I can hear you honey coming my way, I
remember how you used to speak my name
I saw you walking long the river to my garden
Your hair shone like the milky way
Lamplight glowed down in St. Germain
Day is gone and we’re only getting started
I hear the music like I always have
won’t force you none, though I’m moving fast
what’s done is done
what’s past is past
You are the angel
breathing in my dream, you can
Call me goblin
Call me the creep
You know who I am
You know I never sleep
How much longer shall we dance this dance, we’ve been
waltzing all along the Cumberland
you’ve called my name
and baby I’m your man
I saw you rise as the desert sun
I was born, we were one
heard ‘em say we were old
and today we are young
I hear you walking through my secret garden
the music through you and calling my name
the world’s changed
and I don’t feel the same
But I can sing and you know I can dance
I’m making way through this cold and damp
day’s breaking, as I take your hand
Let me lie back in sweet surrender
Let me honor, cherish and defend her
I lost my track again but I know I can remember
Is this life lady, and life only?
Well your beauty took me
honey, it stoned me
I think I’ve been here baby
Yea I know how you told me
Come you princes and gamblers
And I’ll tell you a tale
About an unborn world
From the cold winds of hell
I think you will find
That my story’s been told, indeed it’s centuries old
And though I am young,
You may know me quite well.
They may call me king bishop,
They may say I’m unkind
That I’m a blue-tuned sailor,
Got a simple mind
Tell me, when you look in the mirror
Or through your window view
Do you see a stranger’s eyes
Staring straight at you?
All you big-wigs and con-men
Who stole from my town
How’s the blood in your coffee,
Soaked in your nightgowns?
And how does it feel
To live behind a wall?
They may call you rich men,
But you don’t know wealth at all.
To the big who are small,
Self-proclaimed greats of all time
Who sweat over accolades,
Wasting their rhymes
Man, they couldn’t pay me
To put on your shoes
Held down by the weight
Of having something to prove.
To those who march through the wild,
Along the borderline;
To the persecuted and exiled,
I’m yours and you are mine
And to every shade of oppressor,
Your day will come soon
But in the end, just remember,
You are me and I am you.
You may quote from the wise,
Or your scriptures of old
But when you spill the blood of my brother,
Call the prophets your own,
In the eyes of the Lord,
You cast every stone
To twist the good word
In your own quest for the throne.
And so to all those
Who’ve taught me to love
Who in the same second,
Flaunt their handguns
Your sons and your daughters
Look to you every year
As you preach of peace
In the cold fortress of your fears
Come you princes and gamblers
And I’ll tell you a tale
About a battle-scarred world
That’s seen some serious hell
I think you will find
That my story’s been told, indeed it’s centuries old
And though I am young,
You ought to know me well.
Yea, along life’s ladder,
You may recognize every rung
And though you may feel real old;
Know today, we are young.
fire at the Bastille
bringing death to all your woes
I’ll break from these chains
and claim my mind as my own
the winds are blowin’ strong
the night is getting cold
I’d like to see America
before I get too old
I marched for our lives
I occupied the streets
I gave you all my love
in the time of COVID-19
I was born to run
Maybe I’m a rolling stone
I ain’t letting go of rock n’ roll
No I just don’t wanna be alone
the tune’s as smooth as wine
we’re crooning in time
I’m patching up matchboxes, now
and blue valentines
the winds are blowin’ strong
the night is getting cold
I’d like to see America
before I get too old
I’ve got Beethoven to my left
Robert Johnson on my right
I can hear the blues playing
on the river Danube tonight
I see Jimmie Rodgers on the coastline
And the Carter family too
Train whistle’s blowing
Neath an Appalachian Moon
I’m no beast of burden, and
I don’t shoot to thrill
I wanna see Rita Hayworth
on every hundred dollar bill
I’d like to read Walt Whitman
William Blake and Danté
You can take Jackie Robinson
Cause I’ve got Willie Mays
I swam ninety miles
of a blue crystal sea
I reached the rocky shores
of the Florida keys
we’ll raise a toast to the road
a toast to you and me
we’ll raise our glass
at Half Dome over
Yosemite Valley
rise of the cotton gin
death to my woes
I’ll break from these chains
and claim a house as my own
you wanna hear that I resist?
say my life is hard?
