THE UNTOLD STORY

January 16, 2021

“For Dave Glover” by Bob Dylan, 1963

Dave Glover:
“[Dylan] said, well, they called me up and they wanted something for the Newport Book, and they needed it like in a week, and I didn’t have it. I said, well, I don’t have anything. And they said, well, anything, have you got anything laying around, is there anything you started? He said, well, I got this letter I was writing to a friend of mine. And they said, well, great. So, actually about the first two lines of that are actually a letter to me as this pretext for writing this sort of recapitulation about where he is, and what he’s doing, and what he’s been up to. That was cool. I didn’t mind. It was okay. It was kind of weird.”

Yuh ask in the last letter how come I aint wrote lately

Yuh say that writin t me’s like blowin words at a stone wall

Yuh ask in a quiet way if I changed my ways so hard that I don remember old friends

Yuh even ask if I’m mad at yuh for somethin

An with each letter sent yuh never got a one back

An I know how yuh mus’ feel

Dave Glover—harmonica sidekick an guitar pardner

Dave Glover—best friend in the highest form

Dave Glover—true rebel an unconscious outlaw

Dave Glover—ramblin do-gooder a the best breed

Dave Glover—who knew me before I hit or got hit by New York City

Dave Glover—who’s everythin I stand for or am a part of

An I don even answer a letter from ‘m

I don even answer one little lousey letter

An I ask m’self am I crazy

This is Dave writin t you, man

This is somebody you love

We used t drink cough medicine bottles a vodka t'gether

We used t stay up all nite laughin and singin

And we did that when there weren’t too many people doin it

Hey man—I’m sorry— // I mean I’m really sorry

I wrote many lines in the past few years but there ain’t no letters in none a the words t spell out how sorry I am

It’s a complicated day

I keep rememberin the songs we used t sing an play

The songs written thirty fifty years ago

The dirt farm songs - the dust bowl songs

The depression songs - the down and out songs

The ol blues and ballads

I think a Woody’s songs

I think a Woody’s day

“This land I’ll defend with my life if it be"

An I say t myself "Yeah that’s right"

"Hitler’s on the march"

"I don’t wan’’m takin my ground"

"I don’t wan’’m livin on my land"

An I see two sides man

I see two roads to pick yer route

The American way or the Fascist way

When there was a strike there’s only two kind of views

An two kinds of tales t tell the news

Thru the unions eyes or thru the bosses eyes

An yuh could stand on a line an look at yer friends

An stand on that same line an see yer foes

It was that easy

"Which Side’re You On” ain’t phony words

An they ain’t from a phony song

An that was Woody’s day man

Two sides

I don know what happened cause I wasn’t aroun but somewhere along the line a that used t be day things got messed up

More kinds a sides come int’ the story

Folks I guess started switchin sides an makin up their own sides

There got t be so many sides that no eyes could could see the eyes facin'm

There got t be so many sides that all of’m started lookin’ like each other

I don pretend to know what happened man, but somehow all sides lost their purpose an folks forgot about other folks

I mean they must a all started goin against each other not for the good a their side but for the good a jes their own selves

An them two simple sides that was so easy t tell apart bashed an boomed an exploded so hard an heavy that t'day all'ts left and made for us is the one big rockin rollin

