Poetry of Songwriters: ‘Words Matter’

Poster promoting BB King and Bobby Blue Bland appearing at Antone’s in Austin, circa 1980(?)

Attempting to trace the development of American music from the 1600s onward in one exhibition is an ambitious undertaking. In my mind, it’s too big a chunk to lump together.

Yet a visit to “Music America: Iconic Objects from America’s Music History” at the LBJ Presidential Library until August 11 is well worthwhile. Somehow the clever curation by the Bruce Springsteen Archives & Center for American Music includes enough variety for broad appeal, a combination of instruments, costumes, listening stations and videos all contributing to the experience.

The presence of some awesome guitars was not what perked my attention like the ears of RCA’s Nipper (a sentimental favorite as a stuffed one of equal size shared my single bed and guided me through childhood nightmares). Hand-written words seduced me into examining lyrics without soundtracks and begged me to dig deeper at home afterwards.

This book was read aloud to me by the only great teacher I had in the school system…. He gave me permission to be both a poet and a painter….

It instilled in me, at an early age, a thirst for adventure. It made me a better observer. It is both spiritual and street-wise. It changed my life. It made a writer and a risk-taker out of me.”

Above: Joni Mitchell’s inscription in a copy of Rudyard Kipling’s Kim, from the collection of Barry and Judy Ollman

Returning home I found myself wondering about Kipling’s long-term influence on Mitchell’s writing. Years later it bubbled up to the surface in her 2007 adaptation of his poem, “If.”

If you can keep your head
While all about you
People are losing theirs and blaming you
If you can trust yourself
When everybody doubts you
And make allowance for their doubting too.

From Joni Mitchell’s 2007 adaptation of Rudyard Kipling’s 1895 “If”

But what really caught me off guard was the rambling, poetic letter penned by Johnny Cash to Bob Dylan in 1969.

The North wind turned into a twister, picking up one Bob Dylan, took him south, east, west, dropping his berries into everybody’s fruit cocktail. To some he tasted bitter…. Some he shaped and fashioned into puppets, but my friend Bob, you had more strings than you had fingers…. You’ve still got enough strings left to handle puppets. The World is still your apple.”

Above: Excerpts from 1969 letter from Johnny Cash to Bob Dylan, from the collection of Barry and Judy Ollman

In the summer of 1969, Johnny Cash was not playing on the record players of anyone I knew. He was “country,” and country wasn’t cool. Not that I was. It was the time of Woodstock and protest songs.

The anthem my friend Jewel and I would sing out over and over was:

And it's one, two, three, what are we fighting for?
Don't ask me I don't give a damn
Next stop is Vietnam.
And it's five, six, seven, open up the pearly gates,
Well, there ain't no time to wonder why,
Whoopie! We're all gonna die!

Excerpt from “I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-To-Die Rag,” Country Joe and the Fish, 1968

The premier of The Johnny Cash Show was not on our radar. But the curator notes at this exhibit referenced the guest stars, including Joni Mitchell and Bob Dylan. How did we overlook this? Of course, I left the library and looked for the show on YouTube. And there was Joni. Dylan’s segment is cut from this for some reason, but Cash and his wife, June Carter Cash, do perform a duet of Dylan’s “It Ain’t Me Babe.”

Handwritten lyrics of numerous protest songs through the years are spotlighted at the exhibit as well.

There's a black man
With a black cat
Lives in a black neighborhood
He's got an interstate
Running through his front yard
And he thinks he's got it so good
And this woman, in the kitchen
Cleaning up the evening slop
And he look at her and says
I can remember when you could stop a clock.

“Pink Houses,” John Cougar Mellencamp, 1983

Artists United Against Apartheid was organized by “Little” Steven Van Zandt in 1985 to galvanize support opposing the extreme segregation policies in South Africa.

Boputhuswana is far away
But we know it's in South Africa no matter what they say
You can't buy me I don't care what you pay
Don't ask me Sun City because I ain't gonna play

They're taking people out of their homes
To somewhere they don't belong

Above: Excerpt from “(I Ain’t Gonna Play) Sun City,” Steven Van Zandt, 1985

“Sun City,” Artists United Against Apartheid, Little Steven

This exhibition brought forth memories of so many protest songs, making it particularly strange to visit it within the walls of the LBJ Presidential Library. The involvement in Viet Nam during the six-year presidency of Lyndon Baines Johnson (1908-1973) sparked protests throughout the country. Music fanned those flames of discontent.

Passing through the library on our way to the music exhibit, we glimpsed reminders of a different side of LBJ. His oft-forgotten accomplishments moving forward his vision for “The Great Society” were drowned out by the disastrous war. Medicare and Medicaid were enacted under his presidency. President Johnson also signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 – acts so critical to reenforce during this period when regressive efforts abound to restrict voting access.

Noticing numerous items in the exhibition were on loan from the Ollmans, I was curious about the couple as collectors. I stumbled upon Barry Ollman‘s own protest song, particularly appropriate in the wake of this past week’s presidential debate and for this post: “Words Matter.”

Above: “Words Matter,” by Barry Ollman featuring Garry Tallent of the E Street Band