Run the Jewels 2

No edits, no takes. So the idea here is that I'll just do a first-through read of Run the Jewels 2.  And attached to it, I'll publish my many-times-listened review of Run the Jewels which I never managed to release, but... was planning to release when RtJ2 was out.  And I was on schedule to do that.  But... then these fat motherfuckers put RtJ2 in my inbox (and released it in general) a bit early.  

That is, fuck it.

To set the scene, I learned of the release this morning in an email from "Jaime and Mike".  Which I thought was cool.  That Jaime can't fucking spell his name right is a different problem.  I have a Jamie as a brother.  You in the wrong, bro.  Er... not-bro.  No, no... not that you ain't my bro... I mean... No... Mike... I'm just a little guy.   We can use words, man.

My point is that I've been all-in on el producto since fantastic damage.  I caught up on his stuff before that right quick and all, but fantastic damage blew my rap face off.  I learned a lot and expected a lot more from emcees and producers and everyone else after that record (And a decent amount of def jux for that matter... take no prisoners.).

As for Mr. Mike aka Mr. Killer.... he showed up on The Whole World.  I kept up with him on an doff from then... but not close-like.  Great voice, stright aggression.

I have just enough time before I need to leave that I can type and listen.

Here we go.

Track 1.

"I'm gonna bang this bitch the fuck out"

Okay... I'll go turn it up.

We're opening Mike-heavy... with a threatening whisper... a beat... with some mess, but definitely some low-end stank and some high end spirally madness...

Let's just say... we're no less threatening than last year.

And now el... with just those... pivots that lie and sleep with the beat without a moment of seduction... That's the same beat that Mike was on.

Not the same beat though.  They bring out different spaces and images...

Track 2.

This is more challenging territory.

That last album was like "FUCK YOU."

This album is like "You want us to prove it?  We can rap to anything.   Jamie can produce a killer track out of fucking lunacy.  And Mike can anchor it without shanking it."

El is still showing growth as an alphabet acrobat.  more fluid when he wants to be.  More variety in his vowels.

Killer is getting more proficient at extending his menace straight out through a double-time consonant onslaught.

Track 3.

oh.  The Drop.

This is the newbanger.  This'll make the kids throw furniture.

Ohlord.  the bang-bragger is a favorite of mine.  And el can do a line for when the beat disapears with the best of them. Mike is one of the best of them.

Track 4.

A quick-temp... hot-takes and phrases... the notes say this is with de la Rocha... does that mean they're gonna do him like they did Big Boi last year?  Is Zack gonna be the walking corpse?

This is another fucking "I'll show you what we can rap and/or make a fucking dope track out of"... Now Killer is slaying this fucking track... the second time through though?  With that jackhammer timing?  and finished by el with a punch?  I'm all Clay Davis on this Shiiiiiiiiiiit.

Zack is up... he battin' cleanup... I'm not familiar enough with his voice (at least not since Bombtrack and that incredible timeless album from RATM) to follow that well... but he does the sonics well enough... only further listens will tell the tale.

Trakc 5.

And now we're listening to a track that asks for storytell... This is the first track that sounds like it would have been at home on RtJ1.

While the transitions are far from jarring on this record, they are nowhere near as smooth at RtJ1... but that's not a shock nor a rip... most of the Beatles catalog pales in comparison w/r/t smooth transitions to that one half of Abbey Road...

Track 6.

I get the feeling we're gonna get into some dark territory here.
No joke... el-p leads off.  And accelerates as the madness deepens.
Oh... and the chorus from Killer?  It makes his name seem tame.

The thing with these two... is that their voices are so contrasting and complimentary...
They come from such identically different worlds.  Such crossover.  Such meandering route-determining sameness in their difference.


Ohhhhhshit mike... with the who the fuck double time stuttertalk... I bet when I go back he's challenging the shit out of someone here.

"Everybody doin' it"

Track 7.

An off-beat-finishing beat... oh with a second piece... a developing-by-verse beat... Mike getting in on the boys in blue with all due respect again.

