Surf's Up and Genocide with Bob Dylan's Son in 90s Cambodia

 It was a normal busy day at the AFP Phnom Penh bureau. The generator was acting up so the door was open in a forlorn hope of a breeze. No breeze but suddenly commotion. The guard opens the front gage and a blue Toyota taxi drives in. Nothing really unusual about that. Bat the two surfboards on the roof. It was 1994 in Cambodia and the Khmer Rouge insurgency still raged throughout the country. Nobody was surfing and as we all know, Charlie don't surf. Two guys jump out of the taxi and start unpacking the boards. It's Chris Riley, a regular visitor to the office and a mate of his from LA. They walk in and Chris introduces me to his friend; "Kevin Barrington this is Jesse Dylan." I look up from the keyboard where I am belting out a story to meet a deadline and I see this taciturn guy with curly hair and a reserved demeanour. Instantly I think this is Bob Dylan's son. I raise and eyebrow to Chris and he subtly nods. 

It's Dylan's son.

Jesse is there with Chris who is helping out Doug Niven, the AFP photographer, with a grim project.

As the Khmer Rouge revolution descended into violent paranoia and started to turn on itself cadre from local to ministerial level were dragged into the secret prison in Phnom Penh and tortured until they confessed their counter-revolutionary sins. Attached to their confessions was a B/W photograph. These were grim photos of condemned men and their wives and kids.

You can tell from the photos that the victims knew the fate that awaited them.

Some stare in terror, some in total bewilderment that the revolution they sacrificed their lives for was now going to kill them and some, not many, with a look of defiance.

These were spooky photos. They gave you a chill.

The negatives themselves however were rotting in the tropical heat and humidity. So Doug and Chris and various friend decided to clean them up and preserve them for history. Chris and Doug set up a non-profit for the task the Photo Archive Group

And they were doing this in the large AFP office where I was the  Cambodia correspondent.

They cleaned the negs, they printed them, they hung them up and eventually they produced a book of the harrowing photos.

They quickly ran out of wall space in the photographer's part of the ground floor bureau and so the victims started to slowly creep into my office.

There was no shortage of horror in early 90s Cambodia and my job ensured I remained aware of that. A traumatised people with easy access to the weapons of more made more plenty of grisly crime stories. Shoot outs were common and jilted lovers threw grenades the way others threw fists. And that was in the cities. Up country landmines ravaged limbs. Khmer Rouge atrocities were constant giving cover to rogue government units who kidnapped and killed with impunity. Come the dry season battles would break out in north and northwest Cambodia and the government tried to take advantage of the dry terrain to move troops and tanks up to try and seize Khmer Rouge bases. Faced with superior odds, the guerrillas would normally slip back into the jungle and launch ambushes and harry supply lines. Then when government troops got complacent and demoralised and their commanders were more concerned with grabbing loot than manning perimeters, the guerrillas would counterattack, generally with Thai military assistance, and would often rout government forces many times their size.

The stick didn't seem to be working well. The carrot fared better. Khmer Rouge units started to come out of the bush from 93 onwards. Then in 96 their former foreign minister and the one with the sharpest grasp of the goings on in the outside world, Ieng Sary did a deal with the government in Phnom Penh that he would stay on as governor of his resource rich region and could continue to sell timber and gems to the Thai military. All he had to do was to stop the several thousand battle hardened guerrillas in his zone from attacking the government. Instead they would plead allegiance to the government in Phnom Penh. This split the movement in two and was the writing on the wall for the ultra-nationalist movement. There was only the Anlong Veng faction left and even there Pol Pot was ailing and his comrades were turning on him. Still lethal but the Khmer Rouge was imploding. With Pol Pot's death 

But back to Jesse. He worked in Hollywood. Very successful by all account. He had just produced 

American Pie 3. 

He Takes Her Up The Isle.

Hmmm.

Daddy's writing Simple Twist of Fate. Son is taking her up the aisle.

Now I had a relatively famous father. A constitutional lawyer, a Supreme Court judge.

That was a bit of a burden.

But what is like when daddy steals the preserves of youth; when daddy is cooler than son.

Even Jacob may have thought he got free when he released his acclaimed Wallflowers album.

Then daddy drops Time Out of Mind.

So I feel for Jesse.

And I get on with my job.

Then a few days later the photographer finishes early and he and Chris and Jesse and a few others are having a vodka and a joint.

