Fifth Recording: Bringing it All Back Home

 

Recorded January 1965, Released March 1965

Lryics

 

Music filters out to me in the crack of dawn....You get a little spacey when you've been up all night, so you don't really have the power to form it. But that's the sound I am trying to get across." (Clinton Heylin, Revolution in the Air, p. 182)

Track listing

from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bringing_It_All_Back_Home

All songs written by Bob Dylan

Side one

1. "Subterranean Homesick Blues" – 2:21
2. "She Belongs to Me" – 2:47
3. "Maggie's Farm" – 3:54
4. "Love Minus Zero/No Limit" – 2:51
5. "Outlaw Blues" – 3:05
6. "On the Road Again"– 2:35
7. "Bob Dylan's 115th Dream"– 6:30

[edit] Side two

1. "Mr. Tambourine Man" – 5:30 See Chris Ricks on Mr. Tambourine Man
2. "Gates Of Eden" – 5:40
3. "It's Alright, Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)" – 7:29
4. "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue" – 4:12

Lyrics

Personnel

* Bob Dylan – guitar, harmonica, keyboards, vocals
* John Hammond Jr – guitar
* John Sebastian – bass
* Kenny Rankin – guitar
* Bobby Gregg – drums
* John Boone – bass
* Al Gorgoni – guitar
* Paul Griffin – piano, keyboards
* Bruce Langhorne – guitar
* Bill Lee – bass
* Joseph Macho Jr. – bass
* Frank Owens – piano
* Tom Wilson – producer
* Daniel Kramer – photography

 

See this summary/set of reflection on Hinchey's BIABH chapter.

Liner Notes

Produced by Tom Wilson
Photography by Daniel Kramer

from: http://www.bobdylan.com/moderntimes/linernotes/bringing.html

i'm standing there watching the parade/
feeling combination of sleepy john estes.
jayne mansfield. humphry bogart/morti-
mer snerd. murph the surf and so forth/
erotic hitchhiker wearing japanese
blanket. gets my attention by asking didn't
he see me at this hootenanny down in
puerto vallarta, mexico/i say no you must
be mistaken. i happen to be one of the
Supremes/then he rips off his blanket
an' suddenly becomes a middle-aged druggist.
up for district attorney. he starts scream-
ing at me you're the one. you're the one
that's been causing all them riots over in
vietnam. immediately turns t' a bunch of
people an' says if elected, he'll have me
electrocuted publicly on the next fourth
of july. i look around an' all these people
he's talking to are carrying blowtorches/
needless t' say, i split fast go back t' the
nice quiet country. am standing there writing
WHAAT? on my favorite wall when who should
pass by in a jet plane but my recording
engineer "i'm here t' pick up you and your
lastest works of art. do you need any help
with anything?''

(pause)

my songs're written with the kettledrum
in mind/a touch of any anxious color. un-
mentionable. obvious. an' people perhaps
like a soft brazilian singer . . . i have
given up at making any attempt at perfection/
the fact that the white house is filled with
leaders that've never been t' the apollo
theater amazes me. why allen ginsberg was
not chosen t' read poetry at the inauguration
boggles my mind/if someone thinks norman
mailer is more important than hank williams
that's fine. i have no arguments an' i
never drink milk. i would rather model har-
monica holders than discuss aztec anthropology/
english literature. or history of the united
nations. i accept chaos. I am not sure whether
it accepts me. i know there're some people terrified
of the bomb. but there are other people terrified
t' be seen carrying a modern screen magazine.
experience teaches that silence terrifies people
the most . . . i am convinced that all souls have
some superior t' deal with/like the school
system, an invisible circle of which no one
can think without consulting someone/in the
face of this, responsibility/security, success
mean absolutely nothing. . . i would not want
t' be bach. mozart. tolstoy. joe hill. gertrude
stein or james dean/they are all dead. the
Great books've been written. the Great sayings
have all been said/I am about t' sketch You
a picture of what goes on around here some-
times. though I don't understand too well
myself what's really happening. i do know
that we're all gonna die someday an' that no
death has ever stopped the world. my poems
are written in a rhythm of unpoetic distortion/
divided by pierced ears. false eyelashes/sub-
tracted by people constantly torturing each
other. with a melodic purring line of descriptive
hollowness -- seen at times through dark sunglasses
an' other forms of psychic explosion. a song is
anything that can walk by itself/i am called
a songwriter. a poem is a naked person . . . some
people say that i am a poet

