The Selling of Rock and Roll starring Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones (for Rice Krispies!), Cream, The Who, Aretha, Ray, The Airplane, Lou Reed, The Sex Pistols and Bruce on Baseball.
What counter-culture revolution were you sold?
I was sold the one that said music and hair, tie dye and bell bottoms, slogans and flower power would end war, bring about social justice and change whatever else in the world needed changing.
I listened to the prophets in the halls, followed my leaders and watched the parking meters. I learned not to trust Mad Men who tried to sell me cigarettes because they didn't smoke the same brand as me.
The years rolled by but the songs remained the same. People gathered round from wherever they roamed and we spent twenty years of schoolin' before landin' on the day shift.
Yup. It was an new kind of freedom - an idealization devoutly to be wished.
Then, this past Super Bowl Sunday, as I assiduously tried to avoid the barrage of commercials imploring me to buy whatever it was they were selling (it's becoming nearly impossible to figure out what that is - I mean, what does the love affair between a dog and horse have to do with ... what was that product again?) I heard a voice I knew. I looked up and saw a face among a collage of faces that I thought I knew. I smiled when I saw him coming and said, "well, well well."
And there here he was: little ol' Bobby Zimmerman choosing the Super Bowl to remind us that he stands beside Route 66, Rosie the Riveter, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and Dr. J. as American icons of the past century.
He also served notice that he is capable of speaking in a nearly comprehensible voice, that he has taken affirmative and radical steps to smooth his previously wrinkled visage, that there is nothing more American than America (huh?) and that, while we are welcome to swig German beer, adorn ourselves with Swiss Watches and communicate with the world via Asian cell phones, it is our patriotic duty to buy American cars manufactured by Chrysler (never mind that its' majority owner is Fiat of Italy).
I was sold the one that said music and hair, tie dye and bell bottoms, slogans and flower power would end war, bring about social justice and change whatever else in the world needed changing.
I listened to the prophets in the halls, followed my leaders and watched the parking meters. I learned not to trust Mad Men who tried to sell me cigarettes because they didn't smoke the same brand as me.
The years rolled by but the songs remained the same. People gathered round from wherever they roamed and we spent twenty years of schoolin' before landin' on the day shift.
Yup. It was an new kind of freedom - an idealization devoutly to be wished.
Then, this past Super Bowl Sunday, as I assiduously tried to avoid the barrage of commercials imploring me to buy whatever it was they were selling (it's becoming nearly impossible to figure out what that is - I mean, what does the love affair between a dog and horse have to do with ... what was that product again?) I heard a voice I knew. I looked up and saw a face among a collage of faces that I thought I knew. I smiled when I saw him coming and said, "well, well well."
And there here he was: little ol' Bobby Zimmerman choosing the Super Bowl to remind us that he stands beside Route 66, Rosie the Riveter, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and Dr. J. as American icons of the past century.
He also served notice that he is capable of speaking in a nearly comprehensible voice, that he has taken affirmative and radical steps to smooth his previously wrinkled visage, that there is nothing more American than America (huh?) and that, while we are welcome to swig German beer, adorn ourselves with Swiss Watches and communicate with the world via Asian cell phones, it is our patriotic duty to buy American cars manufactured by Chrysler (never mind that its' majority owner is Fiat of Italy).
Now, I have heard many lamenting that ol' Bob' was selling his soul to commercial interests (the songs were sold long ago - including the lovely "I Want You" which was used on Super Sunday to pitch some Greek Yogurt no one ever heard of before.)
I've given some thought to what the man has meant to me over the years and what he has represented to my g...g...g...generation as a counterculture icon and inspiration, as a man whose own apparent conviction once led him to write, "money doesn't talk it swears ...propaganda all is phony" and who is now shilling for cars draped in the flag, trading in on his own self-created image.
I thought about it in the context of that rebel music, rock and roll and its' predecessor, folk and protest music. I thought about it in the context of America and our shared values which are based almost wholly on more than a dollop of rank materialism.
