I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I’m only just now gaining some level of consciousness after a lengthy hibernative state in the wake of a flood.
Ok, that was a pun... thought I’d get the first one out of the early, because they could happen often (although you may not understand this one until you hear me out). You see, I am not a creation of the curator that is giving me a voice; but instead the embodiment of a lyricized limerick brought to life, in verse, by Jerry Garcia and Robert Hunter for the Grateful Dead’s early tune entitled “Uncle John’s Band.” I was known to some of their followers as early as 1969, and was later given the studio treatment for the 1970 album “Workingman’s Dead.”
Hmmph. Working man. A simplistically broad, yet directly honest label for the earlier mentioned curator of this jaunt. I digress.
“Workingman’s Dead” was tremendously successful on the heals of the band’s preceding breakout effort called “American Beauty.” Without being too modest; Uncle John, Casey Jones and myself made some serious waves in the psychedelic rock scene; bringing a hodge-podge of additives to the sub-genre with everything from standard folk themes to Bulgarian song structure.
Eventually, our success would lend itself to my fortunate association with the songwriting prowess of the Garcia and Hunter duo; so much so that I was given a minor illustrative role in the band’s 6th studio piece entitled “The Wake of the Flood.”
And there you have it. Full circle on that pun I shamelessly brought forward right out of the gate...
Like I said; I’ve been largely quiet since my caricature, drawn by underground psychedelic artist Rick Griffin, appeared in the album’s promotional literature and then ultimately on the wax’s label, where I held on tightly for some wild turntable trips that kept me spinning well past the needle return. Those were the days.
While I can't be certain, I’m keen to assume that I was the first animal incarnation that rooted itself in the vast history of symbolism used by the Grateful Dead. But alas, no crow has the staying power like that of a parade of multi-colored dancing Teddies and tambourine-bearing cosmic terrapins. I pop up from time to time in their revisionist repertoire but I generally don't mind my place in the shadows.
Don’t cry for me though. I’m the one that invokes the tears, as much as I try to refrain from doing so.
Us crows... we don’t always feel understood, especially when it comes to archetypal misreadings dreamt up by the human mind. Now don’t get me wrong, we are a foreboding Corvus. Not too dissimilar from my cousin, the raven (more on him later). But we are much more than that.
Crows are some of the more intelligent specimens you will encounter. Believe it or not, I actually understand the concept of water displacement. Put a low-fill cup and a wingful of pebbles in front of me, and I will hydrate any parched beak. I can also recognize and distinguish human faces and interpret any ill intent based on facial structure. Protection is something I’m known for.
But. Aside from all of that, my ancestral tradition is prophecy. Its a part of my species’ lore that makes me a polarizing figure. Provocating thoughts on one’s future, bleak or otherwise, does not lend itself to a good reputation in some spiritual circles; while in others it is revered.
Therefore, in an attempt to reach into the mind’s eye of that infamous pair of lyricists, my creators; I suppose these ideals of ’the crow’ are poignant predilections. Let us examine:
" It's the same story the crow told me; it's the only one he knows. Like the morning sun you come and like the wind you go. Ain't no time to hate, barely time to wait, Wo, oh, what I want to know, where does the time go? "
It’s hard to say why exactly they brought me in to the mix. Some observers claim that I am indeed a reference to that older cousin of mine, The Raven. The only ‘story’ I know being reduced to a single word: “Nevermore.” While I am familiar with the work of a certain fireside soothsayer, Edgar Allan Poe, I can’t be certain that my aforementioned cousin casts that wide of a shadow. Besides, I have way more than one story to tell; never mind a "Nevermore."
Still, some scholars maintain that I am merely a spiritually-charged mouthpiece for Emily Dickinson’s poem #478, which reads:
I had no time to Hate-- Because The Grave would hinder Me-- And Life was not so Ample I Could finish--Enmity--
Nor had I time to Love-- But since Some Industry must be-- The little Toil of Love-- I thought-- Be Large Enough for Me--
One thing you humans are quite known for is seemingly forgetting the common denominator in this link to Dickinson's work. There is never a time to hate... seems to be quite the plague these days. I'll leave this one alone for now as I'm sure many squawkings will come of this particular theme in days to come.
For a more visceral story line often associated with my upbringing, I present to you the case of Apollo and his love for the Thessalian princess, Coronis. Admittedly, I do not know much of this ancient human history known as Greek mythology, so I cannot be so inclined to validate the fact that my own ancestral history consisted of white-winged relatives. However, it said that upon learning of Coronis' infidelity from a, then white, messanger crow; the God of Truth became so enraged that he turned the crow's feathers black, the state that can be observed in my brethren today. Therefore, the only story this undyed flyer was cursed with, indeed the only story he knew; had far-reaching consequences for all parties involved.
All theories considered, I suppose my beginnings, my background, the etymology in which my reputation is derived; is the reason I am here. Perhaps as, a sort-of guiding observer to whatever it is that Jerry Garcia and Robert Hunter were eluding to in the writing of "Uncle John's Band". Maybe the most genuine idea of my creation was, in fact, to make the listener discover the thoughts and ideals of others.
Pontificating about life and death, and everything in between, is an innate desire which is part of who I am. But that doesn't mean every story I have to offer is bleak and destitute of all of the warm and fuzzy feelings that makes you humans tick.
I'm a dancing crow after all...
So the simple truth of the matter is, at the very core of my being, I exist in a song... as a means of making others want to sway to and fro; to lose themselves in a melodic musings; to find meaning in a catalog of art that serves as both influenc[ed] and influenc[er].
I am not a singer, not by any means. My song is not romanticized like those of the angelic avian anthems from the sparrow or bluebird. And honestly, I don't need it to be. My song is what makes you think of the foretold promises of this life, as short as it may be; just as I do in my inherent prophecies. My song is what protects you when you feel the most vulnerable, just as I do as I observe the threats of the human likeness. My song is what makes you think, just as I do when I must quench my thirst.
My song is your song.
Let's explore it all together.
...as the crow flies.
t.DC
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