Fucking... cops man... one abuse rightly paints doubly or triply against any man with the law on his side.  You have to be so right that you are beyond reproach by even those who disagree with your existence let alone title... can you live up to that?

Now el is getting just as thick and multi-leveled as Killer.  The thing about both of them is that they, through whatever process, have become individuals with such complex lenses that their narratives are not linear.  Nor, would I argue, that a linear narrative is even a worthy goal.  But their aggressive layering of thoughts upon thoughts reaching out to thoughts upon thoughts of their partner's totally ... parallel but non-identical experience of America?

RUN THE JEWELS IS AMERICA.

Track 8.

Fuck.  Mike.  Leave me alone.  I don't want you to punch me in the shit again.

This is that all-out-assault track.   I dare you to find a duo of emcees who obliterate the aural landscape like these two in unison.  Just... What the fuck the jewels the fuck?  Take it.  Leave me alone.

And please give me some free audio.
I'll prolly buy a show ticket.

Just... put that finger gun down.

Run the Jewels was like the joyous robbery in which both parties are happy to have been there.
Run the Jewels Two is like when those fat jolly motherfuckers turn out to be Olympic sprinters.

Track 9.

Ohno... they gettin dirty again... this is always where they, while they're well within that range of things you know about if you've had sufficient NYC and ultimate and drug experiences, go a step or two past me.

But... that happens in every sports locker room I've been in.

But... that's because there is a verbal world and a thought world.

But... that's what artist reach past.  Or through.  Or with.  Or... is this relevant anymore?  the point is... you talk type write ramble on what you do what you do.

I want these songs on these records.  But that doesn't mean I'm the man to write about them.

And this track ain't shy.

Track 10.

Enter contemplative... this is a side both Jaime and Mike have and have used to worthy effect.  this has a little funk to it also... staying in the background with a vibe to move to.

And Mike starts Jaime's verse... There has not been much of that baton-passing in this album.. this el verse is one of those that just echoes already in my head.  This is... this is the is, man.  This is reaching...

I'll wager there are some Mike verses in there I've missed that reach out like this... he's never shied from it.

There is a space we reach into in others when we art.

Track 11.

And el opens the closer.  With challenging counter-attacks to his own counter-arguments.

Mike steps in to clarify.  We're on a drippy trippy haze.  But we're not ungrounded.

There is danger and menace in both of these men.  That is what we love about them.

That is what rigns true.  Their visions of something greater than themselves.

Their visions of something greater and more cynical than the USA.

Their love of what they have and yet... acknowledgement of what can't be...

Their fearful march toward the future they wish for rather than the dangerous world they ream of in their heads.

This is a distrustful rush of angel dust.  Speak these sounds and build this rush to dangerous.

Rip this scene and torch this house, the roar itself issues from this mouse.

---

This album is very very good on first listen.  It is challenging.  It is forcefully identifiably of both el&Killer.  I'll wager it comes in a half-note below RtJ1 *Solely because I knew what I was getting*.  That is, this observer is biased.  That shit last year was a revelation.  This is a second book of a promising author.  To mix metaphors.  Which is something I like.

That is... There is no way this was going to be RtJ0.  This is RtJ2.  It will be a staple of my audio world for the foreseeable future.  I'll look to unpack it, ride it, and move on from it.

But I'm not there yet.  This is another dope free record from Jaime and Mike.  Go download and then buy a ticket to a show.  Then we'll all be even and happy.

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Run the Jewels

I didn't edit at this before I posted it. I typed it last year... and never got around to putting it out. I hope it holds up.

Is your slackin'ass looking for a Christmas Gift at the last possible moment?  All hard up and the like waiting on something to occur to you since you don't think about the folks you know aside from at the last minute, just as a birthday or a holiday or a wedding or some anniversary of something sweeps through and makes you reconsider your life in full view of theirs?  A place, a time where you can go back and know all that you need to know about some other poor soul wandering through the world?  Or at least enough to buy some simple damn gift that, even if it falls short of perfection, it still mages to capture something of the person, or the moment or the place?  Let alone the time.  The time the time.

