Paint It Black by The Rolling Stones

The artist:
Mick Jagger, front man of The Rolling Stones, and I share much in common. We both have walked somewhere in the vicinity of the London School of Economics at some point, although if you believe the ‘Notable people’ section of LSE’s Wikipedia page his drop out doss-about years are worth more to the institution than my fully completed MSc. Also we were both at Glastonbury in 2013, but we didn’t meet, and I missed him play because he was playing too far away.

The album:
Aftermath (American version) (1966) 

Confusingly only the Americans were considered worthy of having Paint It Black on the Stones’ fourth album. The rest of us had to do with Mother’s Little Helper, a bit like when Ryan Giggs would get injured and United would bring in Quinton Fortune.

On the plus side, the album does come with two misogynistic anthems in Stupid Girl and Under My Thumb. It’s comforting to know that some 50 years later Jagger still has an influence with students at his Alma mater.

The vibe:
An ill-fated cavalry charge which you don’t realise is ill-fated at the time – if he had an iPod, you could just imagine Napoleon cruising to Paint It Black on his way to Russia, for example.

Lyrics:
I see a red door and I want it painted black

No colours any more, I want them to turn black

I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes

I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

I see a line of cars and they're all painted black

With flowers and my love both never to come back

I see people turn their heads and quickly look away

Like a newborn baby, it just happens every day

I look inside myself and see my heart is black

I see my red door I must have it painted black

Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts

It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue

I could not foresee this thing happening to you

If I look hard enough into the setting sun

My love will laugh with me before the morning comes

I see a red door and I want it painted black

No colours any more, I want them to turn black

I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes

I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

Hmm, hmm, hmm,..

I wanna see it painted, painted black

Black as night, black as coal

I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky

I wanna see it painted, painted, painted, painted black

Yeah!

Hmm, hmm, hmm...

Annotation:

On first listen Mick Jagger certainly comes across as a man of very specific and fairly restrictive taste when it comes to matters of décor and fashion – a purveyor of mourning chic or something along those lines. Frequent references to one specific colour leads you to believe this is the case – but, listen a little closer and you soon learn that he’s perhaps not as obsessive as first appears.

In fact there is only thing that he actually specifically wants to be black: his front door, unhappy with the current shade of red and other assorted colours. I can sympathise – red can often be garish and unnecessary where a more understated and civilised ‘Number 10’ look would do the trick. He later explains that the specific shade he is seeking is night/coal – classic black in other words. Refined; classy.

Eiw

Also on Jagger’s mind is the inherent shyness of the British psyche, no doubt chuckling to himself as he notes the irony of strangers avoiding eye contact on the street in the same way he does when he gets shy around a group of girls. Curiosity about both staring directly into the sun and developing a Mr Burns style device to block out its rays further indicate his daydreaming state of mind.

But with the loss of some flowers and a significant other, his DIY ambitions have became the primary focus of his attention. In many ways, this is healthy – relationship experts would probably advise taking up hobbies in those lonely quieter moments, and work around the house leaves a man with a sense of productivity and achievement.

Jagger explains that the inspiration for his choice comes from a moment where he happened upon a coincidental row of identically coloured cars. Seeking further confirmation that this is a ‘sign’, he misinterprets an X-Ray scan at a later hospital appointment, not realising that the black space where his organs are supposed to be doesn’t actually represent his organs. Nonetheless he has happily settled on his choice of colour for the front door. 

That ain't your heart, Mick

Conclusion:

Like so many popular musicians’ anecdotes, Paint It Black fails to come to a satisfactory conclusion, and we are left wondering whether Jagger was able to acquire the necessary supplies to paint his front door. In case he still hasn’t got round to it, 46 years later, I made some enquiries to establish the best product on the market.

The Valspar range is
available exclusively at B&Q.
Mick should pop into his local branch to
ensure the tone is just right. 

Quickest to get back to me was a helpful Scottish gentleman from B&Q, who assures me that he can “recommend one paint and one paint only” for the job, and that's the Valspar Exterior Wood & Metal. Advising that Mick take the requisite time to prepare the paint properly first, the Scot is confident that 2.5 litres was "more than enough" to cover the front door. He can get this at a slightly pricey £39.99 (£15.97 per litre), but with Jagger’s fortune estimated at £200m, he might consider the extra outlay a worthwhile investment. Critically, when it comes to starting the job proper, Mick must ensure he paints the contact surfaces first i.e. the slim side that goes on the hinges, the bit that touches the latch etc. I forget why, but apparently this is important.

