Blowin' in the Wind

Where was I when Dylan went electric? In elementary school.

By the time I was buying records and forging my own musical path, Dylan was passe, or at least in the junior high circles I moved in, he was. And while I could have circled back around at some point to acquaint myself with his  extensive catalog, I never did.

Which is not to say I didn't come around to appreciating his songs, even (especially?) when sung by others, But I was definitely out of the Dylan loop. Years ago, I recall an older friend and massive Dylan fan telling me about a recent Dylan concert, notable because he'd played "Masters of War," which apparently was highly unusual up to that point.

Only problem was I had to go home and look up "Masters of War."

Eventually, I tried to correct my musical inadequacy by reading books such as his chronologically-challenged "Chronicles, Volume I," as well as David Hajdu's "Positively Fourth Street." I made sure to see "I'm Not There" and the iconic documentary "Don't Look Back" in an effort to glean more of Dylan's back pages.

See what I did there? If not, you may be as Dylan-deprived as me.

Still looking to learn, I jumped at the chance to go to Firehouse Theater to see local Americana/bluegrass band Whiskey Rebellion celebrating the music of Dylan.

The producing artistic director expressed surprise to see me there  for something other than a play and a discussion of restaurants ensued.  Next to me was a woman who'd seen the band before when they were doing an evening of Grateful Dead music. Waiting for the show to start, the guy behind me sang along loudly to Stone Temple Pilots, assuring those around him, "I'll stop singing when the band starts."

Instead he stopped when the director came out and said, "Hi. Happy December and happy Hanukkah!" No candle was lit, however.

The show officially began when the singer/guitarist and upright bass player took the stage and launched into "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright," a song I knew from the Peter, Paul and Mary version.

Please don't judge.

As we applauded that, the remainder of the band came out: violinist, keyboard player, drummer and banjo player and began a song I didn't recognize. But I was okay with that because I went into this knowing that I likely wouldn't be able to identify every song.

Luckily, I immediately recognized "Forever Young," delivered after the singer explained how exciting it had been to select from so many Dylan songs and spend the Fall learning them. And even a Dylan neophyte like me knew "Like a Rolling Stone" from the first measure.

I mean, I'm not a complete idiot.

"Dylan was such an inspirational songwriter," the singer said, pointing out that with guitarists, later generations built on what guitarists accomplished in the '60s and '70s. "But it never got better than Dylan's songwriting. He was untouchable as a songwriter."

Even I knew this. After all, isn't that how he wound up with the Pulitzer prize?

He went on to posit on Dylan's inscrutability and how his songs could be taken literally or how a person could think he was somehow writing about their own life. He seemed to think the latter was the case with "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue."

After a swig of his Miller beer for his scratchy throat, the singer joked that he need it because, "Dylan had that clear crisp timbre, right?" and the audience (95% of whom could have told you where they were the day JFK was assassinated) laughed.

"Then you need a shot of bourbon for that!" a guy near me suggested.

His revived voice was for "Meet Me in the Morning," a song I didn't know, followed by the spot-on "Political World."

We live in a political world
Courage is a thing of the past
Houses are haunted
Children unwanted
The next day could be your last

After their powerful rendition of the song, the singer looked at the audience and said seriously, "True story," causing a guy down in front to holler out, "Good stuff!"

It was, too. All six musicians were strong players clearly enjoying the chance to get their Dylan on, although if I was in elementary school, they weren't even a gleam in their Daddy's eye when Dylan went electric.

"Knockin' on Heaven's Door" got the full-on treatment with a heartbreaking violin part and a reminder to the crowd that it had been written for the film "Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid." And while I may have known that at some point, it had long since slipped from my mental Rolodex.

No one should be surprised that I knew "It Ain't Me, Babe" from the Turtles' version, but who knew what a banjo and brushes on the drums could add to it?

Saying that the band needed to get "refilled and tuned up" meant that intermission was imminent and the singer used the opportunity to test our Dylan knowledge. "Everybody must take a break," he announced with an expectant look on his face.

Doesn't quite have the ring of the original lyric, now does it?

They closed the first set with "All Along the Watchtower," which turned out to be the ideal song for shredding on banjo, guitar, violin and keys while the rhythm section held it all down.