That Christmas Time of Year.
That Christmas time is near.
That "Christmas Fucking Miracle" is here.

"Oh no, what the fuck have we here?"
"Its alive and its hungry as fuck."

Well, sir, what the fuck we have here is Run the Jewels. What is "Run the Jewels"? It is the hardest thing you've heard in years.  And it doesn't just rip your flesh like weasels, it does so via wholly non-similar pathways.

Pathways.  Pathways.
Pastways.  This is the rappity-rap you've been missing.  You've been seeking. You've been hoping might not find you safe in your home so that you and your ugly sweater contest can comfortably finish last in the land of life, liberty and the pursuit of imperfection.

They know it themselves.  Mike tells us.  Jaime tells us.  Just listen.  To the words:  "Run the Jewels, Jewels, Jewels."

While the beat(s) drop(s) to explode(s) like megaton bombs.

They push the envelope, rip it to shreds, douse it in 151, light it on fire and eat it so you'll never be able to bite the style.

This is challenging music.
They are challenging music.
They challenge you. They challenge each other.

They challenge the challenge to push you to the brink and forget the rest.  "We the villains."

One of the fuckers drops the mic, walking off the beat like they know that the look on your face yelps  "HOLY SHIT. THAT GUY DROPPED THE MIC." or
"That boy good." or
"Yessir."  or
"Yup."

Then the other (not-)fat bastard picks it up, keeps the pace, continues the race and spits in your face.

El-p treats the motherfuckin' beats with the same ste-removed disdain.  (Yes, the beats will fuck your mother. And any other "rapper" [Where is Lil' Wayne's attempt to murk Run the Jewels on their own beats?] ill-equipped to deal with the illest hyper-realness.)  I want to put a line here, make an analogy so you'll understand, but Mike already killed that mess:  "Producer gave me a beat, said 'it's the beat of the year' / I said 'El-p didn't do it so get the fuck outta here."

It starts with "36" Chain" -> "DDFH".

For appetizers, you're hit with the first couple of tracks to tntroduce you to the style-at-ear and whet that hip-hop monster appetite you've been hiding from your friends.  "Oh, okay" you think "This sounds pretty dope."

Then Big Boi, all unawares, is invited to lay a verse over this sick twisted techfunk.  He sounded like to midgets in the trunk when he drops a solid verse over some future-alien-invasion beat.  Displays all characteristics of an emcee you should never incite on a whim because that ATLien will leave you bleeding from your face.

Then they #RuntheJewels on that little bitch.
Their verses beat his ass, leave him for dead and steal his pretty-boy custom socks too.

Then the beats afterward kicked that beat's ass.  It all starts with the ascending quick intro hit of "36" Chain".  Wait... didn't we hear the exact counter to that when we started "Banana Clipper"? Yup.  That beat descended on you from a higher pitch to take you to the depths of the dungeon.  This one?  We lift you up only to smash your face on the elevator trip to the glass ceiling.

Then they dropped BIG BEASTIER verses on Bigger Badder beats.

That's a strong verse from a half of OUTKAST that just got laid flat and outlined in chalk.
This is the exact opposite of Andre 3MF000 w/ T.I..

Then, the fat black motherfucker and the angry sci-fi whiteboy were sitting around thinksmoking about "What other rap duos can we rob and steal from?"

Yup: Fuck Those Niggas in Paris.

Watch the Throne?
Watch this, bitch.

Eiffel Tower Motherfucker?
Grassy Knoll Motherfucker.

#REALBADGUYSHIT
#YALLGOTKIDS

We got sneers and jeers and not thuggish king or kingish thug or mainstream pusher hiphop.  Not even Trap-set Pusha-T chrak-hop.  Just reallife ripp'emup for the check and the glory.  Not one set of analogies, metaphors and talking points.  We're all over the map. " We got the whole map on lock".

(This is my job this is what I do.
We're not ball-playin' owner types, we're takin' drugs to find out what the world's like types.)

