Editor’s Note: Marlow is dead on this morning. Two men in a truck are bringing the remnants of Big Pink life down to the farm this morning, to help fill up a couple corners of the Loading Dock area with miscellany. The Ch-ch-ch-changes are happening here. Some of the debris included two manuscripts of books put aside years ago for some details that kept, you know, ch-ch-changing. They are fun, and confidences shared by people who no longer are among the living. Which will be all of us, presently, which includes David. Cool on the Piedmont this morning, a little closer to September weather. Things do change, don’t they? Below is from the Green Notebook, a quick (and handwritten) drive-by account of a year we used to call “1979.”
– Vic
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
For private, not-so-obvious reasons, I’ve been listening to a selection of great rock and roll songs that involve occasional stuttering (My, My, My, My, My Generation . . . K-K-K-K-K-K-Katmandu . . . J-J-J-Jive Talkin . . . Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes . . . Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Barbara Ann . . . D-D-D-D-D-Digital . . . B-B-B-B-B-Bad to the Bone . . . Buh-buh-buh-Bennie and the Jets . . . Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Oom-Mow Mow . . . .). Their lyrics get me in the mood or groove to listen to and understand what’s being said inside the Beltway . . . as in a “hey, what’s that sound, everybody look — what’s goin down” kind of way.
Yet, should we accept the fact that we are being asked to sacrifice our later years as if we are in detention for whatever it was that we, our parents, our grands, our greats and our country’s historically Great might have done, said, or thought wrong? Their incessant braying for our confessions telling them what sins they think we did and we still commit makes me ask why do they care about long past things that are no more and whose admissions fix mothing of current import? They see us and our dead as they want to see us and them . . . in the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions. They don’t see us as brains, hard workers, achievers, innovators, teachers, defenders, parenters, mentors – no, just criminals. Correct? They’re just so comfortably and self-assuredly numb and brainwashed…
At the end of these music appreciation and meditation sessions, I must admit that despite the passage of 50 years David Bowie’s Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes still rings true. Oh yeah. Mmm . . . Dave’s not here. D-d-d-dammit.
Still don’t know what we were waiting for
During our time running wild thru a million dead-end streets and
Many the times we thought we’d had it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So, we turned ourselves to face ourselves
But we never caught a glimpse
Of how some oldsters might have seen us as fakers
We were much too fast to be self-test takers
Ch-ch-changes
We turned and braced for the strange
Ch-ch-changes
Didn’t want to be rich men
Thought just being cool
Would allow us to rule the world
Ch-ch-changes
We turned and embraced the strange
Ch-ch-changes
But just settled to be kind men
Time did change us
But they still can’t trace our time
Today’s children go on and on
As they try to change “their” world
They’re turning to see the strange
They’re quite unaware of what they’re going through
Ch-ch-changes
They’ve turned to see us as strange
Ch-ch-changes
Can’t tell them to grow up and out of it
Ch-ch-changes
They’ve turned to see us as strange
Turned but not faced their strange
Ch-ch-changes
Where’s their shame, they’re up to their necks in it
Time may change em
But they can’t trace time
Strange fascination, fascinating them
Ah, changes are taking the pace they’re going through
Ch-ch-changes
They’ve not turned to face their strange
Ch-ch-changes
Pretty soon now they’re gone get older
PS Sorry, Dave, for the appropriation.
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