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Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
the
Give me your music, your art, your huddled masses of words and rhythms, yearning to breathe free.
’Tis the season to see “Jews for Jesus” popping up around Pittsburgh’s Squirrel Hill neighborhood, the vibrant center of Jewish culture here in the city. Why, just the other day I was strolling to the iconic Little’s Shoe Store, my beloved Bethlehem of Boots, when I saw two spunky dudes dressed in blue “Jews for Jesus” t-shirts (the o in…
Snow came down like course sea salt on a big ugly Tupperware bowl of pale popcorn. It was January 1977, the coldest month in Pittsburgh history. I was a pint-size high school senior living in a small town 40 miles east of the steel city, serving my time and awaiting the day in late May when I would "commence." I was, in the words of Paul Simon's "My Little Town," savin' my money, dreamin' of glory, twitchin' like a finger on a trigger of a gun. I look back on the stay-at-home snow days of that brutal January - sheltered, sans-siblings, in the bedroom of our four-room apartment - as one of the most beautifully sad, soul-expanding periods of my life. With no actual school work, I was free to feed my psyche with all kinds creative matter. I was free to ponder the meaning of life -- to dissect the mysterious beast of High School Land.
Man, I can't tell you how many times my shrink has had to listen to me recount this dream: I'm strutting down the street decked out like Joan Jett -- carrying a guitar/amp/tambourine/harmonica - when a car pulls over and a famous, seasoned musician asks me to stop by a recording studio and rehearse with him. Instant stardom, based on nothing more than IMAGE. Hey, it's no more far fetched than grabbing 15 minutes of fame by being anointed "star du jour" by the glam-bam-thank-you-ma'am "American Idol" judges. Being swept off the street by a rock star may be nothing more than a wet dream for yer blogger, but this really did happen to a young violinist named Donna Shea, better known as Scarlet Rivera.
"Your Honor, the defense is trying to sway the jury with inane references to a counter-culture rock song," said the District Attorney. So, what song could the defense attorney possibly be citing? It's Bob Dylan's word-twister from 1965, "Subterranean Homesick Blues." This iconic '60s rap-anthem contains a line that's been quoted by judges, lawyers and law scholars more than any other lyric from popular music. If you ever get busted, you better hope your lawyer is a Dylan fan.
Singer/songwriter Bob Dylan just received the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation's highest civilian honor. Bobby wore shades and never cracked a facial muscle as the Prez heaped all kinds of well-deserved praise upon him. That's our poker-faced Bob, the brilliant, eccentric minstrel that I'll adore forever.