"I never did that and I never did you
But it come in a pack baby, I'm a do two"

Oh you want to know how this could translate to the next generation? "Run the Jewels is not for your children".  That said, it might be for our children.  It might be for the next generations' children.  It might be for the children who grew up destroying beats, destroying friends over beats, wondering how that fantastical unicorn of the powerful group ever got started in this singular world of find-YOUR-voice hip-hop.  Well, what about finding who pushes you to find your bestest voice?  Who stretches your mind to the point of breaking the bank for the future shit.

That's right, the group that accepts you only because they can't beat you.
Your boys who know you've proven yourself because they tired to pull your innards out and hold them infront of your face while your heart beating rampantly to get blood to your severed head hastens your passing.

Not only that, but who'll kill your bitch-ass live, in-concert every night you're on tour?  Only the strongest.  Only he maddest.  Only he biggest killers.

And who has a bigger stage presence in all of hip-hop  muhfuckin Killer Mike?
He makes El look so small and white.

And El steps to the plate and spit some sick shit.  Some slick shit, some outta control shit.  His beats are his property, Mike.  El don't give a fuck what you spit, but he'll make the beat fit himself and we'll see where that leaves you.  You think you know paranoia?  Feel this quicksand shift.

Think about the paranoia of the world collapsing upon itself.  All into blackness in years or moments of more.  I laced our blunts motherfucker, whatchu wanna say now?  Get comfortable with expression of depression, 'cause this is a long ride down.  We're all living forever now.  How much pain can you handle?

Oh, fuck you, El.  I'm Killer Mike.  I'll eat it up, chop it up, bring the pain from above.  I'll drop these lyrics with no compunction, this junction is me driving through like I ain't got a clue.

We're so different.  We're the same.
We see the same from different angles,
What the fuck do you have, leaders?
Listeners? Congress? USA? Other countries?

This is our craft, we'll kill you with it.  We'll hang our hats on it.  This is what we know.  What do you know? What do you do?  Where is your excellence?

So what?
I want to see this double-album.

"Run the Throne,
Watch the Jewels."

For Christmas 2014?
Talib Kweli and Yasiin Bey are Black Stars.

Summer 2015?
Outkast.

Yeah.
Bring the Duos Back.

Clipse did it right.
Is there no one else?

Run the Jewels lights the way.  What else does rap have to say?  Rap is the people.  "If the people are smoked out, hip-hop is gonna be smoked out."  (I see you, the Roots.)

What are the people, Hip-Hop?
Tell me WeezyFBaby.
Tell me GiftofGab.
Tell me SnoopLion.
Tell me Kendrick.
Tell me Eminem.
Tell me Redman.
Tell me Kanye.
Tell me Wale.
Tell me Jay.

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thank yeezus?

Is that the idea here?
Because I'm not sure that the swagger you display is as new as it once was.

Good work though. Nice to expand your palette. Your raps are in your voice these days. We're happy you found it. We're happy you're happy and finding a place for your particular box of crayons. But you aren't breaking through new walls here. You're just giving us good, solid beats, rhymes and life. Keep going. Keep recording. Keep building. Keep putting down who and what you are. But it is never the first time we've heard anything like it before because you're in each of them. You're part of it.  We've already heard you declare yourself a king.

Keep going, keep building.  Keep going.  What do you have in you?  Time tells.  Ask David Bowie.

Ask the Rolling Stones.  Ask Ask ask.  You'll never know know know what the trip is like for you until it's too late to tell anyone.  Ask BB King.  He'll sing each moment of it for you though.  Somehow.

What a trip you're on.  What a mind twist.  What a tweak but a confirmation.  I wonder what happens when you type the way I type.  The way I write.  How much of you is straight and how much of you is indirect?  How much is the word as it is the world in your head, and how much is the translation in art?  How much imagination.  How much desire.  How much energy.

By our escape velocity they will remember having known us.

You know there's no exit before the exit, right?

In part because I can't imagine your real life,
I'll just see you on the astral plane.

You don't have to do it for us, yeez.
You can always do it for you, Mr. West.

You're officially interesting enough that you never need pander.  Just keep following the dream.

But this album isn't as big a deal as it sounds itself to be.  *Damn* fine though.

