Schlagwort: Bob Dylan

Chimes of Freedom

Angemessen, finde ich, heute einen Dylan-Song zu hören, von Bruce Springsteen, Chimes Of Freedom, die Glocken der Freiheit, alleine schon wegen dieser Zeile: “Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight” oder der letzten Strophe: “Tolling for the aching whose wounds cannot be nursed / For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones and worse / And for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe / And we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashin'”.

Far between sundown’s finish and midnight’s broken toll
We ducked inside a doorway as thunder went crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing

Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight
And for each and every underdog soldier in the night
And we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing

Through the city’s melted furnace, unexpectedly we watched
With faces hidden as the walls were tightening
As the echo of the wedding bells before the blowin’ rain
Dissolved into the bells of the lightning

Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, they abandoned and forsaked
Tolling for the outcast, burning constantly at stake
And we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Through the mad, mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail
The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder
As the clanging of the church bells blew far into the breeze
Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder

Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind
Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind
And the poet and the painter far behind his rightful time
And we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashin’

In the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales
For the disrobed faceless forms of no position
Tolling for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts
All down in taken-for-granted situations

Tolling for the deaf and blind, tolling for the mute
For the mistreated, mate-less mother, the mis-titled prostitute
For the misdemeanor outlaw, chained and cheated by pursuit
And we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing

Even though a cloud’s white curtain in a far-off corner flared
And the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from driftin’

Tolling for the searching ones on their speechless seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
And for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
And we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing

Starry-eyed and laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of ours for they hang suspended
As we listened one last time and we watched with one last look
Spellbound and swallowed ’til the tolling ended

Tolling for the aching whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones and worse
And for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
And we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashin’

Vom Folk zur noblen Literatur

Zweiundfünfzig Jahre ist es alt, dieses Videostückchen vom Newport Folk Festival. Damals hieß es noch Folk, was Robert Allan Zimmerman da sang. Ab heute sind seine Texte geadelt. Als Literatur. Nein: große Literatur. Preiswürdige Literatur.

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there ain’t no place I’m going to
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come following you
Though I know that evenings empire has returned into sand
Vanished from my hand
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping
My weariness amazes me, I’m branded on my feet
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street’s too dead for dreaming
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
I’m not sleepy and there ain’t no place I’m going to
Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come following you
Take me on a trip upon your magic swirling ship
My senses have been stripped
My hands can’t feel to grip
My toes…

With God On Our Side

Wie sagte der KZ-Häftling Pippig in Bruno Apitz‘ Roman Nackt unter Wölfen so schön, bevor er an den Folgen der Folter durch die Gestapo starb? “Der liebe Gott verläßt keinen Freidenker.” Davon gehe ich auch aus. Der liebe Gott verläßt keinen Freidenker. Vor allem keinen Freidenker, der Texten von Bob Dylan nachspürt. With God on our side. Hier in einer Fassung der Neville Brothers. Angeregt durch ein Gespräch, das ich mit einem alten Klassenkameraden gestern führen durfte. Mit Udo. Und Udo erzählte, wie er sich seinerzeit eine EP (Schaut bei Wikipedia nach oder bei Google) gekauft hatte von Manfred Mann. Mit diesem Titel. With God on our side.  Und der Textzeile: “The Germans now too have God on their side.” Wir wollen es hoffen.

Oh my name it is nothin’
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I’s taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that the land that I live in
Has God on its side

Oh the history books tell it
They tell it so well
The cavalries charged
The Indians fell
The cavalries charged
The Indians died
Oh the country was young
With God on its side

Oh the Spanish-American
War had its day
And the Civil War too
Was soon laid away
And the names of the heroes
l’s made to memorize
With guns in their hands
And God on their side

Oh the First World War, boys
It closed out its fate
The reason for fighting
I never got straight
But I learned to accept it
Accept it with pride
For you don’t count the dead
When God’s on your side

When the Second World War
Came to an end
We forgave the Germans
And we were friends
Though they murdered six million
In the ovens they fried
The Germans now too
Have God on their side

I’ve learned to hate Russians
All through my whole life
If another war starts
It’s them we must fight
To hate them and fear them
To run and to hide
And accept it all bravely
With God on my side

But now we got weapons
Of the chemical dust
If fire them we’re forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God’s on your side

Through many dark hour
I’ve been thinkin’ about this
That Jesus Christ
Was betrayed by a kiss
But I can’t think for you
You’ll have to decide
Whether Judas Iscariot
Had God on his side

So now as I’m leavin’
I’m weary as Hell
The confusion I’m feelin’
Ain’t no tongue can tell
The words fill my head
And fall to the floor
If God’s on our side
He’ll stop the next war

 

A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall

I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans. Zivilisationskritik? Aber vom Feinsten. I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children. Amerika? Nein. Auch Europa. Frankreich. Kürzlich noch. In diesem Jahr zweimal. Mindestens. I heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listening’. Hier und heute. Jeden Tag. Im Netz und in der Bahn, in der Nachbarschaft, in Facebook und der Kneipe. Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter, heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley. Günter Grass starb, Harry Rowohlt, Klaus Bednarz, die Karikaturisten von Charlie Hebdo wurden massakriert, Leonard Nimoy ist tot, Lemmy Kilmister oder B.B. King. I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughing’. Menschen fliehen aus Not, Elend und Krieg zu uns und Inländer oder besorgte Bürger zünden Flüchtlingsheime und Notunterkünfte an. Andere befeuern mit der großen Zahl von Menschen in Not die schändliche Angst vor Fremden.  I met one man who was wounded in love, I met another man who was wounded in hatred. It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall. Bob Dylan war, als er dies alles schrieb, Neunzehnhundertzweiundsechzig, im Dezember, als junger Kerl von einundzwanzig Jahren, mitten in seiner Zeit und ihr zugleich weit voraus. Ein Text, ein Bild, ein Wortgemälde, zweiundfünfzig Jahre alt. Aber es fühlt sich an, als wäre es gestern erst geschrieben worden. Ein wuchtiger Text, gewaltig, schwer. Passend zum Jahr, passend zum Jahresausklang. Hier eine Version von The Mar-Tays.

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been my darling young one?
I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains
I’ve walked and I’ve crawled on six crooked highways
I’ve stepped in the middle of seven sad forests
I’ve been out in front of a dozen dead oceans
I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin’
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin’
I saw a white ladder all covered with water
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin’
I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world
I heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin’
I heard ten thousand whisperin’ and nobody listenin’
I heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you meet my blue-eyed son ?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony
I met a white man who walked a black dog
I met a young woman whose body was burning
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow
I met one man who was wounded in love
I met another man who was wounded in hatred
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
And what’ll you do now my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest
Where the people are a many and their hands are all empty
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
And the executioner’s face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number
And I’ll tell and speak it and think it and breathe it
And reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it
And I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’
But I’ll know my song well before I start singing
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

 

Isis

Gesine Palmer schrieb, daß sie “den Namen Isis eigentlich viel lieber auch weiterhin mit diesem wunderbaren Song und der dahinter stehenden mythischen Figur verbinden” wolle.  Und die Terrorbanden sollten sich lieber gleich unter dem Namen der Internationale der Religiösen Reaktion versammeln. Recht hat Sie. Also.