Raising Musical Awareness (?): The Witmark Demos

“Come you ladies and you gentlemen and listen to my song. I’ll sing it to you right, but you might think it’s wrong…”

During the second coming of the personality profile assignment I was reminded by a classmate of a certain musical passion of mine: Bob Dylan. I’ve written about a number of other artists and albums (the number 4 to be exact), but not Dylan, and jeez louise that’s just not right. He is this blog’s namesake - as well as this man’s namesake - after all. He’s earned himself a little recognition. So, to right a wrong, here is a quick look at Dylan’s latest release, The Witmark Demos: 1962 – 1964.

The Witmark Demos are volume 9 in the ongoing Bob Dylan bootleg releases – a series of compilations which began in the early 90’s and have been neatly compiling Dylan’s outtakes and live performances. The album is comprised of 47 tracks and stretches over two discs.

The album is rough, sparse, and intimate, pulling you through your headphones or speakers and placing you in the room with Dylan. That is the album’s strongest trait, and its greatest allure.

When Dylan says “Jesus Christ, I can’t get it. I lost the verses,” at the end of the first track, “Man on the Street (Fragment),” it is as if the words are directed towards the listener – there is no response from anyone who was with Dylan, no acknowledgment. These simple mistakes and musings – although I’m sure they’ll become tiresome after multiple listens – provide Dylan with a vulnerability that is missing on a lot of his albums (besides, maybe, Another Side of Bob Dylan). The same can be said for the rhythmic slap of Dylan’s foot against the floor on the previously unreleased “Ballad for a Friend.” An honest sound that would most likely have been eliminated from a studio album.

The Witmark Demos contains 15 previously unreleased songs, the other 32 being alternate/early takes of songs that have appeared on Dylan’s albums or other volumes of the bootleg series. The new tracks are uniformly strong, with the somber “Guess I’m Doing Fine” being a standout. The alternate versions of classics, however, are revelatory. Hearing “Mr. Tambourine Man” slowed down to a dirge, accompanied by only a piano is something I could have lived without. The takes of “Tomorrow is a Long Time” and “Mama, You Been on My Mind,” on the other hand, glimmer with a stuffy sophistication.

Essentially, the album’s target market is Bob Dylan fans. If you’re familiar with these songs, the early versions are like watching God make Genesis and all that good stuff happen. If you’re not, then this might not be the best place to start. But whatever, hearing these songs now its easy to see why they found him some famous fans.

Listening recommendations: After: The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan and The Times They Are A-Changin’. Before: Finding a new musical deity.

 

Review - Short Story: "Tree Line, Kansas, 1934"

"Tree Line, Kansas, 1934" is a short story by David Means. The story revolves around two law enforcers - an aged FBI agent, Lee, and his young, upstart partner Barnes - and their five day stakeout of a farm in Kansas. They are waiting for Carson, a dangerous fugitive who has spread fear and lead across the country in a string of heists.

Means' story uses simple language and imagery. The whole thing vibrates with a dusty elegance that is fitting of the story's setting. Lines such as, “look out at a lake on a clean, quiet summer day while the wind riffled the far side and a single boat oared gently, dragging a fishing line,” give the story an earthy, minimalistic feel. It's beautiful in its sparseness.

This barren feeling is a reoccurring theme in the story. One example is Means' decision to fuse the dialogue into the natural telling of the narrative - there are no quotation marks, no new paragraphs. The old voice of Lee cuts through the fat, evocative paragraphs. It's blended into the story, sandwiched between descriptive sentences and complex musings. In fact, the dialogue, once again, resembles the title setting. The voices are surrounded by an expanse of words, just as landlocked Kansas, at the center of America, is surrounded by land.

The story is also streaked with a underlying sense of mysticism and magic. This isn’t a world of rules, it’s one of superstition. Lee relies on the gusting of the wind, gut feelings, and the formation of “a cloud that seems to refuse to achieve its full growth” to judge the state of things. Much of the story is told within the mind of Lee. The authour reveals Lee's mental ramblings and reminisces - the strange thought dreams that we all have, but fail to catalogue. It is these thoughts that form the bulk of the narrative and define Means' surreal style.

