Tuesday, 1 September 2009






blog dillon said...

hey man, after much playin wavin flashin n shockin, i now have the videos


Elby the Beserk said...

Doesn't get much better does it? On a big late Bobster jag at the moment; seems to be singing about the end of days - his, and ours.

woman on a raft said...

Mr Ishmael, do you happen to know if Dylan, Pennebaker or sombody else come up with the idea of putting the words on cards?

It was memorably used - or ripped-off - in the 1980s to promote Maxell cassette tapes. The makers even nicked the idea of errors which are said to be deliberate in the Dylan video but (and the next phrase got stupid) - pretend-accidental in the Maxell advert.


Having watched the Dylan cards yet again, I don't think the errors were deliberate. They just gave him the cards in the wrong order and he sings what ever he likes anyway. Couple of nice typos in there which would have the Rev. Lucien Modo in a fit.

What I'm not sure about is the number of cards - there are one or two places which look as if they might have stopped and filled up his arm. That many cards would be as thick as a phone book and be very heavy to hold.

'Course, in the Maxell ads, even the right words don't make all that much sense.

Yes, thank you for reminding me, it is time to top up my meds. That's what happens if you show card tricks to amateur stage managers.

minimalist apologist said...

so remind me...who started all this monkey-business then?

call me ishmael said...

It was Chuck started it, Mr m a, that's the point, but then his kind are closer to monkeys, anyway, that's why he played support act to people like Mr Pete Nose and the Oo, when he should have been the mainman. Doncha just love those English Art School drop-outs ?

I have those turns to, mr elby, although they more or less stop at Oh Mercy.I think I mentioned before that old blues men never toured the world with lawyers and gofers and security men and image consultants. I can no more take Bob Dylan's old age working-class solidarity than I can Bruce Springsteen's; listening to self-indulgent multi-millionaires preaching about Capitalism; it ain't me, babe, no,no, no, it ain't me babe

I do know the answers to all your questions, Mrs woman on a raft. I shall repair, for verification, to those parts of my bookshelves given over to the whining little git and return.

chuckleberry spin said...


yeah man, it all happened quite by accident really...i had some time on my hands, and did a bit of research you see...i discovered that when you mix black and white you get some strange blue patches...i always think it's just so wonderful how god let things evolve - does he sponsor you too buddy?

blewy armstrong (first man to step foot on the soul) said...


funny old world...we used to call it jazz you smartassed little motherfucker

pedro pisstrashio said...


Doncha just love those English Art School drop-outs ?

hey guys...mind if i drop one in here? yeah...i think our appeal derived from a heavy cubist influence man...and fortunately, the fans were gifted with such a heightened state of awareness back then, that they were just able to somehow tune in, and sense the sublety of our subliminal message, without actually being conscious of any fucking thing whatsoever...if you get my drift? okay cool...it was a sort of mystical experience man...you had to be there to get the true vibe, i tell you...can't remember sweet fanny adams now of course...wasn't she a groupie i groped?...anyway...s'like i wasn't even present myself...it was kinda...of its time...encapsulated...shackled to the root of the moment man...a one off cadenza of cacaphonic carnage...and we were just the mellow milieu through which the yogic sound-art was transcendentally transmitted brother...sorta like charged-up nodding-donkeys talking in sanskrit slang...man, you don't get shit like that these days...

mongoose said...

Mr Ishmael,

It is a strangeness. The music of it allows you to not have to speak back to them. So we (they, and through them, we) can face all these momentous things without having to talk back. Think of it - when was the last time you sat in a pub with a mate of yours and listened to him bleat about some lost girl? ("Please, may it be over, you poor prat." Ply him with ale. A game of pool... "How did the City do?") The music allows the emotion to get close without us all having to weep buckets of moonbeams every ten minutes. It may be a Man Thing.

I am more a female singer-songwriter man. Men do politics and shagging and, as said before, me woman am dead and me dog am gone. Caricature more than anything else. Bob, Bless, is one great long, steaming, ironic pastiche of what he was. Play it fucking loud, indeed. (Should have clung tight to Miss Rotolo and learned himself to be happy.) It's construction and artifice; it ain't now the truth necessarily. It's deliberately artful. It's commercial. I cite thee Gotta-prove-it-all-night-steaming-too Springstein at Glastonbury this year. A great set but a commercial construction lightened only by The Show of the old fraud in his bastard work boots, and the fantastic fiddler whose name I know not. (Alas, cannot find the brilliantly fiddled song. Must try harder.)

Joni, Bonnie (one more time!), PJ and the rest of the girls, even down to mad, bad, sad Whinebucket seem to be to be on the verge of spilling the whole, sometimes rotten, sometimes lovely, truth of it all.

But then I am a hippy too and, for my sins, a daft romantic. I may buy me one of them Lawrence Llewellyn-Beau-Eegit shirts any day now and get me down to Cirencester and live the life of a Queen King In Residence. (Perhaps not, on reflection. Think of the dry-cleaning bills.)

Sadly it is all about money. Those days are gone and they won't be back.

spark up said...


That's what happens if you show card tricks to amateur stage managers.

the other day, a batty blonde buxom bisexual birdy-wirdy mentioned to me that mr ishmael is in the habit of turning the odd trick over on the pavements at border-border, but under his street name. can this possibly be true, i wonder?

gob dillon said...


...dooby da...sorta like charged-up nod-ding don-keys singing in sweet sonic san-skrit slang...ooby-doo

hey dude, i'm sure i wrote that lyric, you fraudling, you plagiarist peddler of skank-simile street-rime to the corrupted capitalist corporation of global cannibalism. not cool man. you'll be hearing from my attorney man.

call me ishmael said...

