Thanks to the generosity of Double Tee Promotions and an employee named Sage, this reporter managed to gain free admittance to a sold-out $45-a-ticket concert at MacArthur Court in Eugene, September 24, after offering to write something about it in Talking Leaves. In this unconventional concert review, I'm going to attempt to answer the obvious but easily neglected question that emerged as I assembled the Music Reviews for this issue: not "What does an ecological future look like?" nor even "What does it sound like?," but "What does it feel like?" This concept may not fly, but please fasten your seatbelts and stay with me to see if or where it crashes. At the very least, I've gotten a great concert experience and a spectacularly flawed essay out of it. Once safely aloft, you are welcome to move around in the cabin, except during periods of turbulence, but please: no smoking.
The object of my musical fascination on this evening was neither the opening act--Lucinda Williams--nor the closing act--Van Morrison--though portions of both of their sets were definitely more than passable. No, it seemed that I and a horde of others had converged on this basketball court/concert hall for one main reason: to see Nobel-prize-in-literature nominee Robert Zimmerman, a.k.a. Bob Dylan, bring his brand of poetry to the stage.
My first observation was that lots of people will pay lots of money to see a living legend. My second observation was that the natural abundance of the universe was also at work: anyone who arrived at the concert site, it seemed, could find a way to get a ticket. I witnessed people with extra tickets giving them away free to total strangers, and I discovered that I myself had been given two free tickets instead of the one I'd requested. Resisting the temptation to sell it and donate the proceeds to the Global Anti-Golfing Society, I kept the flow of abundance going by giving it to another ticketless fan.
Inside the arena, the only serious blockage to energy flow (besides the concession stands in the hallways) were the security guards, who constituted a minor annoyance as they attempted to prevent people from dancing on the open floor space (which they called "fire lanes"). Finally, by bonding together, strategizing, and utilizing their power in numbers, the masses were victorious. As a determined river of bodies spilled uncontrollably down all the fire lanes, including the one in front of the stage, the security guards conceded defeat, and let the dancing proceed without further harassment.
A large portion of the crowd stayed on its feet the entire time Dylan was on stage. The atmosphere was electric, as was Dylan's four-person band, which backed him on every number. Alternating between electric and acoustic guitar, sounding as good vocally as he has in years, Dylan covered material spanning four decades, from the early '60s to his latest, Grammy-winning album, Time Out of Mind. Highlights of his long set and extended encore included "Everything Is Broken," "It Takes A Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry," "Masters of War," "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35," "Highway 61 Revisited," and a sublime "Tangled Up in Blue." More than I'd ever experienced before, his arrangements during this concert made the lines dividing blues, folk, and rock become transparent, and ultimately disappear.
But it was Dylan, himself, who in a sense disappeared at this concert. With all eyes on him, he put on a show, never missing a lyric or guitar lick, and obviously playing to the audience. But he seemed to be serving some power outside of himself, channeling the same muse that has possessed him for over 35 years, being a lightning rod, and doing it for us. In the face of the overwhelming adoration of the crowd, part of him seemed to be saying "It ain't me...." Obviously happy with his music, he still did not seem happy as a person. With fans all around him worshipping him (one of the most prolific, influential, and widely-covered songwriters of the century), he still seemed not particularly content within himself, but to be playing his music--as he always has--as a means of emotional survival against a backdrop of personal pain.
Professor Aidan Day of Edinburgh University (quoted in the September 24 Eugene Weekly) has observed that "above all, Dylan's work has over 35 years fearlessly and uniquely engaged and defined a culture in a state of permanent anxiety and crisis." Dylan's demeanor, his body language, his stage presence express this state of alienation, anxiety, and basic unhappiness almost as eloquently as his songs do. Music and his unparalleled creativity are what keep him going--not any inherent groundedness or feeling of wholeness. As John Hawkins writes in the same issue, Dylan "expresses 20th century humanity crucified to the cross beams of our endless doubts and desires," his songs capturing our "yearning for redemption in a technologized world."
The crowd poured out its love for Dylan at the top of its lungs, perhaps hoping he could take it in. If his playing and singing were any indications, he seemed to feel appreciated--but I'd be surprised if he returned to his hotel room that night feeling truly satisfied with his life. Except in his songwriting, he gives the impression of being a man of few words and many misgivings; except in his guitar-playing, he gives the impression of being a person who rarely smiles. But, I wondered, are any of us coming from a place of significantly greater wholeness than Dylan? Why are some of us so willing to worship him?--or worship Ani Di Franco? Or Ralph Nader? Or worship just about anyone other than ourselves? Why do we find redemption in a CD, or in something else that someone else made, and that we have to buy? Why do I want to appreciate art or artists, outside of myself, so much?
And why am I seeming to doubt that appreciation of other people and their art is appropriate? Probably because the maelstrom of endless doubts can be contagious and all-enveloping--at least until the walls come tumbling down.
Suffice it to say that I left the concert feeling excited and thrilled by the experience, but not particularly whole, not particularly grounded, and not particularly connected with other people. I didn't feel as if I'd spent the evening getting to know someone I could now talk with easily. Instead, Dylan the person was still an enigmatic, brilliant, eccentric, haunted mystery. The crowd had been united in its exuberant, dancing frenzy, but, come to think of it, had we actually sung together audibly, except on a few of the choruses? Many of us had indeed sung along, but the amplified music was too loud for us to hear ourselves singing together. Had we spent the evening learning about one another, or ourselves? Conversation and quiet reflection were next to impossible. We had, ultimately, engaged in an evening of ecstatic celebration of alienation. And it was so reassuringly familiar, even with those thrilling new counter-chords on "Tangled Up in Blue." It was exuberantly familiar.
