Greetings from Minneapolis, with more than a little satire:
As I walked the streets of Minneapolis this morning, I was amazed at the rampant impacts of democratic socialism. The sidewalks were disturbingly clean. The streets appeared smooth, the public transportation system was far too easy to understand, and there were plenty of street vendors.
The Haitians were all busy selling cat burgers and dog shish kebabs. The publicly funded Somali Daycare Centers were all locked up. There were abortion clinics and sex-change clinics on nearly every corner. The public green spaces were eerily well cared for, and Comrade Dylan gazed over it all from a giant mural overlooking a parking lot.
Whew—I can’t wait to get out of here!
In reality, I’m attending the Folk Alliance Region Midwest conference.
I’ve come to this event several times over the past ten years, but on one level, I had to ask myself: What am I doing here? I can’t play right now, and there’s no need to hustle gigs.
The fundamental answer is simple: I’m here to tell the people who have expressed concern for me a sincere "thank you." I’m also here to explore my role in this community—or to answer an even more fundamental question: Do I have or want a role anymore?
Music has always been a significant part of my life and a tremendous driver for me. Yet, if I could start performing again tomorrow, I don’t know that I would—and I don’t know if I should.
My accident, as traumatic as it was, provided an opportunity to hit a reset button. I need to carefully consider the options this reset has presented. Clearly, there are new limitations, but there are also opportunities for new directions.
What is already apparent? Interacting with people takes a tremendous amount of energy! I had nearly forgotten that. It’s an energy I don’t quite have right now. Will it come back? I don’t know.
When I walked out onto the street this morning to take a stroll, I felt overwhelmed. Not by the fictitious satirical scene I described above, but rather by choice and circumstance. I was taking a walk alone in a town I haven’t visited in a long time—a step way outside my comfort zone of tooling around east of Cleveland.
To avoid getting lost, I decided I would just walk in a straight line, turn around, and come back.
Then it occurred to me: my dear friend Kate had told me I was right around the corner from the Bob Dylan mural if I wanted to see it. I realized I could request directions to the "Bob Dylan Mural" from Waze and find my way there easily.No problem! And when I wanted to get back to the hotel, all I’d have to do is open Find My on my iPad in the room, and my phone would guide me back.
And there you have it—my phone, the digital crutch that got me down the street.
The mural itself is spectacular. Beyond being a beautifully composed piece of street art, it does a fine job illustrating different phases of Bob Dylan’s face, which naturally mirror the different eras of his career and the evolving voices of his social commentary.
I remember as a young teenager listening to "Gates of Eden" on a 45 RPM record over and over again. (I can’t even remember what was on the A-side... maybe "Blowin' in the Wind"?)
(MJ and I just watched the new East of Eden series—not related to Bob Dylan, but still a heck of a show.)
Gazing up at that mural brought back memories of the Christmas I received a box of records from my brother Frank’s record and headshop. Tucked inside was a copy of Great White Wonder—the bootleg double album with a completely blank white sleeve. It might have been one of the very first bootleg records ever pressed. All the tracks were very low-fidelity; The Band accompanied him on some of the tunes, while others were simply Bob playing guitar and harmonica or just talking.
I listened to those two records relentlessly and learned to play many of the songs on them. I still have that album today,and every now and then, I’ll queue it up.
Looking at that mural made me think about the social turmoil back then—the Vietnam War, race riots, unabated pollution,Iron Eyes Cody—and I realized: the work of a folksinger is never done.
The work of a folksinger is never done.
