Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan

Bob Dylan, (nacido con el nombre de Robert Allen Zimmerman el 24 de mayo de 1941 en Duluth, Minnesota, Estados Unidos) es un cantautor estadounidense, autor, músico y poeta. Ha sido, durante cinco décadas, una de las mayores figuras en la música contemporánea, siendo considerado uno de los compositores y músicos más influyentes y prolíficos del siglo XX.[1] Muchos de los más célebres trabajos de Dylan datan de la década de los 1960s, cuando se convirtió en un cronista informal y un reacio testaferro de los conflictos estadounidenses. Algunas de sus canciones, como "Blowin' in the Wind" y "The Times They Are a-Changin'", se convirtieron en himnos antibélicos y de los movimientos civiles de aquella época.[2] Su más reciente disco de estudio, "Modern Times", lanzado el 29 de agosto de 2006, debutó en las listas estadounidenses en el #1, convirtiéndolo, a los 65 años de edad, en la persona de mayor edad en alcanzar esta posición.[3] Más tarde fue nombrado como El Álbum del Año por la revista Rolling Stone.[4] Las primeras letras de Dylan contenían temas sociales, filosóficos e influencia literaria, desafiando la música pop convencional existente y apelando generalmente a la contracultura de aquel tiempo. Mientras expandía y personalizaba estilos musicales, mostraba una firme devoción por muchas tradiciones de la música americana, de folk y country/blues a gospel, rock and roll y rockabilly, a música folk inglesa, escosesa e irlandesa, inclusive jazz y swing.[5][6]

Letra de Motorpsycho Nightmare
I pounded on a farmhouse
Lookin' for a place to stay.
I was mighty, mighty tired,
I'd come a long, long way.
I said, "Hey, hey, in there,
Is there anybody home?"
I was standin' on the steps
Feelin' most alone.
When, out comes a farmer,
He must have thought that I was nuts.
He immediately looked at me
And stuck a gun into my guts.

I fell down
To my bended knees,
Saying, "I dig farmers,
Don't shoot me, please!"
He cocked his rifle
And began to shout,
"Are you that travelin' salesman
That I have heard about."
I said, "No! No! No!
I'm a doctor and it's true,
I'm a clean-cut kid
And I've been to college, too."

Then in comes his daughter
Whose name was Rita.
She looked like she stepped out of
La Dolce Vita.
I immediately tried to cool it
With her dad,
And told him what a
Nice, pretty farm he had.
He said, "What do doctors
Know about farms, pray tell?"
I said, "I's born
At the bottom of a wishing well."

Well, by the dirt 'neath my nails
I guess he knew I wouldn't lie.
"He said I guess you're tired,"
He said, kinda sly.
I said, "Yes, ten thousand miles
Today I drove."
He said, "I got a bed for you
Underneath the stove.
Just one condition
You can go to sleep right now,
That you don't touch my daughter
And in the morning, milk the cows."

I was sleepin' like a rat
When I heard something jerkin'.
There stood Rita
Lookin' just like Tony Perkins.
She said, "Would you like to take a shower?
I'll show you up to the door."
I said, "Oh, no! no!
I've been through this movie before."
I knew I had to split
But I didn't know how,
When she said,
"Would you like to take that shower, now?"

Well, I couldn't leave
Unless the old man chased me out,
'Cause I'd already promised
That I'd milk his cows.
I had to say something
To strike him very weird,
So I yelled,
"I like Fidel Castro and his beard."
Rita looked offended
But she got out of the way,
As he came charging down the stairs
Sayin', "What's that I heard you say?"

I said, "I like Fidel Castro,
I think you heard me right,"
Then I ducked as he swung
At me with all his might.
Rita mumbled somethin'
'Bout her mother on the hill,
As his fist had hit the icebox,
He said he's going to kill me
If I don't get out the door
In two seconds flat,
"You unpatriotic,
Rotten doctor Commie rat."

Well, he threw a Reader's Digest
At my head and I did run,
I did a somersault
As I seen him get his gun
And crashed through the window
At a hundred miles an hour,
And landed fully blast
In his garden flowers.
Rita said, "Come back!"
And he started to load
The sun was comin' up
And I was runnin' down the road.

Well, I don't figure I'll be back
There for a spell,
Even though Rita moved away
And got a job at a motel.
He still waits for me,
Constant, on the sly.
He wants to turn me in
To the F.B.I.
Me, I romp and stomp,
Thankful as I romp,
Without freedom of speech,
I might be in the swamp.

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