Читать книгу Why Dylan Matters - Richard F. Thomas - Страница 10
ОглавлениеAs was the case for many who came of age in the mid-1960s, my first Dylan experience centered on issues of social justice. When I was thirteen or fourteen, I sang “Blowin’ in the Wind” with my school chorus in New Zealand. This song, from Dylan’s first original album, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, was my first, true introduction to Dylan’s music, though I was already familiar with the chart-topping version sung by the folk trio Peter, Paul and Mary. When we sang Dylan’s version in chorus, I remember being somewhat put off by the “addition” of the words “Yes ’n’ ” before each of the questions, absent from the version I had hardwired from the radio—“Yes ’n’ how many seas must a white dove sail?” and so forth. I recall pointing this out to the chorus director, who was clearly an early Dylan fan. He insisted that we sing the Dylan version, and I soon came to share his preference.
We could sing this song and make it our own back then in New Zealand because it belonged to no one time or place, but rather was right for any time or place as a cry for justice and peace. A few years later, in 1969, “Blowin’ in the Wind” would take on a new and more immediate meaning for me, as I participated as a member of HART (Halt All Racist Tours), a student organization protesting the New Zealand rugby tours of apartheid South Africa. Now the song’s reach had expanded, beyond the U.S. civil rights struggle that was its original backdrop. It was also about Nelson Mandela and others, sentenced by the apartheid regime to life imprisonment with hard labor on Robben Island—within clear sight of the pleasant beaches of Cape Town. Before 1967, New Zealand had been sending racially selected teams to play against whites-only rugby teams in South Africa. Then Maori players were allowed to play with the status “honorary white.” “Yes, ’n’ how many times can a man turn his head / Pretending he just doesn’t see?”—those lines easily came to mind as I joined those marches. In these years the song also became an anthem as we demonstrated against my country’s symbolically important and militarily insignificant involvement in Vietnam: “Yes, ’n’ how many times must the cannonballs fly / Before they’re forever banned?”
“Blowin’ in the Wind” worked pretty well for those occasions, as it had for the seminal civil rights protest March on Washington on August 28, 1963, there sung not by Bob Dylan, but by Peter, Paul and Mary. Dylan himself sang two songs from his as-yet-unreleased album of that year, The Times They Are A-Changin’, first “When the Ship Comes In,” accompanied by Joan Baez, and then on his own, “Only a Pawn in Their Game.” In spite of its historical role at moments such as these, “Blowin’ in the Wind” can’t now, and couldn’t then, simply be labeled a protest song. From his first known performance of the song, in April 1962 at Gerde’s Folk City in Greenwich Village, Dylan struggled to free it from such categorization. Here’s the way the songwriter—that’s what he was, it needs to be stressed, not a protester—introduced the song back then:
This here ain’t a protest song or anything like that, ’cause I don’t write protest songs. … I’m just writing it as something to be said, for somebody, by somebody.
Too late. As the Roman poet Horace (65–8 BC) put it, “Once it’s let loose the word flies off and can’t be called back.” Dylan couldn’t call back the song, but he soon stopped singing it in concert. He only performed it a handful of times during the decade in which it had become an anthem, including a memorable performance for his debut at the Newport Folk Festival on the evening of July 26, 1963. The memory of that show would help to fuel a sense of betrayal in the minds of folk and protest song purists not only at the next Newport festival in 1964, when Dylan opted not to play the song, but especially and finally at Newport in 1965, when he traded his traditional solo acoustic performance for one backed by Mike Bloomfield’s electric guitar. Things had already changed at Newport the previous year, when Dylan played new, still-unreleased songs “It Ain’t Me, Babe” and “Mr. Tambourine Man,” the latter showing how astonishingly complex and poetic his language and song had become. The lyrics of “It Ain’t Me, Babe” almost seemed to be directed to fans who had come expecting a repeat of “Blowin’ in the Wind” from the year before: “Go ’way from my window / Leave at your own chosen speed / I’m not the one you want, babe / I’m not the one you need.” The end of the refrain, “It ain’t me you’re looking for, babe,” in hindsight, came across as a warning of what would happen at the next year’s festival, on July 25, 1965. That evening, with Bloomfield’s howling electric guitar riffs coming out of the darkness of the stage, alternating at times line by line with Dylan’s singing, Dylan delivered the message: “Well I try my best / To be just like I am / But everybody wants you / To be just like them / They say sing while you slave and I just get bored / I ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.” The acoustic Dylan that folk fans loved hadn’t gone away, but the song they had heard and loved two years before was silenced for the time being. Something else was happening that many folk purists, particularly older ones, along with those in the antiwar movement, were just not ready for. The songs of those years, culminating in the “thin, wild mercury music” of Blonde on Blonde, as Dylan himself described it, had entered another universe. In just fifteen months, from March 22, 1965, to May 16, 1966, Dylan recorded and released three albums—Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, and Blonde on Blonde—that would establish and perfect the entirely new genre of folk-rock, a convenient label, even if it was not to Dylan’s liking.