However should finance ultimately be an issue, then he may be better off opting for the smaller quantity Wickes Exterior Gloss, with 750ml available for £14.99. Gloss is recommended over a matte finish, as scratches and general wear and tear tend not to show quite as clearly. 

Homebase didn't get back to me.

Nonetheless part of me believes that all those years ago Jagger did manage to identify the paint he desired and completed the job to a satisfactory standard. I certainly hope so - this song really had me rooting for him and his decorative ambitions, the cute little misunderstanding at the hospital only endearing him to me further. And as Aftermath reaches its conclusion, the final track Goin’ Home perhaps give us a little nod and a wink towards his success: I’m goin’ home … I just can’t wait, I just can’t wait. Is that because there’s something shiny and black greeting you when you get there, Mick? 

Ballad of a Thin Man by Bob Dylan

Ballad of a Thin Man by Bob Dylan

The artist: 

Bob Dylan is an inspiration to us all, highlighting how a positive outlook, a pleasant singing voice and the ability and desire to make sense needn't be necessary to becoming a world renowned singer-songwriter. 

The album:

Highway 61 Revisited (1965)

At times this album is suited to absent-mindedly poking your waffles with your fork while sat in a Minnesota diner, wherever Minnesota is.

Meanwhile Tombstone Blues and the title track are getaway numbers – if the crime is the armed robbery of an emu farm, and the getaway vehicle is an emu. 

Therefore in many ways you can say that Highway 61 Revisited represents a microcosm of blue collar Midwestern life in the United States.

He's just following orders

The vibe:
Musically Ballad of a Thin Man is a death march, as conceived and executed by the characters of The Magic Roundabout. One can almost taste the sadism of Zebedee, cigarette in mouth and bayonet in hand, as he mercilessly drives you through an unspecified desert.

Lyrics & annotation:
Such is the complexity and length of this evolving narrative, the song will need to be broken down and annotated along the way.

You walk into the room

With your pencil in your hand

The most likely kind of people to do this would probably be journalists or quantity surveyors. Therefore we will work on the basis that Mr Dylan is referring to somebody who belongs to one of these two industries.

You see somebody naked

And you say, “Who is that man?”

Any good journalist is inquisitive and tries to establish all the facts early on; any good quantity surveyor would question the presence of nudity in the workplace environment.

You try so hard

But you don’t understand

Just what you’ll say

When you get home

Based on industry demographics an average quantity surveyor is married with 1.2 children, and he may well indeed struggle to explain to his other half why his day involved ejecting a construction site streaker. Mr Dylan anticipates awkward dinner time conversation; frankly I think his wife would see the funny side.

A journalist is more likely to be a single professional who works from home – in which case this verse likely refers to the difficulties he will encounter producing engaging copy for this particular story. ‘Man Naked In Room’ is unlikely to be considered a particularly ground-breaking scoop, even at a local level. Any concern the journalist has about his editors’ reaction would not be unwarranted.

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

With a more specific reference to the identity of our journalist/quantity surveyor protagonist comes a somewhat cruelly pointed question from Mr Dylan. Whereas one might expect the singer to empathise with Mr Jones’ confusion, having been greeted by a naked man, the way in which he phrases this question in fact suggests he almost revels in it, demanding confirmation of his ignorance. Perhaps the quantity surveyor is in the employ of a new local development which Mr Dylan opposes, such as a wind turbine that he considers ugly and intrusive; perhaps the editorial

The benefits of wind energy weren't properly understood
in the late 1960s

line of the journalist’s newspaper is broadly in favour of said wind turbine. Either way, the kind of pettiness on display from Mr Dylan really is typical of your local neighbourhood NIMBY.

You raise up your head

And you ask, “Is this where it is?”

And somebody points to you and says

“It’s his”

And you say, “What’s mine?”

And somebody else says, “Where what is?”

And you say, “Oh my God

Am I here all alone?”

At least one person has misunderstood someone else in this exchange. My guess would be that the second person actually said ‘it is’, and not ‘it’s his’, in other words affirming that this is indeed ‘where it is’ – ‘it’ presumably being the source of the news item, or the construction area ready to be surveyed. What follows is an unfortunate breakdown in communication, resulting in Mr Jones somewhat melodramatically losing his cool – he’ll likely feel a bit silly when he looks back at this particular exchange.   

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

Mr Dylan’s goading of Mr Jones clearly does not aid the situation – he probably could have just pointed out how the above misunderstanding came to be, instead electing to seek further superfluous confirmation of Mr Jones’ bemusement.

You hand in your ticket

And you go watch the geek

Who immediately walks up to you

When he hears you speak

And says, “How does it feel

To be such a freak?”

And you say, “Impossible”

As he hands you a bone

With the song predating mass access to computer technology, the term ‘geek’ has connotations of being well-read rather technological. The journalist or quantity surveyor is meeting an academic of some kind, perhaps an expert on local governance, a logical candidate for consultation or interview.  Clearly book smarts can’t buy you manners however, and Mr Jones has every right to feel somewhat affronted by the distinctly non-professorial, aggressive and insulting opening gambit – regardless of the fact it is accompanied by a novelty gift, which Mr Jones can pass on to the dog when he gets home. One can probably surmise from his confrontational nature that the academic is also opposed to whatever project it is being introduced to the immediate area.

Nb. The ‘ticket’ is likely to be his parking stub – perhaps this new development will bring an increase in free parking spaces, something the likes of Mr Dylan and the academic often fail to appreciate. 

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

Yes but he’s trying to establish the facts from an expert now, just let him get on with his job.

You have many contacts

Among the lumberjacks

To get you facts

When someone attacks your imagination

Any journalist reporting on local issues needs to develop an appreciation of the consequences for the man on the street and industry in the wider area. Clearly this particular reporter considers the timber industry a key stakeholder, likely responsible for providing a large proportion of materials and labour towards the development. If they are able to assist Mr Jones by providing the sorts of statistics and citations that back up his newspaper’s editorial line, then all the better.

Likewise quantity surveyors ought to maintain good relations with the construction industry as a whole, with lumberjacks no exception.

Mr Dylan’s antipathy to Mr Jones is all the more surprising when you consider how good at his job he seems to be, whatever job that is.

But nobody has any respect

Anyway they already expect you

To just give a check

To tax-deductible charity organizations

Considering the highly provocative onslaught from the academic, the nude state of the initial gentleman who greeted him and the constant repetitive harrowing from Mr Dylan, the assertion that he is suffering from a lack of respect is probably a reasonable one. For this to then be followed by an expectation for Mr Jones to personally support local charities seems cheeky, almost churlish.

The Guardian: "the characters in The Great Gatsby
are in themselves very flawed and
very hard to sympathise with". Sounds familiar

You’ve been with the professors

And they’ve all liked your looks

With great lawyers you have

Discussed lepers and crooks

You’ve been through all of

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books

You’re very well read

It’s well known

It seems that Mr Jones really has gone above and beyond in carrying out a suitable amount of research into the feasibility of this project, consulting figures in academia and law, considering its implications for healthcare and local enterprise. Even Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby deals with themes of ‘resistance to change’ and ‘social upheaval’ (Source: Wikipedia) - the fact that Mr Jones has gone to the trouble of consulting these works of fiction shows that he is serious about this debate, questioning its significance from a philosophical perspective. 

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

Well he’s clearly at least made an effort to grasp it; overall discourse surrounding these issues would almost certainly benefit from individuals such as Mr Jones taking the time to establish facts and gain perspectives from across the board. Those like Mr Dylan, who remain entrenched in a mindset and attack others on a personal level, serve only to dumb down discussion.

Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you

And then he kneels

He crosses himself

And then he clicks his high heels

And without further notice

He asks you how it feels

And he says, “Here is your throat back

Thanks for the loan”

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

This street entertainer is, at this stage, the most welcoming and polite member of the local community, probably because he is expecting Mr Jones to throw a few coins into his hat. In the 1960s stem cell research was not sophisticated enough to facilitate throat transplants; as such, the sword swallower is probably mistaken about the ‘loan’ in question. This may just be another misunderstanding - it's more likely that Mr Jones would have lent the sword swallower a goat, a coat or - less likely but still possible - a boat. 

Now you see this one-eyed midget

Shouting the word “NOW”

And you say, “For what reason?”

And he says, “How?”

And you say, “What does this mean?”

And he screams back, “You’re a cow

Give me some milk

Or else go home”

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

Once again Mr Jones finds himself being insulted for no reason other than trying to start a dialogue with a local. Once again, there is more than a hint of extortion about the whole affair – now it’s expected he provides dairy products as well as altruistic donations.

In the defence of his attacker on this occasion, being a one-eyed midget in any community is going to be difficult, dealing with the inevitable challenges that arise along the themes of discrimination, bullying and acceptance. Of course that doesn’t mean it is acceptable to hurl abuse at out-of-town business people or media representatives, but one can sympathise more with this individuals’ less secure frame of mind. His disabilities may have resulted in difficulties gaining employment, and there’s a chance that having one eye and being extremely short did not entitle him to the disability benefits available through the US social security system at the time. Thus the demand for milk could simply indicate a shortage of funds for groceries – he may wish to use it in a nice soup, for example.

Well, you walk into the room

Like a camel and then you frown

You put your eyes in your pocket

And your nose on the ground

There ought to be a law

Against you comin’ around

You should be made

To wear earphones

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

Dylan truly nails his NIMBY colours to the mast here, suggesting that this development and indeed the presence of ALL local developers should be illegalised. Underlining his fear of the outsider once and for all, his anti-progressive insular ideals are complemented by an ‘earphones for out-of-towners’ policy, presumably to prevent them from being able to hear local conversation. If he lived in the UK today, he would probably vote UKIP. The whole thing about walking like a camel is probably racist in some way.

Conclusion:
We all have bad days at work, and clearly Mr Jones is no exception, whether he works for the press or for a construction firm. Presumably he entered Mr Dylan’s community in the hope of acquiring necessary quotes, materials or permissions in order to do his job properly, but instead was met by a wall of obfuscation and sabotage. After this encounter, Mr Jones no doubt dreads returning to the area, fearing further insult, confrontation, blackmail or extortion.

Following the quantity surveyor hypothesis, Mr Jones has his work cut out. Local opposition is always going to make a developer’s life more difficult, and this particular community seems united in their desire to torpedo this project. Subsequent visits to site to try and persuade them of its benefits are going to be a necessity, but having already exhausted many avenues of expertise, one struggles to see just how this can be achieved. Perhaps it would be prudent to consider a Plan B option elsewhere - while I’m sure Mr Jones is a consummate professional who would never overtly express such thoughts, he probably secretly wonders as to the benefits of trying to bring progress and sophistication to a local community as backward as Mr Dylan’s.

Things look somewhat more positive for Mr Jones should he in fact be a local reporter. He clearly has enough material to write a reasonable length feature about this unnamed town’s opposition to corporate development, with quotes from academics, lawyers, lumberjacks, street performers and midgets. And should he particularly want to, he can use his position of public prominence to stick the boot into Mr Dylan and his perpetual rudeness as well. If you’d had the day that he had, could you really blame him? 

First We Take Manhattan by Leonard Cohen

Artist: 

Leonard Cohen is a bit like Bob Dylan, if Dylan was a grizzled ‘Nam veteran who had seen far too much.

The vibe:
This is so aggressively synth-pop that, should they ever need one, this could be the Pet Shop Boys’ war cry. The verses are undoubtedly sinister, with Cohen’s tones so ominous they serve less as a musical friend and more as a spectre haunting your ears, or a local small town trader in a horror B movie warning a young person not to explore something that they’re inevitably going to explore.  

Female backing vocals only haunt further, but in the Cohen-less chorus’ they lift the mood somewhat, adding a sprinkling of cheese to something of an otherwise grey Eastern European stew. Nonetheless you can hardly let loose and start dancing - you remain on constant guard, like when playing a suspiciously quiet level of a 90s first-person shooter set in a haunted house.

The Album:
I’m Your Man (1988)

Note: While researching for this very article, I discovered that the song was originally written for Jennifer Warnes for her Famous Blue Raincoat album, featuring songs entirely written or co-written by Cohen. Just so any pedants know that I know that. 

Very much in keeping with First We Take Manhattan, sinister and ominous remain the themes of the day. Even if you disregard the lyrics, Everybody Knows is the musical equivalent of someone drip-feeding you emails of every embarrassing story, photograph, video and secret of your life, copying in an additional family member, friend or senior work colleague with each line. If I’m Your Man is a declaration of romantic intent designed to sweep a lady off her feet, then it seems likely only to work with the types who send letters to serial killers in prison.

Lyrics:
They sentenced me to twenty years of boredom

For trying to change the system from within

I'm coming now, I'm coming to reward them

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

I'm guided by a signal in the heavens

I'm guided by this birthmark on my skin

I'm guided by the beauty of our weapons

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

[Chorus:]
I'd really like to live beside you, baby

I love your body and your spirit and your clothes

But you see that line there moving through the station?

I told you, I told you, told you, I was one of those

Ah you loved me as a loser, but now you're worried that I just might win

You know the way to stop me, but you don't have the discipline

How many nights I prayed for this, to let my work begin

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

I don't like your fashion business mister

And I don't like these drugs that keep you thin

I don't like what happened to my sister

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

[Chorus]

And I thank you for those items that you sent me

The monkey and the plywood violin

I practiced every night, now I'm ready

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

I am guided

Ah remember me, I used to live for music

Remember me, I brought your groceries in

Well it's Father's Day and everybody's wounded

1980s Berlin is unlikely to fall without a fierce fight 

First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin

Annotation:
Cohen sets out an ambitious two-stage military strategy, which consists of the initial capture of the economic and cultural hub of the United States of America followed by an assault on the capital of the then German Democratic Republic (East Germany), although he doesn't specify whether he plans to invade East, West or both. Although Cohen does not expand further on the strength of his forces, neglecting to reference any allies he may have in this endeavour (other than a female companion who emphasises many of his points), he does confirm that whatever coalition of the willing he may be part of, they do possess ‘weapons’. Seemingly at ease with declaring details of the plan publicly, the offensive is to be carried out on Father’s Day, which is either late June or 40 days after Easter, depending on whether he is looking at a North American or German calendar.

Cohen’s main motive is one of retribution and revenge for a series of misdemeanours and gripes he feels wronged by, presumably blaming the US and German governments for their occurrence: a particularly bizarre political prison sentence, distaste for one male individual’s clothing enterprise, the diet pill industry overall and an unspecified incident with his sibling. Although appreciative of both an exotic pet and a cheaply constructed musical instrument bought for him while serving his sentence (the monkey is presumably a WWF style remote adoption), this is not enough to placate his territorial ambitions. While miscarriages of justice are undoubtedly painful, and while 20^th Century capitalist culture may have seemed distasteful to many, Cohen seems unable to grasp that violence in the face of his adversaries’ undoubted strength is a counter-productive measure, likely only to result only in further penal punishment.

Cohen’s accomplice takes advantage of his absence on the chorus to discuss other matters, informing a romantic partner that, although she’d like to, she is unable to move in with him due to the nature of her commute, expressing annoyance that she is repeating this.

He may look cool, but his strategic
planning leaves a lot to be desired 

Conclusion:
Cohen is muddled and confused as to tangibly just how he plans to carry out this insurgency, relying

on a combination of divine intervention, anomalies on his skin and the aesthetically pleasing nature of his sides’ aforementioned weaponry. The only indication that he has thought the plan through properly is his late admission that he intends to take advantage of a situation in which ‘everybody’s wounded’, perhaps a terrorist incident or natural disaster of some kind; nonetheless, even if every single member of the US and German’s combined 1.5m active personnel were incapacitated in some way, one would still presume that they, the general population and their allies would have the wherewithal to defeat a Canadian folk singer. Bear in mind that in February 1988, Mikhail Gorbachev’s faltering Soviet Union, with its teetering economy and political instability, would have been in no position to assist in any military adventures against their Cold War foe. Furthermore, with the Berlin Wall still a year from coming down, the divided German capital would have been host to a great deal of military activity and heightened security - whether attacking from west or east, he could expect fierce resistance.

Yet at no stage does Cohen reference the difficulties he might encounter by going toe-to-toe with the world and Europe’s strongest nations, making no contingency plans for a successful defence of the territories, nor the inevitable international condemnation that would follow the attack. Indeed, the very fact that his first two missions involve assaults on heavily protected cities of symbolic significance and not softer resource-rich provincial targets suggest that he is at best a naïve military commander. With the invasion having never come to fruition, one can only assume Cohen was successfully talked out of the folly by a more astute lieutenant general.