The captain has turned the seatbelt lights on, and we ask that you return to your seats, as we are experiencing some turbulence. At this altitude, our route is cloudy and unclear: How does a review of a Bob Dylan concert become an essay about how an ecological future feels? To be honest, I don't know, but I have a couple hunches:
1. "Y2K," the millennium computer bug, has introduced potentially catastrophic uncertainties into the very near future. If that particular crisis doesn't manage to seriously disable our current ways of life, we still have the depletion and/or exhaustion of petroleum reserves, topsoil, aquifers, and ozone layer to look forward to. As we contemplate the frightening, unknown dimensions of the future, the (slightly modified) words of "Like a Rolling Stone" (1965) ask an essential question:
How does it feelHowever it feels to us is legitimate. But we need to let ourselves feel it. We've had enough weather reports by now to be fairly certain that, in some way or other, a hard rain's going to fall on our civilization. As we work to make our leaky boats seaworthy, those "buckets of rain" will, by their nature, bring "buckets of tears."
To be on [our] own
With no direction home
[Facing the] complete unknown...?
In contemplating Y2K and other potential crises, I'm sometimes afraid, particularly when I think about far-off relatives and friends attempting to cope with disruptions to food and power supplies. Alternately, I'm excited about the opportunity to reinvent our lives and our culture to be more ecologically and socially sustainable. Individually and collectively, we'll probably all feel like rolling stones for a while, once the changing times catch up with us. But I'm hopeful that, working together, we can convert the fire lanes of fear into dance floors of joy just as successfully as the MacArthur Court crowd did.
In any case, what Dylan described 33 years ago on a personal level, we now face on a societal level. The sooner we accept our condition--the sooner we see that, like Napoleon in rags, we have nothing, and nothing to lose--the more gracefully we'll accept our rightful places as coinhabitants with, not tyrants over, all other peoples and creatures on this planet.
2. No matter what the transition looks like, I am confident that an ecological future will evolve--there is no other long-term choice. Of more lasting importance than how it feels to contemplate the unknown transition, then, is how it feels to be living in that future once we're in it. In several significant respects, it does not feel like that Bob Dylan concert. Rituals which allow for dancing with abandon and the temporary loss of self are probably necessary elements of any healthy ecological society--and they're timeless and magical whenever they happen. But they're not sufficient for creating that society.
Despite our most fervent wishes, a culture "in a state of permanent anxiety and crisis" will never manifest a truly ecological future, no matter how exalted a pedestal we place our heroes on, no matter how loudly we cheer, nor how successfully we can be transported temporarily out of our own individual identities. No amount of nifty alternative technology can create that future either, nor can the latest permacultural techniques or wonder plants--not even bamboo, Red Russian Kale, or hemp.
An ecological future is grounded in a feeling about ourselves, and our lives--a feeling of wholeness and connection, not fragmentation and alienation. Music in an ecological future will be not a commodity we have to buy, but instead something we all create daily--as we work, as we play, as we gather in circles and give thanks, as we march in front of the local eco-newsweekly office demanding better press coverage for aquatic invertebrates. At concerts in the ecological future I imagine, audience members will drown out performers when they sing along�and they'll be singing about feeling at home on the earth, not lost in cities, mind-mazes, and the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
I recently experienced what I expect an ecological future will feel like, during a five-day course called The Practice (short for "The Practice of Honesty," a follow-up to the Naka-Ima workshop) held here at Lost Valley. Without going into all the details, I will say that, if my experience is any indication, this future will feel like:
It's a lot more difficult to describe exactly how this ecological future feels than it is to write about a Bob Dylan concert. It's less familiar, and maybe it can't be put into words or captured on paper. How does it feel to be fully in the present moment? In some ways, English prose (or at least my English prose) can't even approach describing it. To quote another famous poet (please excuse the gender-non-neutral language):
He who binds to himself a joyIf "How does it feel?" continues to be the key question, the answer is: It feels how it feels. Maybe it feels like being in love. I might draw a picture of it, but that wouldn't be it. I might write an essay about it, but that wouldn't be it. I might sing a song about it, but even that wouldn't be it. I definitely cannot buy it from a catalog. I will not find it on MacArthur Court. But I will find it in receiving and giving away free tickets. And maybe I will find it in someone else's eyes, in someone else's touch, and in the faith that this essay will say whatever it needs to say, go wherever it needs to go, even without a map. As someone once said (describing today and tomorrow as accurately as he described the '60s): the old road is rapidly aging, and the order is rapidly fading...
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity's sun rise.
We have landed--I think. But please keep your seatbelts on until we finish taxiing. On behalf of our crew (the Tambourine Man, the Jester, Mr. Jones, Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts), remember to leave your baggage at the gate (you won't need it), please continue to refrain from smoking, and thank you for joining us in this essay. It was a bumpy ride, but getting to the future can be like that, especially when we're blowing in the wind.
Chris Roth is managing editor of Talking Leaves; an organic gardener, gardening teacher and writer; son and sibling to professional musicians; a mediocre pianist obsessed with Mozart; and, despite all the moss he gathers, a rolling stone.
�1998 Talking Leaves
Winter 1999
Volume 8, Number 3
Visions of an Ecological Future
We welcome your letters!
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