Stoned Again

So I see that my old mucker Greil Marcus [pictured] has written an entire book about one song, namely my other old mucker Bob Dylan's 'Like A Rolling Stone'. If anyone was going to undertake such a project it was bound to be the man I call 'Holy Greil' on account of his status as the High Priest in the Church of Latter-day American Rock Criticism.

It's a pretty lofty gig which demands a pretty lofty prose style, and Greil never fails to deliver. Here's little sample from the new book: "Then for an expanding instant there is nothing. The first sound is so stark and surprising, every time you hear it, that the empty split-second that follows calls up the image of a house tumbling over a cliff, it calls up a void."
Now, if the bould Stephen Hawking – another old mucker of mine, incidentally – wrote something like that about, say, the birth of the universe, you might be concerned that he was overdoing the horse tranquillisers, whereas the Big Bang about which Greil is waxing heavy is simply the sound of the drum stick coming down at the start of 'Like A Rolling Stone' and the infinitesimally tiny bit of silence which follows before the band kicks in.
I'm sure if the great Larry Gogan had reviewed the record in Spotlight at the time, he'd have contented himself with saying something like, "A good beat and a catchy tune, makes this another winner for the popular protest singer, but it may be a little on the longish side to get the disc into the top ten."

Profound Statement

But that would never be good enough for Greil. By the end of the paragraph quoted above, he's interpreting one of Bob's own little comments on the tune to assure us that, "no-one had ever tried to make as much of a song, to altogether open the territory it might claim, to make a song a story, and a sound, but also the Oklahoma Land Rush." To which, I submit, there is only one legitimate response: "Will ya go and shite!"
Jah knows, Greil has written some cool stuff about Presley, The Band and Robert Johnson, but I'm afraid to say that all this rock-hack-as-cultural-commentator stuff has finally scrambled his mind. You don't believe me?
Here he is, another lengthy paragraph later, still banging on about that simple whack of a drumstick: "That first announcement is brought inside the sound, so it becomes a signpost, re- appearing every other step of the way: a mark of how far the story has gone, which is to say a mark of how much ground that can never be recovered has been left behind."
Which is to say – if I may borrow a patented Marcus-ism – that the drummer continues to play the drums throughout the song. And, er, that's it. Unless, of course, you're Greil Marcus, the Master of the Hidden Meaning, in which case the drummer apparently abandons the sticks altogether and starts hitting the kit with a fucking signpost.
Frankly, Sam has grown weary of the pompous style of professorial American rock journalism which is so intent on affirming the artistic credibility of the Big Beat – and, therefore, the cultural importance of those who pontificate about it – that it is prepared to inflate the smallest detail of a good old rock 'n'roll song into a Profound Statement About The Nature And Meaning Of Life In America.
Jeez, if my boy Greil can devote a 250-page book to the subject of 'Like A Rolling Stone' – and leave you with the dread sense that he could have added the same amount again if the publishers had demanded it – you're left quivering at the thought of how many forests would fall should he ever turn his forensic attentions to a truly epic song, such as Europe's 'The Final Countdown.'
Anyway, the biggest laugh about all this is that neither Greil nor Dave Marsh nor Bob Christgau nor any of the other grand dons of the Faculty Of American Rock Literature, know the real story behind 'Like A Rolling Stone'. But Sam does. Because Sam – regular readers will not be surprised to learn – actually helped old Zimmy write the damn thing.

Afternoon Shag

It happened this-a-way. So desperate was Bobbie to shake off the restrictive folky image and grab a slice of the commercial pop pie that he sat down one day to write a song which he hoped would capitalise on the burgeoning beat boom. As usual, the poor bastard got stuck after the first line. (Greil, by the way, writes fucking reams about that line – “Once upon a time” – attaching all kinds of mythical/historical/ cultural significance to the use of the well-worn phrase, whereas I happen know for a fact it was only in Bob's head 'cos his mates The Clancy Brothers had introduced him to the work of their fellow Irishman Jimmy O' Dea. But I digress.)
Needless to say, Bob interrupted my daily afternoon shag with a babe who waited on tables at the Café Wha', to ask for my help. By this stage, the song had advanced to the stage where he had a number of drafts simultaneously on the go, all of 'em crudely fashioned to take advantage of the popularity of some of the well-known beat combos of the day.
Over cheap red wine and smokes at a little table in the corner of the famous Village coffee shop, he showed me the work(s) in progress.
One was called 'Like A Kink' and included the lines: "How does it make you think/To be like a kink.' Another was called 'Like A Beatle' and with a certain Dylanesque flourish went: “How does it feel to be positively foetal/like a Beatle”.
Still another, with Bobbie's usual disdain for perfect rhyme and scan, went “How does it feel to be a merry face painter/just like Gerry & The Pacemakers”. "I don't feel any of 'em really work, Sam," said Bob with unaccustomed perception. "Do you happen to know anything that rhymes with Procul Harem?"
My reply pointed out that Mick Jagger's beat combo were becoming quite popular and that the word 'stone' had a lot of useful soundalikes, such as “alone”, “own”, “unknown”. And, hey, if you mangled the pronunciation – and no-one has ever mangled the Queen's English quite like the Zim – you could even get “home” in there. Bobbie nodded earnestly and then, his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth and his boyish little face assuming an expression of rapt concentration, he began scribbling furiously on a napkin. After a bit, he looked up excitedly and exclaimed: "Hey, I think I might be onto something here, Sam. Thanks a million, man – again."
With that I suggested to the waitress babe with financial problems – and a very cute ass – that she should consider pawning her family heirloom, a diamond ring. Then I picked up Beep, my pet Siamese cat, put him on my shoulder, and went out on the street. Turning, I caught Bobbie staring wide-eyed at me through the window. Then he returned to scribbling on his napkin.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Mr Snort will be taking his annual leave next issue. All correspondence and suspicious looking packages should be sent to him c/o The Betty Ford Clinic.