I'm Not There.

There he lies.

God rest his soul,

and his rudeness.

A devouring public can now share

the remains of his sickness,

and his phone numbers.

There he lay...

poet,

prophet,

outlaw,

fake.

Star of electricity.

Nailed by a peeping Tom

who would soon discover...

A poem is like a naked person.

Even the ghost...

was more than one person.

But a song is something

that walks by itself.

# Aw, the ragman draws circles #

# Up and down the block #

# I'd ask him what the matter was #

# But I know that he don't talk #

# And the ladies treat me kindly #

# And they furnish me with tape #

# But deep inside my heart #

# I know I can't escape #

# Oh, Mama #

# Can this really be the end #

# To be stuck inside of Mobile #

# With the Memphis blues again? #

# Well, Shakespeare, he's in the alley #

# With his pointed shoes and his bells #

# Speaking to some French girl #

# Who says she knows me well #

# And I would send a message #

# To find out if she's talked #

# But the post office has been stolen #

# And the mailbox is locked #

# Oh, Mama #

# Can this really be the end #

# To be stuck inside of Mobile #

# With the Memphis blues again? #

# Now the rain man gave me two cures #

# Then he said, "Jump right in" #

# The one was Texas medicine #

# The other was just railroad gin #

# And like a fool I mixed them #

# And it strangled up my mind #

# And now people just get uglier #

# And I have no sense of time #

# Oh, Mama #

# Can this really be the end #

# To be stuck here inside of Mobile #

# With the Memphis blues again? #

Hey. How old are you, boy?

Eleven years old.

Oh.

What's your name, son?

Woody.

Woody Guthrie.

Just like the singer.

Way I see it,

singin's kept me right in this world

more than any Bible's ever done.

And somethin' else I learned?

Takes just about a fountain pen

to get yourself robbed.

Hey, Joe. What do you

make about that?

Uh, son...

you wouldn't be stashin' no weapons

in that case of yours?

No, sir. Not in any literalized way.

What'd you say his name was?

A- R-T-H.

Please sit down.

"A-R-T-H-U-R...

R- I-M-B-A-U-D."

Born October 20th.

That makes you 19,

nearly 20.

Is that correct?

That's correct.

So what's all this about?

Well, Missouri, originally.

A little town called Riddle.

But all over, really.

Been to Gallup, Phillipsburg,

Sioux Falls...

I got me a cousin in Sioux Falls.

Yeah! That's right.

Uh, is there really

a town called Riddle?

Tell you the flat truth,

that's sort of a... a whatchamacallit.

A, uh...

A composite.

A compost heap is more like it.

Truth is, my mind

got mixed with ramblin'

when I was, oh, so young.

I reckon it was Arvella Gray,

the blind protest singer from Chicago.

She first taught me the blues

four...

about five years back.

That's also when I first started

writin' songs on my own.

I've written some hillbilly songs.

You know Carl Perkins,

from Nashville?

Yeah, yeah.

He sings some of my songs.

Yep. Talkin' blues kind

of stuff, you know?

Union songs.

I also played piano with Bobby Vee.

I would've been a millionaire

if I stayed with him.

Well, what brings you

around these parts?

Carelessness.

I lost my one true love.

And I started drinking.

Next thing I know, I'm in a crap game.

I wake up in a pool hall.

One night, I meet up with a Chinaman

working at a dime store

who says he loves my sound.

And next thing I know,

I'm all booked up

at his boss's establishment.

The Tiny Troubadour!

# I've been a... #

# Moonshiner #

# For 17 long years #

There you go, boy.

Of course, success ain't all

it's cracked up to be, now.

There's something

sort of freakish, I suppose,

setting someone up on stage

apart from all the rest,

when down in every boxcar

there's men of all ranges bouncing together.

You got hobos, nobos,

gentlemen loafers.

One or all-time losers.

Call us what you will.

Deep down, we're all getting ready

to tuck our heads

under our wings for sleep.

We of the Pullman side-car

and the sunburned thumb.

We ain't kidding ourselves.

It's lonesome roads we shall walk.

Till I joined the Union cause!

Don't he know it's 1959?

We done unionized 20 years ago.

Records indicate that you've been away,

that you've stopped writing.

I've been on too many streets

to be doing the same thing

over and over.

Can I smoke in here?

You sound,

for someone so widely known,

a bit fatalistic.

I'm not fatalistic.

Bank tellers are fatalistic.

Clerks are fatalistic.

I'm a farmer.

Who ever heard

of a fatalistic farmer?

# The sweet, pretty things

are in bed now, of course #

# The city fathers,

they're trying to endorse #

# The reincarnation

of Paul Revere's horse #

# But the town has no need

to be nervous #

# The hysterical bride

in the penny arcade #

# Screaming, she moans,

"I've just been made" #

# Then sends out for the doctor

who pulls down the shade #

# Says, "My advice

is to not let the boys in" #

# Where Ma Raney and Beethoven

once unwrapped their bed roll #

# Tuba players now rehearse

around the flagpole #

# And the national bank for a profit #

# Sells road maps for the soul #

# To the old folks home

and the college #

# Mama's in the factory #

# She ain't got no shoes #

# Daddy's in the alley #

# He's lookin' for food #

# I'm in the kitchen #

# With the tombstone blues #

# Hey, hey, yeah #

Whoo!

Oh!

Boy, look like you found...

you found your freedom

before you found your technique.

Now, real American music

come from the bottom up.

You take Blind Willie McTell.

He's the best blues singer

east of Cannery Row.

He say, "Son, if you can

sing these songs

and understand them,

ain't no place you can't go.

Ah, thank you very much, ma'am.

You're welcome.

I reckon I come out the womb

singing and picking

and playing and all that mess.

So where your people at?

Your kinfolk?

Oh, they back in Stockton, ma'am.

California.

That's where I was raised.

I figured they got plenty

of mouths to feed as it is.

Not that I care a fig about material things,

you know, except for

maybe a decent car.

See, us thumb-slummers

and box-jumpers,

we get a little peckish

when it comes to cars, you know?

That boy sound just like Doughboy Hawkins,

a fella I met in the Dust Bowl.

Tell you what I think.

I think it's 1959,

and this boy's singing

songs about the boxcar?

Hmm. What a boxcar

gonna mean to him?

Right here, we got race riots,

folks with no food.

Why ain't he out there

singing about that?

The boy a guest in our house.

I know he's a guest.

I'm just trying to speak what's in my mind.

No!

Say it.

Live your own time, child.

Sing about your own time.

Greenwich Village,

once the in spot

for beatnik jazz and bebop,

is today home

to the popular folk music fad,

a do-it-yourself musical expression

that's attracted youngsters

from all across the nation.

For them,

these homespun songs of the working man

express a truth and candor

sorely lacking in today's

growing consumer society.

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