It's a slow news day so I join them.

And I, a huge Dylan fan, sit there thinking that it must be rough to be the son of a global icon etc but the counter voice in the head is going 'this is your show here, he is staying in your office,  you won't be disrespectful etc'.

So I have a drink. I take a toke.

And

"Jesse what's your old man up to these days?"

The room goes silent.

A second passes.

"Still touring," he replies.

Still touring.

Kind of perfect really.

DYLAN ROUGH AND ROWDY WAYS DUBLIN 2022

Heading in to Bob's stunning show. And we got Bob and we got multitudes and we got more. Meanwhile he pulled off his lifelong ambition, he separated the dancer from the dance. The most striking aspect of the gig was the fact that it was meta, if not anti rock n roll. We were way past all that. First impressions: the minimalist stage setting. The 30s art-deco-ish lighting. The jazz like layout of the musicians. Yeah sure Bob is centre stage but hidden behind an upright piano. No spotlights. No icons. None of that jazz. We're above the show. Magpie stealing all the shiny stuff. Hovering over a century's entertainment. Popping down to pluck all that's precious. And that's what Bob did. He was at 81, finally free. He didn't feel the need to deface his own work. Tonight at 3Arena he was going to embrace. And that he did. And it was magical. From the first notes. And Dylan's voice at 81 was startling. vital and always bleeding meaning. And we had so many Bobs it was disconcerting. We had balladeer, burnt out Bob, crooner, poetic Dylan, love song maestro. Ah stop it, stop it stop it Bob. This is too much. Way too many yous. Bob Dylan, do you know something? You contain multitudes. And more. As did the band. The usual suspects. With Tony Garnier hitting what must be 30 years. This band is effortlessly stunning. You gotta be if you're with Bob. If you are going to raid a musical century's lost ark, then you gotta know those Indiana moves. You gotta take out the Nazis. And these band dudes, they know the score. And all the scores. They just don't make a big deal about it. No grimacing guitar. No cliche. it's just all in a day's work; just presenting genius. Yes you heard me right. Genius. This gig deconstructed the whole rock n roll icon show. While joyously putting rock n roll in its place in the musical cannon. Alongside jazz and blues. And chanson. And performance poetry. And whatever you are having yourself. Dylan at the end of his game, at the height of his game, showed us all the pieces. Stop looking at me and listen, he so divinely sang. We won't play that silly encore game. We'll just the end the show like adults. Bob, I get it. I get it. I really do. But bad news for you. It just makes you so much more fascinating. Keep it going you angel headed hipster. We need more lights in the night

Meeting Khmer Rouge Guerrillas Straight Out Of The Bush

 Interviewing newly arrived Khmer Rouge defectors up towards Phnom Kulen, Siem Reap 95. Pic by Liz Gilliland...Follows Crossing the Tonle Sap post