I can't even tell you how much more fully Dylan-qualified I felt during intermission.

Around me, I listened as two blond women discussed the benefits of Alexa and two middle-aged men discovered that they'd been at the same high school football game in 1974. I kid you not, they even recalled a short player who could run like hell, though neither remembered the guy's name.

"Ten minutes, that's all it takes in this town to find your connection," one said to the other. If not for the lights going down, I would have turned to him and challenged that theory. Sir, you could talk to me all night and I can guarantee you won't find a connection.

Whiskey Rebellion's second set was all original music and their stellar playing meant that even unfamiliar songs were a pleasure to hear, though as the singer reminded us, these were not Dylan songs because Dylan is at the top of the songwriting pyramid.

An evening of untouchable songs meant that I got a refresher course tonight and even a little inspiration to go deeper, maybe at my next record-listening party. It's never too late to up your Dylan quotient.

I may be late getting on the Dylan train, but only because I didn't know better.

Ah, but I was so much older then. I'm younger than that now.

Women as Advertisements

Tonight I was the poster girl for eating out, apparently. My plans were for later, so I intended to have a leisurely dinner at Tarrant's, knowing I'd have to wait until after the pre-Wicked/Symphony crowd cleared out. I could tell by the harried looks on the staff's faces when I arrived that it had been a crazy day. Between Saturday Stroll, drunken post-Irish festival attendees and then the theater crowd, they'd already been through the wringer.

Need proof? By 7:30, Tarrant's was out of their renowned garlic knots, those yeasty rolls they make and douse in oil and garlic. I know people who go there just for those rolls. I sat at the end of the bar and made it simple by just getting a Cobb salad and while I say "just," I think their Cobb is the best in the city. The bands of bacon, red onion, avocado, tomato and bleu cheese are generous and rest on top of a varied array of mixed greens.

Moments after my salad came, a foursome entered and one of the girls immediately stepped over to me and said, "That looks amazing. What is it?" I told her and she ogled it for a while until her date grabbed her arm and pulled her away. Not even five minutes later, a group of six came in and a girl looked at me, looked at my Cobb and said, "Omigod, that looks so good. It's like you're an advertisement for this restaurant looking so content with that salad in front of you! What is it?" So if you haven't had it, it's a big, beautiful-looking salad that's perfectly delicious.

As I was winding down, local artist and noted character Nate Motely came in for coffee and pliers (don't ask) and insisted on giving me one of his drawings. We see each other a lot around town (821 especially) and he loves to talk art with me; I'm guessing that's why he gifted me with this piece out of the blue. I'll admit, it made my night.

Then it was on to Plant Zero for another night of the James River Film Fest and to see Patti Smith: Dream of Life. Shot over a decade, the film was as interesting visually as it was for its content. It began with Smith saying, "Life is an adventure of our own design, intersecting fate in a series of lucky and unlucky accidents," and went on from there to show her in concert, on the road, visiting grave sites and at readings and protests. Directed by Steven Sebring and for the most part black and white, it was a compelling look at a fascinating woman.

In an elevator scene, she comments on someone asking her what it feels like to be a rock icon. "When they say that, it makes me feel like Mount Rushmore," she wryly notes. With her androgynous face and strong bones, she'd actually be a magnificent addition to that monument.

Her 1931 Gibson guitar was a gift from Sam Shepard and she named it Beau. Naturally, it had a lot of allure to musicians and she told of how when they came over, inevitably they'd compliment the guitar. She'd ask them if they wanted to play it, of course they'd accept and begin by tuning it. "And I'd get my guitar tuned!" she said gleefully. Even the mighty Bob Dylan tuned Smith's guitar this way.

Sebring had originally been scheduled to talk after the film, but scheduling conflicts prevented it. I would have liked to have heard the discourse afterwards because it appeared that the audience members were long-time devotees of Smith and undoubtedly would have had questions and information to share with the man who filmed her for ten years.

The documentary was fascinating for me because I didn't know enough about this seminal female figure in music history. Her one-upmanship stories of her skill at peeing in unusual places endeared her to me; I've been there myself, all urge and no place to go.

I came away feeling like Smith could be an advertisement for women carving out their own path in life. I wouldn't mind being thought of in that way myself.