How long can I go
before they say I’m playing any card?
with rhythm and rhyme
like fruit of the vine
I’m patching up matchboxes
and blue valentines
In a home of the brave
where together we are saved
I’ll be your man
baby, we’ll be
American made
I don’t dwell on immortality, no
Legacy from me to you
I’m a guest here, I know
Only passing through
the winds are blowin’ strong
the night is getting cold
I’d like to see America
before I get too old
I write on the backs of napkins I write on scraps of tissue paper for you ought to not sweat the fancy jet the time yet, no or the old lessons of propriety don’t stack that shelf full of fancy volumes, neither no, don’t overload the head with journals with their pages crisp and clean with the ribbons in between if you’ve got paper and you got a pen then write it down and let it all flow and ease the weight from within your head you’ll thank me in the end
Lately I’ve been thinking about the song Blowin’ in the Wind.
Like many millions of people, when I first heard it I was moved; and I appreciated the depth and meaning in every line, every question posed by the author, each one pertaining to a fact of human history consistently revealing itself for each new generation.
I couldn’t help but be a little disheartened by the fact that these questions are still so relevant, so many years later.
Yet in the years following my first encounter with the song—for all it’s undeniable eloquence and power—the chorus still struck me as frustratingly flat.
To ask questions like “How many years can some people exist before they’re allowed to be free?” only to say that the answer is blowin’ in the wind, felt a little bit cheap, as though each of us might as well throw up our hands and just say ‘oh well.’
It was the only thing about the song that bugged me. However, lately I’ve been looking at it differently.
Maybe I’m just slow and people have been hip to it all long, or maybe I’m taking shots in the dark and totally inserting my own meaning into the song, but that chorus means far more to me now than it did before.
What I think now is that if it feels underwhelming and flat to the listener, then that’s a good thing, because it should feel underwhelming and unsatisfying.
The song was never about spoon-feeding us the answers to age-old questions anymore than it was pointing its finger at any one group of people. If it’s pointing its finger at anybody, then it’s doing so at everybody.
The real subject of scrutiny isn’t any one country or group or individual, but something deeper and typically more silent, something to which all of us are vulnerable.
Apathy. The very thing that bothered me about the song might actually be the main point of the song in the first place.
The answer, actually, is not blowing in the wind. If it is, it’s only because we’ve given into the same apathy, hopelessness, bitterness and fear that convinces people to throw up their hands and give up right from the start, and leave it to some unseen force outside of their control.
In the last verse, Dylan writes “How many times must a man look up before he can see the sky?”
There could be a lot of ways to interpret that line, but for me, it’s the one time throughout the song in which the author winks at us, as if to undermine that seemingly disappointing chorus.
As far as we know, there is only a sky above us, and it seems to care little if at all about the affairs of men and women. It will provide no answer to our problems, beyond the possibility of serving as a mirror. One that allows us to recognize that the answer to these questions is in our hands. It always has been and always will be.
To me, that’s a timeless truth. Elemental as the wind.
Editors Note: In the spirit of honoring Black voices, we here at Quinby & Co. wanted to launch an ongoing series in tribute to the giants of American Music, a strong majority of whom are Black. Far from being mere adherence to the times or simply doing what is trending or currently in vogue, this is something that is both extremely important to us and something that is distinctly us.
These artists are our heroes. Their music is a gift to our country and to the world. Furthermore, that music is a big part of who we are. It has largely informed the culture of this magazine. Without it, we would not be here. In honoring these voices, we honor our roots and we honor ourselves.
Before we continue please consider visiting this link to see how you can help in the fight for universal equality and justice. Thank You.
This is part of an ongoing series, and though the soon-to-be-mentioned list does follow something of a ranking system, we will be covering each placeholder out of order.
Thanks and Praises
Ren Michael
—
Lately I’ve been thinking about the greatest American musicians. A Mount Rushmore of those who’ve shaped the music and shifted the collective consciousness through their work.
On the one hand, I think any sort of ranking system is crude and just plain ol’ silly when it comes to music, or any kind of art. On the other hand, it’s also kind of fun once you’ve surrendered any lingering claim to objectivity. The exercise is, at the very least, just a display of affection for the music and the people who’ve shaped it.
Why did I focus on American music? Well for one thing–besides the fact that I’m American–in my most humble opinion, American music is simply the greatest composed in the last 100 years.
Our English cousins across the pond would likely agree. That so-called British Invasion was, after all, an influx of British musicians coming to America and playing rock n’ roll remixed with a heavy dose of delta and Chicago blues.
Anyway, the more I thought about it, the more inclined I was to go ahead and do it. It remains a fun thing to think about, something that made me happy to sketch out during these unusual times.
Alright so here we go. This is my Mt. Rushmore of American musicians.