I wonder what, if anything, has changed through the years. I wonder if what I had believed to be real and true was merely youthful idealism that slipped away while I wasn't paying attention.
Dylan warned us over and over again not to look to him as any kind of avatar of a generation. He warned us not to follow leaders. It was he who wrote, "It's never been my duty to remake the world at large, nor is it my intention to sound a battle charge."
The man has been accused of selling out many times before. He was lambasted for abandoning "protest" music for introverted songs, acoustic music for electric, rock for country, Christian and whatever else he could be accused of.
It was also Dylan who, as far back as 1965, when asked if there was anything that he would "sell out" for responded, "women's underwear". He did just that in 1994, appearing as himself, a leering old codger in one of those soft porn Victoria's Secret ads.
And while we're on the topic of selling cars, remember that in 2007, he drove a Cadillac as a pitchman in another enigmatic ad.
Dylan remains whatever Dylan wants to be; a song man and musician who doesn't care a whit what you, me or they think and those ads are intended to do nothing other than add to the stockpile of loot he's already compiled.
In that pursuit, he has plenty of company for, even within the once upon a time counterculture, money never swore, it cooed.
Here is a cavalcade of the cash and carry selling of the dream starring our very own plastic counterculture revolutionaries, Bobby, Mick, Pete, et. al, hawking various versions of the same old crap. Somewhere, Don Draper is smirking while tossing back an old fashioned martini.
I've given some thought to what the man has meant to me over the years and what he has represented to my g...g...g...generation as a counterculture icon and inspiration, as a man whose own apparent conviction once led him to write, "money doesn't talk it swears ...propaganda all is phony" and who is now shilling for cars draped in the flag, trading in on his own self-created image.
I thought about it in the context of that rebel music, rock and roll and its' predecessor, folk and protest music. I thought about it in the context of America and our shared values which are based almost wholly on more than a dollop of rank materialism.
I wonder what, if anything, has changed through the years. I wonder if what I had believed to be real and true was merely youthful idealism that slipped away while I wasn't paying attention.
Dylan warned us over and over again not to look to him as any kind of avatar of a generation. He warned us not to follow leaders. It was he who wrote, "It's never been my duty to remake the world at large, nor is it my intention to sound a battle charge."
The man has been accused of selling out many times before. He was lambasted for abandoning "protest" music for introverted songs, acoustic music for electric, rock for country, Christian and whatever else he could be accused of.
It was also Dylan who, as far back as 1965, when asked if there was anything that he would "sell out" for responded, "women's underwear". He did just that in 1994, appearing as himself, a leering old codger in one of those soft porn Victoria's Secret ads.
And while we're on the topic of selling cars, remember that in 2007, he drove a Cadillac as a pitchman in another enigmatic ad.
Dylan remains whatever Dylan wants to be; a song man and musician who doesn't care a whit what you, me or they think and those ads are intended to do nothing other than add to the stockpile of loot he's already compiled.
In that pursuit, he has plenty of company for, even within the once upon a time counterculture, money never swore, it cooed.
Here is a cavalcade of the cash and carry selling of the dream starring our very own plastic counterculture revolutionaries, Bobby, Mick, Pete, et. al, hawking various versions of the same old crap. Somewhere, Don Draper is smirking while tossing back an old fashioned martini.
Bob sells Chrysler
Bob sells Cadillac
The Rolling Stones pitch Rice Krispies - 1964
The Cream pitch Falstaff Beer
Ray Charles and Aretha Franklin pitch Coca Cola
The Jefferson Airplane pitch Levi's JeanS
The Who pitch Coca Cola
The Moody Blues in search of the lost Coke
Lou Reed for Honda scooters
John Lydon (Sex Pistols) for Butter
Bruce Springsteen pitches baseball
1 comment:
I remember in high school how important Dylan's lyrics were to you. I see the disappointment and hurt in your words. Please do not yell at me if I misspell. I am spelling handicapped! Mike Summit
Post a Comment