This style, and the superstition, often manifests itself as a kind of spirituality. Throughout the story there is a struggle between this spirituality (the land and nature) and brutality (the purpose of their mission). As Lee puts it, they “were preparing for the imminent arrival of God, or gun, his gut told him, in those exact words.” In the end, it is a highly violent combination of these two things that brings the stakeout to its close. Bullets carried on a breath of wind, blood dripping on the wild, overgrown weeds. It is as intensely destructive as it is beautiful.

Ultimately, "Tree Line, Kansas, 1934" is a story that is bursting with beauty and pain, just like the land in which it is set. It burns as slow as the cigarette upon which Lee drags during his retreats beyond the tree line. And at its close you are left feeling the same way. Light-headed and a little dirty.

For an alternate (and more in-depth) take on the story, check out Paul Lagimodiere's blog http://itsalovingbefuddlement.blogspot.com/2010/11/short-story-review-blog-assignment-1.html

David Means is a writer from Nyack, New York.

"Tree Line, Kansas, 1934" can be found in his short story collection The Spot, which was released in 2010.

The story appeared in the October 25, 2010 issue of The New Yorker.

Raising Musical Awareness: Second Winter

Winter is cold, clean, and stuffy. Johnny Winter is burning, filthy, and bursting with lightning-energy. The only thing Johnny and the season have in common is that they are both so incredibly white…

Second Winter, released in 1969, is the third studio album from albino guitarist Johnny Winter. It was recorded in Nashville during the blazing heat of August. It was completed on August 12, just five days before Winter and his brother Edgar performed at Woodstock. Maybe some of the excitement and energy from the festival had already crept into Winter’s music. The album is electric and manic, turning fairly traditional blues into an amplified onslaught of sound and intensity.

The album’s first track, “Memory Pain,” (originally a Percy Mayfield tune) is drenched in feeling. Winter’s guitar is heavy and stringy – tearing fat, rhythmic holes with every lick. This is rock and roll. His voice growls and howls in guttural passion. The song is barely recognizable from its smooth, Mayfield counterpart. There is no restraint or second-guessing here. Just the blues.

In fact, six of the eleven songs on the album are cover songs. There are two Little Richard numbers (“Slippin’ and Slidin’” and “Miss Ann”), a Bob Dylan tune (“Highway 61 Revisited”), and a great version of Berry’s “Johnny B. Goode.” I’m generally not a fan of cover songs (at least on albums), but Winter’s unusual voice fills them with fresh breath. Each song is infused with so much fury and spit that you might as well be hearing it for the first time.

It is Winter’s own compositions, however, that sell the album. The last four tracks are all originals. It is in these songs where Winter really settles into a deep, ugly groove. The combination of “I Love Everybody” and “I Hate Everybody” is great. The two songs oppose each other in subject matter and feel. Actually, they might have made nice bookends to the album. But whatever. They also give us some insight into the mind of the roaring bluesman…

I ain't tired and no I ain't hungry
But I'm horny as I can be
Been a long time comin' baby
Better come get some of me

An honest man if ever there was one.

The album closes with the monstrous guitar showcase that is “Fast Life Rider.” Endless, reverberating strings bouncing from channel to channel. It’s disorienting. It’s powerful. It’s a good way to finish the album.

Some albums succeed because they transport you places you wouldn’t otherwise go. Jimi Hendrix takes you to the fringes of a drug-addled freak-out, the Beatles take you to some psychedelic wonderland, Bowie takes you to the edge of the solar system. Johnny Winter doesn’t take you anywhere. He just throws you to the ground, pounds your face into the dirt, and tells you to breath. But that’s alright with me.

Listening Recommendations: After a long day and before a long night. Best served on a hot evening with cold beer.