1. Louis Armstrong
2. Frank Sinatra
3. Robert Johnson
4. Bob Dylan
Choosing those four was actually easier than I thought it’d be. What proved more difficult was deciding between Johnson and Dylan for the number three spot. Both were songwriters as well as musicians, which interestingly enough, applies to neither of the top two. Still, if this is a broader discussion of musicianship as opposed to songwriting, then I think more credit goes to Robert Johnson. His playing, his technical wizardry across the fretboard, continues to influence guitarists all over the world.
King of the Delta Blues Singers by Robert Johnson; Compilation album released posthumously in 1961 by Columbia Records
Yet while this isn’t a discussion about songwriting alone, any artist’s ability to write lyrics ought to play a role in assessing and appreciating their work. On that score, Johnson again surpasses pretty much every other composer in the blues. For me, the lyrics of ‘Love in Vain’ offer a sample of his poetic depth and economy.
I followed her to the station, with her suitcase in my hand
I followed her to the station, with her suitcase in my hand
It’s hard to tell, so hard to tell, when all your love’s in vain
When the train pulled into the station, I looked her in the eyes
When the train pulled into the station, I looked her in the eyes
I felt so sad, so lonesome, I couldn’t help but cry
When the train left the station, it had two lights on behind
When the train left the station, it had two lights on behind
The blue light was my baby, the red light was my mind
Robert Johnson, ‘Love in Vain’
I’ve always appreciated anyone’s ability to create anything with so little at their disposal, who reaffirm the creed that less is more and showcase the unfailing sophistication of simplicity. I think, in using what ultimately amounts to just six sentences, Johnson achieves that here; as he did in so many of his songs.
He also took a classic setting, one that’s been in more romantic dramas of both film and literature than I can count–a train station where two lovers are saying goodbye–and evokes the core emotional dilemma with subtlety and grace, stripping away melodrama.
As a result, the song stands the test of time. It could have been written yesterday, or any other day. And the hero’s conflict is universally relatable.
It’s just one mark of superb artistry, one of many that makes Robert Johnson the father of the blues and by extension, rock n’ roll.
One of two known photographs of Robert Johnson
And still, very little is known about him. Only two photographs remain in which we can even be sure it’s him. Robert Johnson was born in Mississippi in 1911, and started playing in local juke joints at an early age. According to friends and acquaintances–whose accounts form the majority of what we know about him at all, aside from the music–Johnson demonstrated enthusiasm for playing but only moderate ability and showmanship.
Then he disappeared for about a month before returning doing things on the guitar that nobody had ever seen. The remarkable change sparked rumors which eventually birthed the now-popular legend that he sold his soul to the devil, down at the Mississippi crossroads, in exchange for mastery of the guitar.
Not long after, he recorded songs over the period of a couple days in San Antonio, songs which today seem painfully few in number, a precious selection that would ultimately cement his legacy.
The recordings reached the ear of John Hammond at Columbia Records in New York. Eager to book Johnson for an upcoming bill at Carnegie Hall, he sent word down south to find him, only to discover that Johnson had died just weeks before. The story was that he’d been poisoned by a jealous husband, who’d discovered that Johnson was having an affair with his wife. He was 27 years old.
Second known photo of Robert Johnson
When it comes to the legend surround his life, it’s important to not get carried away particularly regarding the devil at the crossroads. Myths have and likely always will lend meaning and vibrancy to our lives, often acting as roadmaps in navigating deeper universal truths.
But if we treat them as gospel, then–in this case for example–they diminish the virtues of practice and dedication to craft. Indulging the image of Johnson being aided by a supernatural force comes at the expense of recognizing a man of natural ability and instinct, who put in the time to become who he wanted to be, or at least get a little closer to it.
What remains the most enduring fact of Robert Johnson’s legacy lies in those recordings. There is very little production involved. Listening to them, you get the feeling that he might have just walked in, cut them real quick in the span of a few hours, and then left, going about his business with little to no expectation of what might come of it.
Like many recordings of that early era, you can still hear the grainy, scratchy sounds of what is still a new medium, one through which America, for the first time in it’s history, is beginning to hear itself. You can hear a young man, playing his music. Little did he know that one day, his music would change the world.
Have a listen, friends. We recommend playing it early in the morning, maybe with your first cup of coffee. Or maybe at night if there’s a full moon or if you’ve got a nice view of the stars.
I often look up when I hear the music, and I consider a life on earth cut short, but a spirit that endures in some form or another like those stars in the far reaches of space, assuming their own rightful place among the grand tapestry of the cosmos.
We hope you join us in raising a glass to a profoundly gifted artist, and a true national treasure. Robert Johnson.
Quinby & Co. 