COMPLICATED CIRCLE

Nowadays folk’s brains’re bamboozled an bowled over by categories
labels an slogans an advertisements that could send anybody’s
head in a spin
It’s hard t believe anybody’s tellin the truth for what that is
I swear it’s true that in some parts a the country folks believe the
finger-pointers more'n the President
It’s the time a the flag wavin shotgun carryin John Birchers
It’s the time a the killer dogs an killer sprays
It’s the time a the billboard sign super flyin highways
It’s the time a the pushbutton foods an five minute fads
It’s the time a the white collar shirt an the white sheeted hood and the
white man’s sun tan lotion
It’s time a guns and grenades an bombs bigger'n any time’s ever seen
It’s the time a Liz Taylor fans - sports fans and electric fans
It’s the time when a twenty year ol colored boy with his head bloody
don get too much thought from the seventy year ol senator who
wants t bomb Cuba
I don’t know who the people were man that let it get this way but they
got what they wanted out a their lives an left me an you facin a
scared raped world
They frained the free thinkin air an left us with a mental institution
circle
They rotted the poor wind and left us mixed up mislead
puny breeze
They stole Abraham Lincoln’s road an sold us Bill Moore’s highway
They shot down trees - buried the leaves an nailed “Profess” t the
gravestone
They damned up the clear runnin river of “Love thy neighbor”
said by Jesus Christ a Bethlehem an poluted us with “I’ll guard”
“the school with my body” said by governor Wallace of
Alabama
They robbed the Constitution of the land an snuck in the censors of
the mind
They bought up everythin at the auction an left us with a garbage
market a fools an fears an frustratin phoniness
Yuh ask how I’m doin Dave
I’m still singin - I’m still writin
I’m still doin all a things I used to do I guess
But the difference is probably that now I really ain’t thinkin
about what I’m doing no more
I do worry no more bout the covered up lies and twisted truth in front
a my eyes
I don worry no more bout the no-talent criticizers an know-nothin
philosophizers
I don worry no more bout the cross-legged corner sitters who try an
make rules for the ones travelin in the middle a the room
I’m singin an writin what’s on my own mind now
What’s in my own head and what’s in my own heart
I’m singin for me an a million other me’s that’ve been forced t'gether
by the same feelinNot by no kind a side
Not by no kind a category
People hung up and strung out
People frustrated an corked in an bottled up
People on no special form or field - age limit or class
I can’t sing “Red Apple juice” no more
I gotta sing “masters a War”
I can’t sing “Little Maggie” with a clear head
I gotta sing “Seven Curses” instead
I can’t sing “John Henry”
I gotta sing “Hollis Brown”
I can’t Sing “John Johannah” cause it’s his story an his people’s story
I gotta sing “With God On My Side” cause it’s my story an my
people’s
I can’t sing “The Girl I Left Behind” cause I know what it’s like
to do it
I gotta sing “Boots a Spanish Leather” cause I know what’s like
to live it
But don’t get me wrong now
Don think I go way out a my way not t sing no folk songs
That ain’t it at all
The folk songs showed me the way
They showed me that songs can say somethin human
Without “Barbara Allen” there’d be no “Girl From The North Country”
Without no “Lone Green Valley” there’d be no “Don’t Think Twice”
Without no “Jesse James” there’d be no “Davy Moore”
Without no “Twenty one Years” there’d be no “Walls a Red Wing”
Hell no
Them ol songs’re the only kinda picture left t show the new born
how it used t be in them times
Them ol songs tell us what they had t run thru or walk thru or
dance thru
The ol songs tell how they loved an how they kissed
They tell us what they rejected and objected to
They laid it down an made the path
They were simple an told the story straight
They said who they fought an what they fought for an with what they fought with
An who they fought against
Now’s a complicated day
An all I’m sayin’ is'at I gotta make my own statement bout this day
I gotta write my own feelins down the same way they did it before me in that used t be day
An I got nothin but homage an holy thinkin for the ol songs and stories
But now there’s me an you
An I’m doin what I’m doin for me
An I’m doin what I’m doin for you
I’m writin an singin for me
An I’m writin an singin for you
I’m writin an singin for me cause I’m human an I’m breathin
In a world that was made for me
I’m writin an singin for you cause yer a part a me an everythin I
stand for
I don know why I aint written t yuh
maybe cause I never write letters t'myself
yeah maybe that’s why
See yuh when I get there
yer friend
Bob Dylan

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42 notes

January 16, 2021

seanhowe:

Extremely rare Bob Dylan work, from the 1965 Newport program.