I
To put this in context, it was the day after the trip across Tonle Sap. Liz and I spent the night in the Grand Hotel. She probably would not have noticed but I was agitated. I didn't know what to do about the previous day as I felt we were being manipulated when the gov delegation went: "See there's no prison." And there's me thinking "Out here you don't need walls." But wire services weren't interested in me thinking, they just wanted my facts. So Liz and I go out for dinner. And we bump into the co-minister of defence and a whole load of gov officials. They were presiding over a kind of youth militia/boy scout like function. And there were about 200 kids there, all about 16. All were introduced to Liz and me. In groups of two.It took about half an hour and felt truly absurd. Less absurd was the news that a large group of Khmer Rouge guerrillas was defecting up towards Phnom Kulen the next day. Bingo. I could get a good story. So the gov delegation and armed escort were heading off at 6.30am and we were invited to join them. But nice hotel, heady fresh romance and 6.30am. One of these things is not like the others. So waltzing out of the hotel after 9, I start berating myself to dump the romance and don the professional head. Anyhow I find a driver. He is very shocked when he finds out the lovely couple don't want to see the temples. No they want to go up the mountains to meet the Khmer Rouge. After I wave dollars, promise the presence of government troops and swear to our safety, we take off. As we leave recognisable landmarks behind, it starts to feel a bit tense. The driver is looking rattled. Liz isn't. But there again she not travelled that much in guerrilla zones.. All I know is that there is safety somewhere ahead of us. But there were also a lot of Khmer Rouge in the area and not all of whom could be banked on as about to defect. Just as I was thinking maybe this is not a good idea, we pull into a military base about 11am. That's our white car in the pic. The gov group is really surprised to see us. They had written us off at 6.30am. They are now having lunch. They are knocking back the Johnny Walker. And they are laughing at the idiots who drove up without a military escort. Suddenly there's commotion. State tv cameras appear. The whiskey bottles are removed. The Khmer Rouge have arrived, fresh out of the jungle. Scary looking mofos. I hustle an interpreter. With some of them you don't need a translator. The look is clear. I would like to kill you slowly and do unspeakable things to that blonde in the mini skirt. Yeah. Got you guys. Thanks. Others testify to the simple truths of a decades old conflict. Why did you join the Khmer Rouge? Not a mention of Mao or agrarian reform. No, it was cos I came from this village, talking about somewhere deep in the boondocks. So deep that none seemed to have cigarettes. They were smoking ganja. They were tired of fighting. They were tired of the jungle. 
They wanted blondes in mini skirts.
Or a variant thereof.
One geezer with a very old rifle deserved a campaign medal or two. He had fought the French with the Khmer Issaraks in the 50s. The defection of this group of 150 didn't mean there were no Khmer Rouge left to hassle us on the way back so it was time to go. We had a two hour drive ahead of us. And the same rule applied that had applied to all conflicts in SE Asia over the past 50 years or more. Get off the road by dusk. By dusk we were in the Grand Hotel carpark dealing an irate driver. He was looking for some vast amount cos we had taken way way out of his comfort zone. He had a point. It was dodgy. And no-one else deserves to die for my ambition. As well as that I was looking forward to few beers with Liz as soon as I got my story out. So I paid him double. And strange for a feature like piece, it made the front page of Bangkok Post the next day. I was being congratulated so I was able to drop the issue of the secret prison. I just filed it in my memory as the best's day's tourism I had in my life. And it's still up there. Secret or otherwise.

PEAKY FUCKING BLINDERS

 

Jesus that Peaky Blinders movie is terrible nonsense. There again I never liked the series. Nor opiated steam punk in general.

Nick Cave crooning or not.

Throw in the Fontaines, Lankum, Massive Attack etc with Banksy doing the call sheets and thieving gypsy swine robbing his art, it's still nonsense.

Anyhow a gypsy girl's bed beckons with a fine pipe of opium.

"Ah don't read me hand love, the CT scan yesterday said all good."

Seriously though does anyone with a brain actually like this tragically hip nonsense?

It has all the authenticity of a video game.

And seems designed for bedroom dwellers destroyed by weed,

With irate mothers shouting from below.

Me?

I'd sooner be Buckfasting to Abba.

MAGA MEL CAN PACK A PUNCH AND PULL A CHICK

Fucking Mel Gibson. Trump got him his gun back. So now Mel can take over from Clint as the Don't Fuck With Me Octogenarian. Pack a punch, pull the women and get a Cialis assist quasi philosophical hard on.

UH AH. UH AH

USA USA USA.

Deport the gooks.

But Mel is your visa in order? Doesn't matter. Mel is honorary MAGA. He embodies the Magawood trinity;Woods, Voight and Eastwood. But at times Clint did make our day. He could go beyond "grey hair can kill on the srreet and in the bedroom" trope and could occasionally drop some entertaining dope.

Whereas Mel is a non-stop twitchy.

Pure Vietnam vet with gooks permanently in his perimeter.

I'd prefer the Mayans myself, with jaguars, blow darts and chill blow jobs. Mel still had it back in those Inca days. But then he went and got himself hung up. Seems he couldn't get over getting crucified.

The crown of thorns.

The vinegar.

The spear jab.

Barabas blathering on.

Betrayed by the Jews.

Who else? says Mel.

So now he is out for revenge.

Is he ever otherwise?

Taking down Hollywood. One shit movie after another.

That'll teach the yids.

UH AH old men slay the babes.

As for the movie, whatever the fuck it is called, don't watch it.

Don't watch any of them.

Well you can start at Gallipoli and end in Guatemala.

Forget the rest.

If we all ignore Mel, he might calm down and act his age.

Put down the AR 15 and pick up bridge.