Thanks.

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Hawaii Ten

One day I'll find her.

She will be radiant and beautiful. Easy and free. Life's a breeze to her somehow, someway. Deep and contemplative. A vision of beauty in and out. Unsurpassed in her compassion. She will be my lady. I will be her man. We'll have our love of life together and smile constantly in that ever so slight way. And I won't be able to stop myself. Not that I would want to.

HAYOOOOOO YOU GOT LIGHT IN YOUR EYES

Man. I tell you. I see her smile in my dreams. It comes so easily, so readily.

NEVER FOR MONEY ALWAYS FOR LOVE

At the drop of a hat. At a wink. At a sunset or a sunrise or a breakfast. I love her smile. She makes me so happy, and I don't even know her yet. I love her forever and will always. Perhaps she's just the place I want to be. One day I'll already be there. Loving that moment. Living it it with someone else. Lost in time, withinwithout time. Extended that joy forever. A gentle touch here and there. A Sweetcaress. Lovingly embrace.

HAYOOOOOO SING INTO MY MOUTH

I suppose I'll have to break it to her that This is the Place (Naive Melody) might well be one of the greatest love songs ever written. The way he pours himself into the music. The heartfelt whoknowswhat. Singingspiredmusic.

WE'LL SHARE THE SAME SPACE FOR A MINUTE OR TWO

My girl is there. The girl who will love me for me. Not overbearing, but not weak-willed. Not dominating, but not subjugating. She's the one I run to, if you must know. I just haven't seen her in such a damn long time that I can't figure out to where I'm supposed to run. I never had the map, I just played it by ear. And eye. But now? I can't find the trail any longer. It'll just be a little while, I'm sure it'll come back to me. You can't forget home.

HOME IS WHERE I WANT TO BE

That shared feeling of safety. Shared. Together. Joyfully. Truly loving every moment we have together instead of just sharing those moments.

HAYOOOOOO YOU GOT LIGHT IN YOUR EYES.

I don't know quite what she looks like, but I know she smiles at me as I fall asleep. I know she's someone who makes sure that I'm okay as she cares for me the way that I care for her... She's gentle but not overprotective or worried. She's the person I always come to for advice, and she never fears giving it to me whether I heed it or not. She trusts my judgement like I trust her advice. Always. No matter whether I take it or not, no matter whether she agrees or not. We make our own choices, but we always take each other's counsel.

I'M JUST AN ANIMAL LOOKING FOR A HOME.

She will be gentle and loving. She will be competitive and full of smiles.

SHE'LL LOVE ME 'TIL MY HEART STOPS

She will love intellectual pursuit as well as physical. It'll be a fight sometimes, but a loving fight. A Loving kind of argument. A debate.

EYES THAT LIGHT UP

I'm not looking for a person to spend weeks with. Nor months. Nor years. I'm looking forever. I don't want the short term. I want the long-term love. I will love whomever I love, but what I truly seek is the long-term. Searching for the everlasting afterglow. The forever-knowing you're home.

THIS MUST BE THE PLACE.

I know she is out there for me, I know I will find her one day. Until that day, I'll continue to love my life and keep on keepin' on, in the parlance of [someone else's] times. Because one day when I lock my eyes to hers, something will pass between us and we two will know what comes next. In the interim,

I GUESS I MUST BE HAVING FUN

I don't know what comes next, but I know what comes eventually, We'll find we.

HAYOOOOOOO I GOT PLENTY OF TIME.

Every day without her is just a buildup to the time when I finally find her again. Not the shadows of her, or the parts of her that I've seen in other women that I've shared time and space. But the full version. The person I'm looking for and I need to find. It could take a long long time, but I know it'll be worth it.

AND YOU'RE STANDING HERE BESIDE ME

She'll be attractive as all get-out. She'll be my lady. My woman. I'll be her man. I'll be just me, but that'll be all I need to be. She'll be just her and radiate her light near the light I hope I can return to her in kind.