OFF THE TOP OF MY HEAD
By Bob Dylan
All right, then—next on the pole was Horseman and his friend Photochick. Photochick is wearing a Hoover button in her mouth and this keeps her lips together.
Horseman was first up the pole and he’s shouting back, “Hurry up, Photochick. Get up here.” But then his pants fall down. Photochick, blinded, reaches for her banjo and Horseman screams, “What are you doing? Get rid of that thing. Hurry. God, the cops are coming!”
Photochick snarls, “Don’t call me no God,” and she stars in a’singing “Coming through the rye, coming through the rye, oh yeah, baby-o, we all just coming through the rye.” Horseman gives her a kick in the mouth and her lips pry open and she stops her singing. “Now get the hell up this pole” Horseman sighs, vomits and looks out toward the slums… “Good God, there’s a thousand angry plumbers all in chrome suits. They’ve smashed the gates.” Photochick, she squints. Horseman looks down. His face is dirty. “Didja hear me? Stop squinting! Didja hear me?”
“The sun’s hot. I’m getting down off this pole” says Photochick. Meanwhile, back at the kazoo factory, Prez is walking back and forth dictating a letter. “Yes, I want the holes much bigger in these kazoos. I also want them cut sharper and to kind of pinch the tongue a little. I want a higher pitch, perhaps like a girl screaming. Also in the ads, I want to see a young hunchback. Perhaps with his nose broken. I want to see him sitting. Oh, I’d say, in front of a swamp with lots of mosquitoes. I want to see more of a poverty - type mood in the displays, also.”
SCREAM from the closet. “Who’s in there?” says the Prez. “Could you check on that, please, Miss Flunk.” Miss Flunk opens the closet. Tattler, the errand boy, falls out. His arm tied behind is back. His shoes gone. “What’s the matter there boy! Speak up! I’ll have you demolished!” says Prez. “Sorry sir. The dikes have broken down. They’re beating everybody up and putting them in the closets! Oh my Gawaud” says the Prez. “When? When has all this happened? Where are they finding all the closets? There aren’t enough closets! Oh my Gawaud! What’ll my wife say? Miss Flunk! Cancel my appointments for today. Order me my lunch?”
Miss Flunk slowly puts down her pen. Shuffles up to the Prez. Punches him in the gut and heaves him into the encyclopedias. “What! What’s happening here! What, dear Gawaud, is happening here?” Prez, in a gust of anguish. "Get your hands behind your back, you fat fiend!“ says Miss Flunk. “You’re going into the closet.”
BAP and the Prez lands in the closet. Tattler escapes out an air - vent. Miss Flunk take a bottle of ink and stars to polish her muscles. It begins to rain…
Meanwhile, back at the pole, Horseman is shouting, “Don’t get down Photochick! I want you! I need you! I love you!” Photochick shouting back, “The sun’s in my eyes! I can’t do a thing with it! I fear my banjo is missing.” The plumbers arrive. They take off their chrome suits. “What you guys want?” says Horseman. “We want you to ask each one of us for our autographs.” says the chief plumber, who used to be one helluva banjo player himself and now spends his free time propositioning old ladies down on Highway 90. “That’s what we want you to do.”
“Nonsense!” says Horseman. “Just a minute.” says Photochick. “Hold it just a minute. I’m game. I’ll do it. Who do I ask first?” “What do you mean YOU will!” growls Horseman. “I’ll do it. I’ll ask ’m. I wanna do it. I’ll do it.”
“Good” says the chief plumber. “Now that we got that straightened out, we can chop down this pole without feeling too guilty and we won’t have to join any lumberjack’s union besides. ” Good. Everything’s looking good today and WHAM down comes the pole and they all walk back through the gates and go to the movies. Horseman and Photochick. They all sprawled out on the ground clutching the grass. A giant billboard sign faces them. It, being a musical instrument advertisement. Showing a picture of two women racing car drivers. Holding hands and each smoking a kazoo.
The sign smiles handsomely and just squats there like the moon. “Notice anything strange?” says Horseman to Photochick. “About what?” says Photochick. “About the pole being chopped down” says Horseman. “No. Nothing strange about that. Just that the sun’s still in my eyes and that sign over there looks like it wasn’t here before.” “You mean that racing - car advertisement?” “I thought it was a government report warning against cigars.” “Oh, yeah” says Horseman. “Yeah, it is.” “Yeah, it is. I know it is.” says Photochick, who begins now to look for her Hoover button … Meanwhile, back at the Newport Folk Festival…