As the years went on, for people who stopped following Dylan’s new music, who booed at the concerts of 1966 and were radicalized by the deepening involvement in Vietnam, Dylan was frozen in time, only those few songs relevant to what now mattered. He was useful as a protest singer, joined at the hip to that acoustic version of “Blowin’ in the Wind.” “Masters of War,” the other great song on The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan that was adopted as a protest anthem, was addressed directly to those who build the weapons and send the young men to die for the wars from which they profit. Like “Blowin’ in the Wind,” it created an indelible association in the minds of those who would head off to Vietnam. Dylan’s disclaimer about not writing protest songs made back in 1962 at Gerde’s hadn’t worked. His music, powerful from the beginning, would take on a life of its own. Dylan didn’t turn up at the protest marches of 1965 and later to sing “Blowin’ in the Wind,” but singers like Joan Baez, Judy Collins, and others unknown and without fame would take over for him, at marches, in student unions, in student apartments, wherever the antiwar movement was to be found, in the United States, in Auckland, and throughout the world. As student protest leader Todd Gitlin put it: “Whether he liked it or not, Dylan sang for us. … We followed his career as if he was singing our songs.”
Seven years after those songs came out, as Dylan relates in his memoir, Chronicles: Volume One, it was the message, not the music, that the media and general public recalled. By 1970 he had been off the road for four years, trying to dodge the demands of those who wanted him to return either to the antiwar song or to the sound and the lyrics that he had invented in 1964–66, the true basis of his musical fame by that point. After Dylan stopped touring in 1966, now raising his family with Sara Dylan in Woodstock and New York City, and writing very different music, as we’ll see, he still couldn’t get away from the old labels. In his memoir, Dylan recalls receiving his honorary degree from Princeton University in June 1970, annoyed at being labeled “the conscience of America”:
“Though he is known to millions, he shuns publicity and organizations preferring the solidarity of his family and isolation from the world, and though he is approaching the perilous age of thirty, he remains the authentic expression of the disturbed and concerned conscience of Young America.” Oh Sweet Jesus! It was like a jolt. I shuddered and trembled but remained expressionless. The disturbed conscience of Young America! There it was again. I couldn’t believe it! The speaker could have said many things, he could have emphasized a few things about my music.
For Dylan, it is the art of the song that matters. And song has powerful effects, especially when it responds to human conflict, to perceived injustice, to oppression. It is through song that we give depth to the sentiments for which mere speech is at times of crisis insufficient. And the more perfect the song, the more authentic the singer becomes in the minds of those who hear the song. How can a songwriter who creates songs with such fundamental and persuasive messages not believe those messages? That has always been the shackle from which Dylan has struggled to free himself. The message of a handful of Dylan’s songs was what lingered in the consciousness of those who had heard them and had been involved, on one side or the other, for or against the war in Vietnam. To this day, the attitude of anyone old enough to have had a position on that war probably lines up pretty well with what they think of Bob Dylan the man, even after all these years.
“Blowin’ in the Wind” is part of Dylan’s poetry and art, exquisite in its classical structure and form. The song is written in three verses, each with three questions, each question extending over two lines, and each followed by the same answering couplet:
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, ’n’ how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, ’n’ how many times must the cannonballs fly
Before they’re forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind
How many years can a mountain exist
Before it’s washed to the sea?
Yes, ’n’ how many years can some people exist
Before they’re allowed to be free?
Yes, ’n’ how many times can a man turn his head
Pretending that he just doesn’t see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind
How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky
Yes, ’n’ how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, ’n’ how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind
The answer is blowin’ in the wind
The urgent refrain that supposedly provides an answer really gives no answer at all, but rather creates its own questions: “The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind / The answer is blowin’ in the wind.” Is the wind blowing the answer away from us, never to be heard, or blowing it toward us, about to right the injustices of those nine urgent questions? Roman critics had a saying, “The art of poetry is to not say everything.” That is precisely what Dylan’s refrain does, indeed what much of Dylan’s art does; it implants the possible answer in our imaginations, and the rest is up to us.
It is the height of irony that Dylan’s main fear about how the song would be labeled may have lain elsewhere. One of his earliest and most famous interviews took place in May 1963, on Studs Terkel’s radio show on WFMT in Chicago. The young Dylan was in town to play at a local club, the Bear. Not included in Terkel’s 2005 published collection of interviews, And They All Sang, and therefore not to be found in Jonathan Cott’s The Essential Interviews, the following exchange took place in the lead-up to Dylan’s closing song and may be heard on a tape of the show:
ST: What’s one way to sign off … a signing-off song?