NEVER FOR MONEY, ALWAYS FOR LOVE

That's the mantra. Never for Money, Always for Love. Not just in my life with her, but in my life and her life on our own. That'll make it all work so very well. We'll be living our lives for love and loving the lives that we live in love.

I CAN'T TELL ONE FROM ANOTHER
EITHER I FOUND YOU OR YOU FOUND ME.

I'll be worth her love and she'll be worth mine. It will be like the ourobouros I suppose. The love that feeds upon itself in a neverending circle.

LOVE ME TIL I'M DEAD

And I'll do the same for you, love.

AND I GOT HOOOOOOOOOOOO-OOOO-OOO-OOOOOOOOOOOOO

-i love you. it won't be long 'til we meet again for the first time-

(hawaii nine)
(hawaii eleven)

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3:52-5:02am

The Mars Volta The Bedlam in Goliath


Warped industrial megafunk. Intricate rhythms of doom and love or love and doom or something wicked this way coming. The rhythms are undeniably, unrelentingly complex and heavy. Ethereal guitars or feedback or manipulations of one sort or another occasionally flirt with the top of the soundscape and are then drawn back into the driving complexities. A Saxamaphone? What sick bastard put THAT THERE? I see. We're exploring sound textures. Drop out the bottom, go thicker funk...

This sounds like the Chili peppers with a new lead singer now. That is thick-ass funk. Slap yo momma funk. Shit. The Thumpasauras has returned in a Mexican hyphenated duo from somewhere that my brother warned me about. And what crazed maniac is laying down these bass drums? Unknown, but I shall look it up later. Where's he get off signing high like that? That's some crazy shit.

Now we seem headed for some bitches brew style funk, which is always a bit out there. Nope... Rage Against the Machine without the political message. Something about "never heard a man speak like this man before." I believe it. Blues Riffs? Over that? Back to thrashing!! This is the part of the Volta that I don't like. When they ram it home. But they gotta do what they gotta do i guess. I just turn the volume down. I know its against the spirit of the thing, but whatever. The rest of it is so good. I know the quiet bit comes up next, but I'm a cranky old man.

This spacey jam-out on keeping you as a favor is dope. Smooth it out but be strange. Futureghosts/Lovesounds? The Saxamaphone!!! Again! I heard you here before! Was there just a sax player hanging out round the way?

Speed it back up by paring it back down. Reestablish the brain-popping rhythm. Keep up the pace. Slowed down crazy high rhythms with a thundering backbeat. Man. I don't know how he gets this stuff into or out of his head, but it is wild. Just let yourself go over to the following the rhythms and the high-pitched seemingly-arrhythmic patterns (that almost always feel like they're traveling the wrong direction in time) and you'll feel the improbably mathematical genius of the Mars Volta. And now the lyrics seem so strange all of the time. Talk of sickness and obvious love under the surface. Wormholes. Time. Losing Control.Mystical. Fantastic. Unbelievable and awesome. In both senses.

And the unending technical precision!! The guitarwork is flat-out incredible. I couldn't tell you shit about shit other than what it looks like and what it sounds like when people play ridiculously intricate shit and when they don't. This album = When they do. "be your epidemic." SAXAMAPHONE RETURNS!!!! You can't slip that shit by me again!!

I can't even remember what happened at the beginning of the album. I feel like it has been three full albums already and I'm only just near th end of the 7th song. I don't know if my brain can handle th rest of this. We'll have to make a go of it. Damn.

Now a heavy bassline. Softer. That's good for the moment. If this were a concert, I'd be heading for the toilet. I'd simply have to. But I've got an ipod. So... Not that I'm literally shitting on this part, but I'm in the can because I'm treating this like a concert. If that's gross, fuck off. This music's perfect for it. We've got it getting a little funkier but grooved and blissed instead of hammering and pounding. Still ominously dark and foreboding, but with a slower feel. Now the evil's back in. That's the deal. That's either the Mars or the Volta, but that's what they do. Like Maryland does crab cakes and football.

Those lyrics are so slow over such a fast line. The comparison plays with the notion of time so very effectively. That's either the Volta or the Mars. Gotta be it. Different speeds for the same thing. Somehow fitting together. And then they ram it home. That's the The. I suppose. Makes them definite instead of indefinite. Silly articles.

