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Ring Them Bells

This is a gem of a Dylan song: not a big, gaudy rock, but a modest yet finely wrought masterpiece.

It was released in 1989 on his album Oh Mercy, so it’s not from any of his early years, during which his work was more consistently revered. The album was produced by Daniel Lanois, and critics are somewhat divided over the success of his efforts in rendering Dylan’s voice and compositions.

I find the original version by Dylan to be pretty underwhelming, but the song came alive for me when I heard it performed by Sarah Jarosz. She recorded it on her second album, Follow Me Down, from 2011, and she’s included it consistently in the several live shows of hers that I’ve seen.

For me the Dylan version seems a bit slow and somnolent, while the Jarosz version feels much more spirited. Partly, I suppose, it’s the difference between the performance of a world-weary man approaching the half-century mark, working on his 26th album, versus a youthful 20-year old working on her second.

Pancho and Lefty

I’ve already written about “Long Black Veil,” which was one one of my father’s favorite songs.

So I’m probably overdue to write about “Pancho and Lefty,” which was one of my father-in-law’s favorites – and one of mine as well.

A bit like “Hallelujah,” by Leonard Cohen, this song seems to have had an interesting life of its own.

It was written by Townes Van Zandt, a legendary Texan singer/songwriter, and first released on his album The Late Great Townes Van Zandt back in 1972.

Neither the song nor the album received a whole lot of attention at the time, let alone any accolades.

Then Emmylou Harris recorded it on her album Luxury Liner in 1977, giving the song a bit more exposure.

And then, finally, Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard recorded it in 1983, and released it as a single, which promptly became a huge hit for the pair. As the story goes, Willie Nelson’s daughter introduced the song to them.

They All Laughed

I first heard this song as part of the soundtrack to a movie with the same name, made by Peter Bogdanovich in 1981. The movie is worth watching, if you like quirky (as I generally do), but it was the song that stuck with me.

This was really my introduction to the songs of George and Ira Gershwin, with George supplying the music, and brother Ira providing the lyrics.

Many of their songs have become recognized as part of the Great American Songbook, but Ira’s lyrics are often too subtle and offbeat to fit cleanly into that mold.

This song, in particular, is one that is less frequently sung. Supposedly playwright and producer George S. Kaufman heard an early rehearsal of the number and wondered whether it was, in fact, a love song at all, before the brothers finally got to the lyric “They laughed at me wanting you,” at which point Kaufman threw up his hands and said, “Oh, well.

When I Paint My Masterpiece

I’ve been reading Rick Rubin’s book The Creative Act: A Way of Being lately – not all at once, mind you, but sipping it slowly, like a rare old whiskey – and it’s put me in mind of this song by Bob Dylan, from 1971.

This composition has been performed and recorded by Dylan himself on multiple occasions, but the first released recording was by The Band, and their original studio recording is still the version I’m partial to.

Let’s just review the lyrics, shall we? Ideally, of course, along with the music.

Oh, the streets of Rome are filled with rubble.
Ancient footprints are everywhere.

Train to Birmingham

Southerner Thomas Wolfe, in his book You Can’t Go Home Again, had his main character speak these words:

You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood … back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame … back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting, but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.

John Hiatt seemed to have had much the same sentiments in mind when he penned his song “Train to Birmingham.”

Several others have recorded this composition, but Hiatt’s own version seems to me to be the definitive rendition.

As the eighth track from the album Dirty Jeans and Mudslide Hymns starts up, note how the rhythm of the drums gives you a seat on the train before Hiatt even opens his mouth.

Whenever Kindness Fails

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about this song by Robert Earl Keen, first recorded by Joe Ely for his Love and Danger album, released in 1992.

It is – be advised – a difficult song, in that the narrator talks about shooting and killing people, and tries to justify his actions.

So before I start sharing my thoughts, perhaps it is best to issue a clarification that no one here is advocating for any kind of gun violence. Heck, I don’t even own a gun.

But it is a great song.

I consider both Joe Ely’s version and the later recording by the songwriter himself to be excellent renditions, so feel free to listen to either, or both.

And now, let’s dive into the words.

I crossed the desert in a dining car,
In the spring of ninety-one.
I met some people drinking at the bar,
They were laughing, having fun.
I told 'em that I hadn’t heard the joke
That was so hilarious.

Shady Grove

This is a traditional Appalachian folk song believed to have originated in eastern Kentucky around the beginning of the 20th century.

The melody seems to have come from the ballad “Matty Groves,” and probably started out in England or Scotland.

If you’re a child of the sixties like me, then your introduction to the song may have come though the electrified adaptation by Quicksilver Messenger Service, but it is more typically performed in acoustic folk, country or bluegrass styles.

One of the features that draws me to this song is its elusive, shape-shifting nature. As in a dream, very specific, concrete images appear and then are replaced with others, leaving the singer/listener/dreamer free to choose the meanings they associate with these word pictures.

This elusive quality begins with the title itself, which sounds like the name or description of a place, and yet is often used in the song as if it were the name of a woman.

I Don't Like Half The Folks I Love

I’ve spent some time lately working my way through The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity, by Davids Graeber and Wengrow. It’s a fascinating book, and a really rewarding read, but it’s also a serious tome, clocking in at over 500 pages of text dense with facts and ideas, so it’s not something I’ve been attempting all at one go.

Anyway, as I was reading the latest chapter last night I came across this surprising observation:

There is an obvious objection to evolutionary models which assume that our strongest social ties are based on close biological kinship: many humans just don’t like their families very much. And this appears to be just as true of present-day hunter-gatherers as anybody else. Many seem to find the prospect of living their entire lives surrounded by close relatives so unpleasant that they will travel very long distances just to get away from them.

The Last Trip to Tulsa

This song has been on my mind a lot lately, so I decided to research and write about it.

It’s certainly an outlier in the Neil Young songbook. It closed out Young’s first, self-titled, solo album, with a running time of close to ten minutes. This was an album my friends and I pretty much wore out in our dorm rooms, listening to it when it first came out, so I’ve been familiar with it for a long time.

A live recording of the song was released in 2008 as part of the Sugar Mountain: Live at Canterbury House 1968 album, and I actually prefer this version. For one, it includes a couple of lines that add to the song, that were missing from the earlier studio recording; for another, Young’s vocals seem purer and less strained in the intimate coffee house setting.

Come On Up to the House

This song was written by Tom Waits, and his performance of the song on his 1999 album Mule Variations is certainly worth hearing. His delivery sounds like that of a down-at-the-heels preacher delivering the holy message at a revival meeting, or perhaps on a street corner, with a Salvation Army style brass band playing in the background. He delivers his sermon with an unarguable power and authority.

My introduction to the song, however, came during the encore performance by Sarah Jarosz at the Tractor Tavern a couple of years ago. I can still remember the looks on the faces of Sarah and her band as they delivered the song to the standing, swaying crowd, seemingly amazed at the depth of feeling and the bond between performer and audience being wrought within the house that night, as all present returned again and again to the chorus with increasing emotional commitment.