Bob Dylan's Top-Five Songs Beginning with "A"

1. “Absolutely Sweet Marie” (1966). Smokin’ organ riffs and Dylan’s wildest harmonica wailing spur the music into a gallop. But the best verbal moment is the couplet “Well, anybody can be just like me, obviously, / but then, now again, not too many can be like you, fortunately,” which are also the only lines that Jason & the Scorchers changed (for the worse) in their otherwise definitive cow-punk rendition. (George Harrison’s at the Thirtieth Anniversary Celebration was just so much Concert for Bangladesh by comparison.) Many an honest outlaw prefers the line “But to live outside the law you must be honest” (come to think of it, Jason & the Scorchers changed that line too--by adding “darlin’”), but that's just the old honor-among-thieves theme expressed in different words, which is maybe how Dylan later ended up on a Sopranos soundtrack.

2. “All Along the Watchtower” (1968). The best verse is the second one, in which Dylan kicks the penny-ante, Godot-lite existential despair so prevalent in 1968 to the curb then revisits his honesty-among-outlaws theme by putting “So let us not talk falsely now” in the mouth of the Thief. But would anyone consider this initially acoustic, three-verse sketch of a song a classic if Jimi Hendrix hadn’t plugged it in and dropped it into the cultural bathwater, thus inspiring Dylan himself to electrify it on the ’74 tour and forever after that (except on MTV Unplugged), eventually making it the song he would perform in concert more than any other? Maybe not. But Hendrix did plug it in.

3. “All I Really Want to Do” (1964). Dylan’s funniest song up to and maybe including The Basement Tapes and the Traveling Wilburys. Obviously Dylan found it amusing too, as he couldn’t get through the cockamamie rhymes with a straight face. Usually, one only laughs at his own jokes when they first pop into his head and catch him by surprise, so I’m guessing Dylan hadn’t written it too long before the tapes got rolling. (I know that one of the world’s several thousand Dylan books has probably already detailed the circumstances of this song’s composition, but I quit reading Dylan books after my 136th.) And you have to love the yodeling, as effective a slap in the face of protest-folk’s grimness as the Going Electric would be one year later. But, speaking as someone who used to have in-laws and who therefore now refuses to have anything to do with women whose parents are still alive, I sing along to “I don’t want to meet your kin” with not only relish but ketchup and mustard too.

4. “All over You” (1963). Dylan’s second-funniest song up to and maybe including The Basement Tapes and the Traveling Wilburys. And speaking of the Wilburys, the third verse (“Well, you cut me like a jigsaw puzzle / You made me to a walkin’ wreck / Then you pushed my heart through my backbone / Then you knocked off my head from my neck”--a verse missing from the live Town Hall version) would’ve fit in very nicely with that bunch of woman-bedeviled funsters’ misogynistic jokes.

5. “All the Tired Horses” (1970). Yeah, it’s a few syllables too long for haiku. And Dylan doesn’t sing on it. And it’s from his “worst” album. But Self Portrait is not Dylan’s worst album. It's simply 180 degrees away from what his audience wanted from him after the mellow and mellower twofer of John Wesley Harding and Nashville Skyline. (As a fan, I’d like to say he hasn’t made his worst album yet, but that would be to deny the existence of Knocked Out Loaded and Down in the Groove.) And Delores Edgin, Hilda Harris, Carol Montgomery, June Page, Albertine Robinson, and Maretha Stewart--who do sing on the song--not only floated their voices into a soothing glow evocative of sunsets on a lonesome prairie horizon but, by repeating the song’s only two lines for three minutes and twelve seconds, also softened up a generation of rock-and-roll fans for Steve Reich and Philip Glass.

(Bob Dylan's Top-Ten 21st-Century Love Couplets: http://arsenioorteza.blogspot.com/2010/07/bob-dylans-top-10-21st-century-love.html)

Jason & the Scorchers: Drug-Store, Truck-Drivin' Band (1996)

(As published in the Illinois Entertainer ... )

Ask anyone who was there and intermittently sober enough to retain sensory impressions: During the video-mad mid-to-late 1980s, Jason & the Scorchers ruled the country-punk roost. Amid the proliferation of MTV-generated pop-music images--Boy George, Cyndi Lauper, Dee Snider, images that put the fantasy cart before the rock 'n' roll horse--Jason Ringenberg and the band he rode in on kicked up a musical dust storm.

