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"Times Are Changing’ Back"

[ 0 ] September 29, 2005 |

Ah, finally a group than Ann Althouse won’t have to engage in bizarre projections to like! Even better, because they sing about nothing about politics, there’s none of those pesky “aesthetics” to boil off before you can absorb the only thing you’re interested in. I think this may be my favorite Right Brothers lyric:

Well, I ain’t never seen a grandma
Strap dynamite around her waist
Or put explosives in her slip-ons
And try to blow a plane to outerspace
As a matter of fact every terrorist act
That’s taken place in the friendly sky
You must understand has been by an olived skinned man
Between 18 and 35

Chorus
You can’t racial profile
We’ve got laws against that insensitive attack
And meanwhile, they can pull every granny out of line
You can poke ‘em and prod ‘em if they’re yellow, black or white
But if they’re Middle Eastern well you’d better treat ‘em right
‘Cause being politically correct is more important than saving lives

I’m not sure what’s worse; having Sean Hannity transcripts read by a badly drawn duck, or turned into crappy folk music. Now, compare this to something written by a real artist:

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’,
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’,
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’,
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

And then imagine the kind of person who would try to reduce even the latter to nothing but a position paper, or even worse would have to convince themselves that the writer shares their political convictions before they could appreciate it. When you come down to it, Stalinist aesthethics are their own punishment…

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