Oh shit, a hook in your neck? Damn! What have you done for my appetite? Well, I think I might get some food in a bit. But I'm listening to some dope shit at the moment.

Really beautiful organ-like work. And then top-notch lead-solo guitar lines. Back to the beautiful organ-like and then back to hittin the rhythm hard, then strip it down, make it sparse and relayer. With a new pattern. a New voice effect that seems to make it sound like something is rattling on my damn desk. Creepy. Yeah. I rewound it and found it. Creepy! Kinda cool though.

The String Section? You, I did not anticipate. Perhaps I should have. Now a sort of spooky vamp int he background with a crazy-dizzy guitar in front. Now the strings are back. Wild. This track is fitting together well now. Good groove again. Now the evil peeks through. Take what's yours. We become bequeathed. Amp up the snare. Nice. Say the sooth, sir, say the sooth. I took a brief look at wikipedia earlier about this album.. all of the track names have crazy names like Ouroboros the self-eating serpent and the like. I noticed a couple, but I'll admit without the single reference point of "Wikipedia" as a place to start? I would not have known that all of them were. I would have assumed some were made up. Now, I didn't actually read all of them yet, but that was because I wanted to listen to the music first. I will then go back and read. She's calling me. Strings are mourning more. A brief respite. singing. A chorus? One more track to go.

Nice opening. Spookfunk. Crawling guitar Good pace to keep working at now. Crazyfast guitar now. Altered voices up high. Drop it out and back up to speed. Crazy Ending. Noise. SAXAMAPHONE!!!! YOU FUCK!

Seems to end in mid-run... aha! repeat. ouroboros.

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sign of something more

just like tom thumb's blues. simple. genius. nothing. a mirror (to the reader). kill the rhyme. now in time.

Bob Dylan is a genius. sometimes I forget that, and sometimes I wonder how much of a genius the guy could be, he's just a damned musician. And not a particularly classically pleasin' fellah by any stretch. Not that there's anything wrong with that. And then I hear things like my millionth time listening to "Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues" and I don't wonder about 'lil Bobby Z for another moment.

If you skim through the lyrics and catch bits and pieces, as most people do, you hear a bunch of fantastic couplets and turns of phrases. "When you're lost in the rain in Juarez / And it's Eastertime too" "The cops don't need you / and man they expect the same" "I started out on burgandy / But soon hit the harder stuff" that's all pretty cool. They always said Dylan had a way with words. And damned if he doesn't.

Then, you listen a little closer. Maybe to a verse. Maybe on the rain in Juarez. Maybe Saint Annie. Maybe you latch onto Sweet Melinda. Housing Project Hill? The Authorities? Drinking? Is that what you then thought the song was about? A whole song about one of those characters?

They said that Dylan was smart!! Shit! I bet the whole song fits together into one long tale. One guy traveling through an experience of some kind. An epic tale! I should learn about it. Maybe it'll be like the Ballad of Billy the Kid. Everybody knows that's a dope song about a L.I.E. boy. (That is about what Dave still looks like. Only he looks more like a rockstar now, as my favorite ex-girlfriend will have you know!)

Then you hunker down and listen. Okay. It's a story about me. Me? Why would I be lost in the rain? Let's find out. Hmmm... doesn't say. Must be bad if I'm there on Easter with these hungry women. Shit. Dylan knew one of 'em and now he can't even get a shot. What kind of shot? A bourbon? A shot in the arm? A shot at Annie? Even his best friend doctor doesn't know! Wait, who's Melinda? Someone he knew after Annie apparently. That explains why I was nice. How was I kind? well, I didn't go to her too soon. How soon is too soon? I don't know, but she's got my fucking voice, dude. Which leaves me upset all night. Maybe leading me to housing project hill? Fortune or fame. Neither is what it claims. But what does each claim? Well, whatever it claims, that's exactly what it ain't, right? Yup. Well, I better get out of here before it gets silly. What does he mean by silly? I don't know, but the cops don't need us, so we better not need them for shit, alright? Yeah, even the authorities don't do nothing but boast about turning on their own, man. Who are we supposed to trust? Well, learn your lessons from Angel because he left here looking like a ghost. What does a ghost look like? Well, I don't know but seeing one will drive a man to drink. Starting of with something easy (as seen in context even if you don't know what burgandy is) but then moving on. And didn't' you know, when people say they're going to be there, they aren't always. And when I figured that out and laughed the joke was on me because I was the only one there, so nobody heard it. Damn. that's gotta be ironical or something. And who goes back to NYC when they've had enough that's backwards!

