Highway 61 Revisited Once More

Mike Bloomfield's guitar is cutting through the air with it's wild metallic hale of howls--there's something about the whole alchemical mix, the combination of post-apocalypse Burroughsian imagery, honky tonk piano, Chicago Chess blues guitar on Owsley's finest blend & nightmare organ of Manhattan Bleecher St. midnight--something that hits your ears and tears up the synapse highway to the medulla inner sanctum of the brain that tells ya that somewhere in there between Like a Rolling Stone and Desolation Row a corner was turned, a tidal wave of change hit Plymouth rock, the black & white world went to technicolor in the space of a note being born, a bomb was dropped akin to Bird & Diz at Minton's, a page turned in the Big Book of Time imperceptible to intellectual slaves chained to Marxist/Captialist/Modernist analysis--flowers blooming in the big room of perception like Aldous Huxley's smile, the Alpha & Omega do the fandango while old gypsy women gaze into the crystal ball eternal & I recall Highway 61 rollin' from Duluth down to the shores of Mother Mississippi while the voices of bluesmen echo from the shadows of Tombstone Blues while Franz Kafka walks over the darkened Charles Bridge, Beatles singing "I'm A Loser"--there's a bit of historical perspective for ya. Who saw the shot out of the cannon coming? Not even Miles Davis had donned his pimpin' shades--the difference between yesterday and today, between Michelle and Nowhere Man, between the Kapitalist--Communist battles that buffeted the King of May and the gravity that holds the rainbow in place. The sergeant at arms has left his post, but we're still adrift in the sea of time, the escape pod carrying the silvery seeds to a new home somewhere beyond the horizon of the sun while Bob Dylan carries on the guerilla war through the stages of the world--This is American music, to be sure.