(end of pause)

an' so i answer my recording engineer
"yes. well i could use some help in getting
this wall in the plane"

-- By Bob Dylan

Some remarks by poet Michael McClure:

"The Poet's Poet"

Michael McClure

(Rolling Stone, Mar 14, 1974)

http://www.rollingstone.com/artists/bobdylan/articles/story/5938702/the_poets_poet

or

http://theband.hiof.no/books/exc_6_knockin_on_dylans_door.html

"Poetry, in a general sense, may be defined to be the expression of the imagination; and poetry is connate with the origin of man. Man is an instrument over which a series of external and internal impressions are driven, like the alternations of an ever-changing wind over an Aeolian lyre, which move it by their motion to ever-changing melody. But there is a principle within the human being, and perhaps within all sentient beings, which acts otherwise than in the lyre, and produces not melody alone, but harmony, by an internal adjustment of the sounds or motions thus excited to the impressions which excite them..."

Said Shelley in 1821 in A Defense of Poetry.

 

The first person to play a Dylan album for me was poet David Meltzer. It was Dylan's first album, and I heard it shortly after it came out in March or April of 1962. I could not understand what David heard in the album. In high school I knew people at the University of Chicago and in New York City who were singing like that -- just some hillbilly-intellectual music that I'd gotten bored with earlier. In retrospect, Dylan must have shown a direct creative thrust without the "Art" self-consciousness of other singers.

Early in 1965 a friend of my wife Joanna came to visit and brought the Dylan album with "She Belongs to Me." The album had changed her life-image from a tragic loser to a proud artist. Joanna heard and understood Dylan at once and completely, I think.

In 1965 everyone had been after me to listen to Dylan carefully -- to sit down and listen to the words and the music. I absolutely did not want to hear Dylan. I imagined, without admitting it to myself, that Dylan was a threat to poetry -- or to my poetry. I sensed that a new mode of poetry, or rebirth of an old one, might replace my mode. In the long run, rock lyrics have sensitized many people to words and brought them to discover poetry.

At last I could not resist Joanna's demand that I hear the album. We had a banged-up record player in the hallway at the top of the stairs. Late at night, in the pale-gray hallway-light, Joanna sat me down in front of the speaker and told me to listen to the words. I began to hear what the words were saying, not just the jangling of the guitar and the harmonica and the whining nasal voice. The next thing I knew I was crying. It was "Gates Of Eden": "At dawn my lover comes to me/And tells me of her dreams/With no attempts to shovel the glimpse/Into the ditch of what each one means . . ."

I had the idea that I was hallucinating, that it was William Blake's voice coming out of the walls and I stood up and put my hands on the walls and they were vibrating.

Then I went back to those people who had tried to get me to listen and I told them that I thought the revolution had begun. "Gates Of Eden" and those other songs seemed to open up the post-Freudian and post-existentialist era. Everyone didn't have to use the old explanations and the mildewed rationalities any longer.

By the time I met Bob, his poetry was important to me in the way that Kerouac's writing was. It was not something to imitate or be influenced by; it was the expression of a unique individual and his feelings and perceptions.

 

From left to right: guitarist Robbie Robertson, poet Michael McClure, Dylan, poet Allen Ginsberg

At the Toronto concert, Marshall McLuhan and his wife were in the audience. McLuhan told me that he had played Dylan albums to a poetry class that morning. McLuhan believes that rock & roll comes out of the English language -- using its rhythms and inflections as a basis for melody. (Exactly what I believe -- and also that it comes out of the Beat mutation or has the same root.) The future of rock, he felt, would be the same as that of the language; that it would have ups and downs as the language does.

As a mode, the ballad and story-song seem mined-out, I said. Anyone can write a story-song in almost any manner and it becomes uninteresting to listen to. McLuhan felt it is the background, not the mode, that gives out. The background is violence, and Dylan was singing violently. "Violence is the result of a loss of identity -- the more loss the greater the violence."

Sitting among 19,000 people McLuhan said, "Gravity is like acoustic space - the center is everywhere."

I told Marshall that I wanted to go out into the hallway in the last set of the concert when Dylan and the Band played "Like a Rolling Stone." The night before I had been carried away and wept so hard that I did not want to have the experience again. This was my third concert and the incredible volume of the speakers was beginning to undermine my nerves.

*************