When the dust had finally settled, the landscape not only looked different--suddenly, cowboy hats were hip--but it sounded different too. The barbed-wire essence of rock-and-roll that had run from Chuck Berry and the Stones all the way up through the Sex Pistols and the Clash survived yet another onslaught of style over substance, and the world had Jason & the Scorchers, at least in part, to thank.

Substance abuse, however, is no better than style abuse, and, looking back, it shouldn't have come as a great surprise to anyone familiar with the debilitating effects of wild living on rock 'n' rollers that Ringenberg's tour-van mates eventually became to burnt to scorch.

"In the old days," Ringenberg recalls, "those guys were wild, wild rock 'n' rollers. I mean, everything imaginable was happening out here, and that made it really difficult for me. I felt completely alone most of the time."

The reasons Ringenberg, who despite his wild-eyed-honky-tonk-singer persona "never was" a party animal, no longer feels alone are several. First, the original Scorchers--guitarist Warner Hodges, bassist Jeff Johnson, and drummer Perry Baggs--have overcome their wild ways and gotten serious about rocking as only men in full possession of their senses can. Second, Ringenberg has spent the last few years reconnecting with the Catholic faith of his youth, even going so far as to title his band's 1995 Mammoth Records debut A Blazing Grace and to include a quote from the 126th Psalm on the cover. Clear Impetuous Morning, their brand new album--and, according to Ringenberg, the "most country-rock 'n' roll record [they've] ever made"--wears its inspiration more subtly, but songs like "Victory Road" and "Kick Me Down" express nothing if not a desire to tap a higher power.

The third reason for Ringenberg's not feeling alone is that, according to him, there are more bands now than there ever were in the '80s who are saying it loud: They're country-punk and proud.

"I feel a kinship with a lot of these younger artists, artists like Son Volt, Wilco, the Bottle Rockets, and Slobberbone. In fact, Slobberbone will come right out and say that the Scorchers were their biggest influence.

"Back in the '80s," Ringenberg reflects, "we got into two crowds, almost three at the tail end of it. The first one was the Rank-&-File-Long- Ryders-Green-on-Red sort of scene. We were part of that for awhile. I guess you could even say we led it. Then the mid-'80s came around, and we were lumped in with people like the Georgia Satellites, the Fabulous Thunderbirds, and John Cougar Mellencamp. Then by the late '80s we'd almost become a hard-rock band. I mean, Jeff was actually living in L.A. and hanging out with Guns N' Roses."

Ringenberg laughs about it now. "The guys were wearing makeup and doing drugs. They were almost part of the L.A. rock scene for a while. It was really crazy. By the end of the '80s, I felt like the Lone Ranger. I had nothing in common with my own band let alone the music business. It was a very scary time for me."

It was also apparently a scary time for Hodges, Johnson, and Baggs, since it was during this period that they quit their lowdown ways.

"They're very talented people, very good people at heart," says Ringenberg, "and watching them reform their lives and get themselves together, I've come to respect them."

Longtime fans of the group, however, know that there is something that Jason & the Scorchers have never respected and probably never will, and that is the right of rock and pop songs made famous by other artists to remain "unScorched."

Indeed, it was the Scorchers' wildly revisionist, rip-snortin' run through of Bob Dylan's "Absolutely Sweet Marie" that first brought them to the attention of the world outside Nashville. Tacked onto their Praxis Records EP, Fervor, when it was re-released in '85 by EMI, it transformed a solid but subtle little record into the sort of attention-getter that some bands try for years to create.

Since then they've developed the "Scorched" cover song into a trademark, reaching new heights of audacity last year when they included a thundering rendition of John Denver's 1970 AM-folk ditty, "Take Me Home, Country Roads" on A Blazing Grace.

On Clear Impetuous Morning, they add the satirical Gram Parsons-Roger McGuinn song "Drugstore Truck Drivin' Man"--which Ringenberg calls an "anti-Nashville-music-business kind of song"--to their list of savaged classics. And as usual, the Scorchers version outrocks the original.

"We have a tradition of doing old, classic covers and putting our own stamp--or stomp--on them," Ringenberg chuckles, "but this time we didn't think we were going to do one, because we had a lot of good originals. Still, we demoed 'Drugstore Truck Drivin' Man,' which we've been playing live for awhile now, and it came out way beyond our expectations. We really hit a groove with it."

Unquestionably, a compilation that would collect all the Scorchers cover songs in one place has been long overdue for some time now, as has the CD re-release of their entire catalogue, a catalogue to which Mammoth almost secured the rights before EMI made it financially disadvantage for the indie label at the last minute.

"It was a bitter disappointment when that happened," Ringenberg admits, "because we came oh so close to getting the entire EMI catalogue. But it's still possible.

"Actually," he muses, "we're due for a live record. We've never done one, and it's getting to be that time. It would have to be really good though, because people have a lot of great memories of Scorchers shows. Our live record would have to smoke."

On the evidence of Clear Impetuous Morning, Ringenberg has nothing to fear. In fact, it's the anti-smoking crusaders who'd better watch out.


(More Ringenberg: http://arsenioorteza.blogspot.com/search?q=Jason+Ringenberg)

JASON RINGENBERG: American, Mars 'n Bars

As published in the Times of Acadiana, April 9, 2003....


It’s a cool Saturday evening--the Ides of March, to be precise--and Jason Ringenberg is seated at the Blue Moon Café in Lafayette, Louisiana, an hour before the first of two sets he’ll eventually perform, musing about the ultimate Bob Dylan tribute album. “To choose the twelve best Dylan covers,” he says. “That’d be really hard.”

More than most people, he has a right to an opinion. It was, after all, a full-throttle version of Dylan’s “Absolutely Sweet Marie” that propelled Ringenberg’s band, Jason and the Scorchers, to international prominence in the mid-’80s. The song made the Scorchers staples of both MTV and college radio, igniting a fan base that would eventually see them through two EPs, five LPs, two live albums, and 2002’s collectorama disc Wildfires and Misfires. Before Triple-A radio, Americana music, “alt-country,” and “No Depression,” Jason and the Scorchers were the first, middle, and last word in country-punk.

According to Ringenberg, the group--Ringenberg, Warner Hodges (guitar), Kenny Ames (bass), and Perry Baggs (drums)--hasn’t officially broken up. But when Baggs announced his retirement from steady gigging last year on the eve of a European tour, the Scorchers definitely took a hit. “It’s never been the same since then,” Ringenberg admits. “We’d replaced [original bassist] Jeff [Johnson] and got along all right, but replacing Perry, that’s like replacing Warner or me. I don’t think it can be done.”

To this end Ringenberg, now forty-four, has been honing his solo career, releasing Pocketful of Soul on his own Courageous Chicken label in 2000 and All Over Creation on Yep Roc Records last summer. Enriched with duets both high-profile (Steve Earle, BR5-49, Todd Snider) and low (the Wildhearts, Swan Dive, Kristi Rose and Fats Kaplin), Creation is the most stylistically diverse and musically ambitious release of his career. It’s also the reason he’s on the road these days, adapting to the intimate demands of venues like the Blue Moon.

He takes the stage promptly at nine, decked out like an antebellum Southern gentleman, giving his acoustic guitar what-for, and singing an unplugged version of Creation’s lead track, “Honky Tonk Maniac from Mars.” To those in the crowd too young to remember Ringenberg in his heyday, a honky-tonk maniac from Mars is what he might as well be.

But gradually, even among those who’ve come to drink first and listen later, he makes converts. Whether it’s his charming performance of an unabashedly silly ditty destined for a forthcoming kids album or his breakneck bluegrass version of the Beatles’ “I’ve Just Seen a Face,” he knows how to work a room. By the time he’s finished charging through the Ramones' “I Wanna Be Sedated” (which he introduces as a "greater piece of twentieth-century American poetry than anything by T.S. Eliot or Samuel Becket") and “Jimmie Rodgers’ Last Blue Yodel,” he’s won over everyone but those who’ve been clustered around the bar all night. By the time he’s finished singing Hank Sr.’s “I Saw the Light,” literally unplugged and perched atop the bar itself, he’s won over even them.

“At first it was terrifying,” he says, referring to his middle-aged transformation into a one-man band. “I went from having the huge power of one of the greatest rock-and-roll bands ever to having just my little voice and my songs and my acoustic guitar.”

The terror, however, is rapidly subsiding.

“I’ve discovered that I do have twelve albums worth of good songs. When you walk into a room with that kind of material, you’re going to get something happening.”