Christians & Muslims, holding hands at the Society for Ethical Culture, and I wept because the lyrics and the music were so right.
So this morning as I fry onions for my Arab literature class (long story), I put on Dylan's Biograph. "Masters of War" came on and I began weeping. It wasn't just the onions:
Come you masters of war You that build all the guns You that build the death planes You that build the big bombs You that hide behind walls You that hide behind desks I just want you to know I can see through your masksYou that never done nothin'
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it's your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets flyLike Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drainYou fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people's blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mudYou've thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain't worth the blood
That runs in your veinsHow much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I'm young
You might say I'm unlearned
But there's one thing I know
Though I'm younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you doLet me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soulAnd I hope that you die
And your death'll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I'll watch while you're lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I'll stand o'er your grave
'Til I'm sure that you're dead-Bob Dylan
Why, forty years later, do we still have masters of war?
Men and women dying for oil?
Old people drowning for want of a dollar for the levee, while their grandsons ship out to kill "sand niggers"?
Bob Dylan has lit me up this morning. I've had one foot in bourgeois America for the last decade and I am ready to turn my face away. The America I love is under attack from the right. I don't know what I'm going to do but this rag-head half-Arab ain't gonna be a complacent housewife no more.
You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows...