North Country Blues, by Bob Dylan

I read the news yesterday.

Of all the depressing news about the state of the world, one strikes me the most: the front page features a photograph of the three children, aged 4, 2 and six months, two girls and a baby boy, who were abandoned by their mother in front of a Mexican nursing home, with a letter explaining she could not support them any longer.

I read the news yesterday.

Another picture grabs my attention: the wrinkled, grey hands of a Mexican migrant worker, crossing the desert with a crumpled picture of St. Judas, some lentils and a copper coin as his only possessions.

I've read the news, watched the newscasts about the situation of the miners all over the world, including the U.S. and Mexico. I have seen their faces, covered with coal and dirt, and that of their mourning families, covered with tears.

I am reminded of the first time I came to hear of these situations. Sadly, I begin humming North Country Blues, by Bob Dylan. The singer as narrator, gathering people around him, a story has to be told. And we will all learn something.

The true power of good pop music: to be relevant and memorable. To make an artistic, aesthetic, political comment about the world beyond the mere instantaneity of the present moment. To last.

Today, Bob Dylan turns 65. Thirty-five years ago, Charlie Brown famously said there was nothing more depressing than Dylan turning 30. I am damn sure there are much more depressing things. Even Chuck realized that.

Happy Birthday, Bob Dylan.


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