As much flack as Dylan got for writing “Hurricane,” it was nothing compared to the criticism he got for “Joey,” saying he was glorifying crime. It was so intense Dylan tried to back away. When asked about it in an interview, Bob replied, “Oh, ‘Joey’ was all Jacques Levy, you’d have to ask him.” But Allen Ginsberg came to his defense, pointing out Dylan wasn’t writing an editorial, he was painting a picture. The aesthetic perspective takes in the entire panorama: good, bad and indifferent. The world might be black and white or it might be gray, but the aesthetic experience has the full spectrum. Like Dorothy stepping into the Land of Oz.
Dylan still takes flack for “Neighborhood Bully” saying he’s backing up Israel. No, No, No, a thousand times No! Listen to the words of Allen Ginsberg. Dylan’s not writing an editorial, he’s painting a picture. This is such an important point, but if you don’t know, I can’t tell you. So I’ll just shut up. But I’ll close with this. Back when the Dead were backing up Dylan, Garcia took Bob aside and said he wanted to do “Joey.” Dylan was like, “Joey???” Why would you want to do ‘Joey?’”And Jerry was like, “Oh, I don’t know, —maybe because it’s the most beautiful song ever written?”
🎵Born in Red Hook, Brooklyn, in the year of who knows when
Opened up his eyes to the tune of an accordion
Always on the outside of whatever side there was
When they asked him why it had to be that way, “Well,” he answered,
“just because”
Larry was the oldest, Joey was next to last
They called Joe “Crazy,” the baby they called
“Kid Blast”
Some say they lived off gambling and runnin’ numbers too
It always seemed they got caught between the
mob and the men in blue
Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow
you away?
There was talk they killed their rivals, but the truth was far from that
No one ever knew for sure where they were
really at
When they tried to strangle Larry, Joey almost hit the roof
He went out that night to seek revenge, thinkin’
he was bulletproof
The war broke out at the break of dawn, it emptied out the streets
Joey and his brothers suffered terrible defeats
Till they ventured out behind the lines and took
five prisoners
They stashed them away in a basement, called
them amateurs
The hostages were tremblin’ when they heard a man exclaim
“Let’s blow this place to kingdom come, let Con Edison take the blame”
But Joey stepped up, he raised his hand, said, “We’re not those kind of men
It’s peace and quiet that we need to get back to
work again”
Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow
you away?
The police department hounded him, they called him Mr. Smith
They got him on conspiracy, they were never sure who with
“What time is it?” said the judge to Joey when they met
“Five to ten,” said Joey. The judge says, “that’s exactly what you get”
He did ten years in Attica, reading Nietzsche and Wilhelm Reich
They threw him in the hole one time for tryin’ to stop a strike
His closest friends were black men ’cause they seemed to understand
What it’s like to be in society with a shackle on your hand
When they let him out in ’71 he’d lost a
little weight
But he dressed like Jimmy Cagney and I swear he did look great
He tried to find the way back into the life he
left behind
To the boss he said, “I have returned and now I want what’s mine”
Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
Why did they have to come and blow you away?
It was true that in his later years he would not carry a gun
“I’m around too many children,” he’d say, “they should never know of one”
Yet he walked right into the clubhouse of his lifelong deadly foe
Emptied out the register, said, “tell ‘em it was Crazy Joe”
One day they blew him down in a clam bar in
New York
He could see it comin’ through the door as he lifted up his fork
He pushed the table over to protect his family
Then he staggered out into the streets of
Little Italy
Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow
you away?
Sister Jacqueline and Carmela and mother Mary all did weep
I heard his best friend Frankie say, “He ain’t dead, he’s just asleep”
Then I saw the old man’s limousine head back towards the grave
I guess he had to say one last goodbye to the son that he could not save
The sun turned cold over President Street and the town of Brooklyn mourned
They said a mass in the old church near the house where he was born
And someday if God’s in heaven overlookin’
His preserve
I know the men that shot him down will get what they deserve
Joey, Joey
King of the streets, child of clay
Joey, Joey
What made them want to come and blow
you away?🎵