The Age of Information
When I was a kid back in the 60s somebody could have shared with me a fantasy about the possibility of having a big bath full of epsom salts and creamy suds and at the same time watching a documentary about the seminal 1960s Bob Dylan on a little screen that wasn’t even plugged into electricity and I would have either laughed or stood there with my eyes wide and my mouth gaping open.
The fantasy continues …. out of the bath and sitting in front of a big screen with a keyboard in front of me writing about it and by then having been inspired to listen to Woody Guthrie songs and words I call out “Hey Google, play Woody Guthrie and the opening strains of “This Land is Your Land” ring out loud and clear.
Is life wonderful?
Yes, of course it is, but it was back then as well. It’s not really even fair to compare them because 50 plus years ago you had to search for it, it was harder to find and maybe you appreciated what you found a bit more.
Who knows?
You also had to search for adventure, newness, discovery. Life was a bit more of an odyssey.
I’m glad that I have experienced both scenarios. Both are equally wonderful and astonishing but deep down I’m sort of glad I had to try harder when I was young.
The one thing that is really amazing and rewarding about this age of information is the ridiculously easy access to whatever information you want to re-visit and dig deeper into.
When I did get into music, in the very early 1960s, what attracted me was instrumental music, not voices, not words … but guitars and coming a far distant second the other instruments. It’s a pity that I didn’t fully appreciate those other parts of music as much as I do now because my journey through music and as a musician would have been a hell of a lot more rewarding and my willingness to learn and practise would have resulted in me being able to express myself far more eloquently. It’s not too late.
By the time I heard The Beatles music in the early 60s words were so benign that they weren’t worth listening to, this changed a bit later but by then it was too late for me to appreciate them. It’s funny because the songs that stand out from my early years are all country songs that tell stories about life and love but not in a mushy way, more pragmatic, not about fleeting lust but lamenting about loss and hardship and living life, gritty and matter of fact.
Damn, I wish I had of listened to Woody Guthrie back when I was a kid.
I even missed Bob Dylan’s words. I subliminally heard the words (somewhere in the distance behind the instuments) but I wasn’t interested. The 12 string guitar in the Byrds version of “Tambourine Man” was far more interesting as was Jimi Hendrix’s guitar solo on
“All Along The Watchtower”.
So the end result of all of this is that I’ve got a lot of catching up to do but in this wonderful age of information the words are all easy to access.
“Hey Siri !
What are the words to Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War”?
Come, you masters of war
You that build the big gun
You that build the death planes
You that build all the bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks
You that never done nothin’
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it’s your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly
Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain
You fasten all the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you sit back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansio
While the young peoples’ blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud
You’ve thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatenin’ my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain’t worth the blood
That runs in your veins
How much do I know
To talk out of turn?
You might say that I’m young
You might say I’m unlearned
But there’s one thing I know
Though I’m younger than you
That even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do
Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good?
Will it buy you forgiveness?
Do you think that it could?
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul
And I hope that you die
And your death will come soon
I’ll follow your casket
On a pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand over your grave
‘Til I’m sure that you’re dead
