I have a million things to do tonight; dishes to wash, a roast to roast, a letter to my friend K. to write, a thank you not to my friend E. to send, and a Secret Santa gift to assemble. I'm even suppose to be thinking about what it is I am looking for in a man so that I can talk about it tomorrow afternoon with the nice therapist lady who is helping me unpack what is (if this blog is any indication) my overstuffed baggage.
So I put the stereo on shuffle and was moving through my chores with Sunny Day Real Estate, Ben Harper, Said Mrad, Humble Pie, The Beach Boys, The Time, The The, and Lucinda Williams without pause when, all of a sudden, I was sucked over to the stereo, listened for a minute, and found myself getting teary.
I *love* this song.
I can't give my heart to Bob Dylan the way I do to Neil Young, I have reservations. Too much of my connection with Bob happens in my head instead of in my heart, ears and gut .... Most of the Time. And then something like this comes on.
I've heard many of versions of this but this one is the only one I like. Although I have not heard the Donovan version so I can't be too hasty. The Martin Carthy version is too impersonal sounding for me and most versions sound too new-age bookstore, Celtic, buy-it-for-your-SCA friends crappy. I can't even stand listening through the Joan Baez version--though that is my reaction to most Joan Baez.
Fascinating history with the song too: The Trees They Do Grow So High.
No comments:
Post a Comment