And then you read back what you just wrote down on the first run through and relize that you missed everything. Somehow. Even though you followed the narrative pretty well, you have no idea what's going on here. Is there one character? Multiple? What happens to the guy in Juarez? What about the ladies in the Second Act? What about that brush with the lowlifes on Project Hill? Or the clash with the authorities? Or when we faded away into the bottle, alone into terrible laughter?

Damn. Nothing.

What about visual cues? Are there colors? Nope. Only burgandy. And that was a beverage. Places? Juarez and New York City. I don't even know where Juarez is. I know New York, but no two people know the same New York. So, even all of those images we pictured the whole way through were not shared? Nope. They were all your images. No descriptions of the people? Nope. Let's run through this again. So we've got...

...an unknown person in an unknown place in unknown weather at an unknown time of day during easter when gravity fails and the unknown person of unknown gender is stuck out with some hungry women on a made up french-death sounding avenue. in that area i might see saint annie, but i don't know what she looks like or anything else about her aside from she left my narrator without strength to take an unknown shot of unknown anything, and worst of all, his best friend the doctor won't say what the narrator's got. not what his sickness is, not what the shot is, not what is going on, not anything. now sweet melinda enters the picture and she, though gloomy, invites me up to her room where i'm kind (of course) though i don't know what that means and i don't go too soon even though i can't speak, only howl. in project housing hill, you can have one of two things that every has their own ideas about, the catch is that while you can have either, neither is what they claim. although we don't know what they claim. and if you think this is nonsense, you better go back the way you came because the cops don't need you and you don't want to need them. nice threat. the authorities are bad too, though we don't know which authorities. just the ones who blackmailed someone to pick up an ungendered someone who was no longer the same person were when they eventually left after an unknown period of time. in fact, they looked like a ghost. but we don't know what a ghost looks like. well, that made me drink unnamed hard stuff which lead to an unknown number of people who said that they would stand behind me leave when the game got rough. which was funny because there was no one there to call my bluff, which meant i had been lying to all however many of them there were in the first place which means that when they left, they did just what they should have because i was lying to them just like they were lying to me. nor not (sic).

So... there are no details in this song. None. Every image is placed there by the mind of the consumer/listener/reader/whatever. Wow.

Then you notice that the emphasis placed on the rhyme is just there for amusement. There should be something linking those rhymed words. Some meaning. Something should be revealed there. a Relationship between the words. Something. here, there is nothing. The rhymes are pedestrian, if not the most obvious thing that would come to mind. But there is nothing to tease out. Nothing to infer.

Well damn, what can you get from this madness? Can you pick out feelings? Maybe. not the linear ones we so often hear about. Not Joy. Not desperation. Not exactly sadness. But there is a feeling of that. There is also inevitability. Passing of time. Change. Not from one particular state to another particular state, but from one ill-defined state to another ill-defined state. Not from happy to sad to happy. From imperfect to imperfect to imperfect.

Such is life. Constantly changing imperfection. Are you ever just happy? Maybe. But you can never know that you're just happy because the minute you think about being just happy, you're no longer just happy, you're thinking about being just happy. That's why the second time is never as good as the first. In anything. Until you realize that it isn't about being as good as the first. It is about being different than the first. The joy is in the change. The joy is in experiencing the contrast. It will never again be like it is now. It will only be different.

That encapsulates everything, right? Good. Now we can talk about how Dylan destroyed and mocked convention so long and so well that he became conventional. Love that guy!

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