LEONARD COHEN AND THE PINK CASHMERE CUNTS

Rory Gallagher was my first rock gig. In the  stadium in 77. And it was good. Afghani black, check shirts and McCardles Ale good. But the second was on another dimension entirely. The dark witty sombre timbre of Leonard Cohen in the boxing stadium reeking of home grown weed. The still stoic beauty of his deep sonorous voice. I then made it to all his gigs including the 7pm and 9pm shows in 88 - when Dublin was great until he went Omm and disappeared up a Buddhist mountain. It took 20 plus years before he reappeared a groovy cultural icon In Kilmainham. 

The clouds of homegrown gave way to champagne selling Citroën vans. And the earnest poets in dufflecoats were now trendy cunts in pink cashmere. But I spoke or shouted to Leonard "Please don't make us wait another 25 years."He took off his fedora, placed it over his heart and spoke back to me: "I don't think I have another 25 years in me."

Swoon.

Elvis orgasmic.

Beatles squeals.

I forgot the cunts in pink cashmere. And Gerry Adams behind. And sightings of Bertie Ahern. And the minister of something and his slightly alarmed missus sitting beside me in the front row and probably the rightful owners of the empty seat I had just colonised, Klaus Kinski in Fitzcaraldo like. I try:

"I might not have a ticket but I have a right."

But the humourless bouncer from Northern Ireland didn't agree. And wasn't hip to Herzog.

Leonard was now mid song and probably too preoccupied to save me.

Apparently the show wasn't all about me.

So with bouncer forehead almost kissing my nose, I left the front row to the pink cashmere cunts.

And discreetly claimed an empty seat in row 4.

Beggers, choosers.

And so there was beauty. And he was wonderful. You could waltz with his generosity of spirit and his true sense of delight at performing and at being received in such an adoring manner.

Here's to Buddhism.

He went up the mountain.

And he truly transcended worldly goods.

In other words his manager spent all his money.

So he had to dump the saffron and sushi.

And hit the road, Jack.

Then once he was on it, it seemed he couldn't stop coming back.

Once more and more.

Until cancer and the armies of old age threw up insurmountable barricades.

It was all very sad and moving.

But I preferred the pre Armani days.

Just Leonard alone strumming a guitar with his deep deep voice weaving a hypnotic spell of barbituate beauty.

Sadness so deep it shimmered.

That was my Leonard.

"I found a silver needle

I stuck it into my arm

It did some good

It did some harm

But the night was cold

And it almost made me warm

How come the night is long."

That Lorca like lyricism.

That was my Cohen.

Sure I was thrilled to see in the black Armani, surrounded by female beauty and him, bizarrely, tinkling with.a synthesiser.

In lesser hands it could have been cocaine narcissism.

A total disaster.

But Leonard wasn't hanging with Warhol or sitting with Trump in Club 54.

No, he may have been in a glittering tower but he was talking to Hank Williams.

About what?

About how lonely it gets.

In the Heartbreak Hotel.

Lonely. 

Like back in the stadium.

Solo.

Strumming.

Singing.

Of tea 

And oranges.

Amidst the crystal silence.

And cabbage like reek of  homegrown.

Spellbinding.

As  he gets you

On his wavelength.

And he lets the river answer.

Did Trump dump the Kurds in exchange for Baghdadi's whereabouts?

 Has anyone ever thrown any light on what I suspect went down when Trump abandoned the Kurds and left them facing Erdogan's military might? Isn't it too much of a coincidence that Trump suddenly got news Baghdadi's whereabouts and was able to try rival Obama's Bin Laden coup by taking out Baghdadi who "died like a dog." We all know the vast extent of Trump's Obama obsession. And Baghdadi was holed up in the Turkey adjacent Idlib province. Idlib was ruled by the Turkish backed rebels who have just ousted Assad. So it would have been hopping with Turkish spooks. And Erdogan's son had loads of ISIS contacts as he sold their oil. So Erdogan would have known the whereabouts of the ISIS boss. So I reckon Trump happily dumped the Kurds as a favour to Erdogan and got Baghdadi's whereabouts as thanks. Needless to say, this is just my gut talking. But like Trump, I got good guts. I got the best guts. As for the Kurds who had endeared themselves to the progressive left, well they got a lesson in the perils of trusting Uncle Sam. Trump certainly doesn't like armed militant female forces. You wouldn't be grabbing the YPG women by the pussy. But still the YPG joined a long list of betrayed US client forces abandoned to a merciless fate.