It was Dylan's idea, Mrs WOAR, the cards drafted with deliberate misquotes by Donovan, Bob Neuwirth, Alan Ginsberg and the gnome himself; this is what all the apparently reliable sources say but then show me someone who's not a parasite and I'll go out and say a prayer for him

A child, though maybe just a shade older than Mr elby, I saw that concert tour and the subsequent one, the acoustic-electric one with most of the Band, they both sort of spoiled the rest of my concert-going life and should, en passant, entitle me to some respec, man, even around here, Isle of Wight, too and some others.

I heve never seen any questions about the weight of the cards, it is true that he does change his grasp of them a coupla times but I think, as cards go, they are quite flimsy.

Neuwirth and Dylan parted company for a long time over Neuwirth's claim to have authored much of Like A Rolling Stone - only reuniting for the narcissistic Rolling Thunder Revue - but throughout Don't Look Back he is clearly a nauseating groupie-gofer and for his inexcuseable treatment of the admittedly insufferable Joan Baez deserves a good hard punch in the face.

That's good Mr mongoose, I saw Paul McCartney's New World Tour at Wembley in the nineties and thought, similarly, fuck me, this bloke is fronting his own tribute band, the band in question being better in every particular than were the Beatles, bar Linda, of course, who wasn't. At least fab Macca, though, could sing and play in tune, something Bob manages one time in a thousand.

I don't like Joni and I think bonnie is that same self-pastiche only it was never her self but some odd transgender mutation, the point of which I, feminist, could never see. I don't know PJ or Amy but I suppose I like more female singers and or writers than most of my age, all the way from Jackie de Shannon and Dusty Springfield to Gillian Walsh, Alison Kraus and not Marianne Faithfull. The Nina Simone version, on this blog, of Who Knows Where the Time Goes is probably its best posting.

I don't do that sitting in a pub thing but somehow manage to invoke that depth in everyday encounters, we don't have many in the country and those we do come freighted with meaning. When the weather has more impact than just making you wet it's discussion is rarely lightweight, for instance.

You may take it on the highest authority extant hereabouts, mr sparkup, that we don't visit the PizzaHouseOfBlood, much less comment thereon; let this not, however, restrict your passage there.

As for all the punsters, wouldn't it be nice if they all just morphed, like, into one and made some comment on the great rock'n'roll pecking order?

mongoose said...

Mr Ishmael,

Polly "PJ" Harvey. I saw her live, as they say, only this summer - breathtakingly magnificent aural spectacle. I'll admit that it does take a bit of getting used to. It is not Joni lamenting gently about some lumberjack who gave her the elbow in the time of the Old King. You are here to listen to the noise, boys, and I don't own a pretty frock. "I will-ll-ll NOT!" (To be played ear-splittingly loud BTW. Doesn't make sense otherwise.) Mad as a snake, of course.

Don't do the pub, don't do Joni, don't do the Blessed Bonnie. A vertiable trinity of freakin' heresies there. Get outta here if you don't know.

woman on a raft said...

It was Dylan's idea.
Hurrah, thank you Mr Ishmael.

What he deserves then, is a round of applause for producing a visual idea which holds the audience, can be used by the most limited physical performer, does something useful without detracting from the song, and costs less than (today's money) £20.00.

Ideas like that are the hallmark of creative genius. People have been writing audience cue cards for years, but that's the diamond mind at work - they see something and then see it another way.

I could think for the rest of my life and never come up with that.

lilith said...

palindrome bob

mongoose said...


Excellent find! Made as much sense as the original too.

call me ishmael said...

"I could think for the rest of my life and never come up with that."

Well you are not pharmaceutically-fuelled, you don't have the bloated and obnoxious Albert Grossman protecting and managing you and you don't have DA Pennebaker following you around with a camera saying Do something artistic. Mandy's Diary, nevertheless, is read, here, in amazement.

Alocoholic drug addict said...

Mr Ishmael, how right you are, my list of alcohol and drug fueled inventions are famous,in a small circle.

KatKam, follow your cat on a webcam. I invented that years ago and now there are several models available.

A proximity device to attach to young children, an alarm goes off if they wander too far from you, now available on beaches in the SoF and branches of Mothercare.

I'm sure none of this would exist, and much more without alcohol and drugs, though probably not marajuiana, which is why I'm still broke.

emu's perceptive pecker said...


I could think for the rest of my life and never come up with that.

wonderful stuff. knocks spots off jerry sadowitz. great shuffling tecnique - and didn't even move his fucking lips.

jocelyn jack esien said...


I could think for the rest of my life and never come up with that.

writing is re-writing

call me ishmael said...

"writing is re-writing" is an axiom belonging in Zen in the Art of Archery; at some point, though, it can become plagiarism and at both ends of his artistic life Mr Dylan has been a shameless serial offender. His intolerable tuneless, arythmic renditions of his own distinguished original canon and his cavalier theft and fencing, recently, of Old Masterworks, do nothing for his artistic status and it is hard to see how thay serve the vanity which impels them. I'll let ya be in my dream, if I can be in yours; no fucking fear.


The words above and the thoughts which triggered them have not, to their author's best knowledge, been recycled; they may be similar in purpose and content to opinions expressed by others, that would be due to what we call here, the Shitegeist and not to any failures of imagination or composition.

Writing is rewriting is the sort of paradoxical, conversation-stopping observation which at times pre-occupies Mr The Dyers Garden. I do like it.

call me ishmael said...

A shame, Mr ada, that Gerry and Cilla McCann didn't have one of your child locating devices - but then think what riches and fame they might have been denied.