BD: Sign-off song, let’s see. Hmm. Oh, “Blowin’ in the Wind,” there’s one I’ll sing you.
ST: Isn’t that a popular song, that’s a popular song, I believe.
BD: God, I hope not.
ST: By “popular” I mean in a good sense. A lot of people are singing it.
BD: Oh, yeah.
After an eight-year hiatus, the song came back twice on August 1, 1971, in Dylan’s afternoon and evening performances at the Concert for Bangladesh. “Blowin’ in the Wind” returned to his setlists for good in January 1974. By then Watergate and Nixon were more in his fans’ consciousness, and the song, obviously not a pop song, could finally take its place in his repertoire as part of his art in performance. I heard Dylan sing the song twice in 2016, in Boston in July and in Clearwater, Florida, in November and twice again in June 2017, on each occasion as the first of the two encores to close his concerts, its regular place in setlists of recent years—and he has now sung it at more than 1,400 concerts, a world away from the acoustic version recorded by the twenty-one-year-old Dylan. The song is still urgent in its questions, but it can’t, couldn’t ever, be attached to any one historical event or condition.
The same goes for “Masters of War,” in terms of its enduring resonance. Dylan had performed the song 884 times by the end of 2016. Vietnam had become a dim backdrop by this time even in the minds of baby boomers, but the masters of war (“You that build the death planes / You that build the big bombs”) never really go away. They were close at hand when Dylan performed acoustic versions of “Masters of War” in Australia and New Zealand in early 2003, including on March 15, when millions of demonstrators in those two countries and across the globe took to the streets urging two politicians not to proceed. American president George W. Bush and British prime minister Tony Blair had for months been building the case for bringing war to Iraq. I myself heard the song in those months reflecting on how relevant its message seemed, forty years on. After the bombs started falling on Baghdad on March 18, and in concerts for the rest of 2003, Dylan stopped playing the song. We’ll never know why, but perhaps Dylan felt that would make it too overtly a “protest song,” the old label. It returned the following year, however, and stayed on setlists until November 23, 2010, when it disappeared, so far for good, except for one performance on October 7, 2016, at the Desert Trip music festival in Indio, California, a weekend extravaganza where some of those particular fans would have expected to hear the song, along with hits by Neil Young, the Rolling Stones, Paul McCartney, Roger Waters, and the Who.
Throughout December 1974, as my first semester as a Ph.D. student was drawing to a close, I regularly stopped in at the local record store on campus to pick up Dylan’s new album, Blood on the Tracks, unaware that Columbia Records had held up its release. My pilgrimages to the record store became part of the rhythm of life, and I made some friends in the process, leading to late nights throughout my Ann Arbor years with music and revolution in the air at a blues club called the Blind Pig, or the Del Rio, which offered free jazz on Sunday evenings. The Ann Arbor Blues Festival had debuted a few years before I got to campus, in the fall of 1969, and featured artists like Muddy Waters, B. B. King, Howlin’ Wolf, Son House, and Lightnin’ Hopkins. There were funding issues and by 1974 the festival had finished its run, but there was still good music from local bands and musicians attracted to that town’s entertainment market of more than thirty thousand students.
As fans would later discover, Blood on the Tracks was delayed because Dylan had gone back to Minnesota, where he rerecorded some of the songs. But in due course Blood on the Tracks turned up in January 1975 and soon took its place right up there with Blonde on Blonde, a new classic for a new decade. The characters of that earlier album had been mysterious and lovely: Louise and Johanna in “Visions of Johanna,” the sad-eyed lady in “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.” The first girlfriend of my imagination had bits of each even before she materialized. After those eight years, things had changed with the romantic visions of Blood on the Tracks: “Situations have ended sad / Relationships have all been bad,” Dylan sang on “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.” He later denied that the album was about getting divorced from Sara Dylan. Sara Lownds had married Dylan on November 22, 1965, and their divorce would come almost three years after the songs were written. But there is no denying that with Blood on the Tracks, the art and the beauty seem to come more from a sense of hurt and loss, and seldom is experience not an ingredient of art, as Dylan himself has said. All these years later, the emotion in those songs is as palpable as ever, in the studio versions and thousands of versions recorded in concert. That is what literature, song, and the way they work on memory and experience conspire to give us. Poetry and music are compensations for the pain that comes along with the human condition, and they are what can help us along. That’s what Virgil’s words on the Nobel medal mean, honoring those “who enriched our lives with the newfound arts they forged.”
The music that Dylan produced in the eight years between these two great albums indicates anything other than decline. But it’s hard to articulate the disappointment back through those years that the particular sound of Blonde on Blonde had gone away, never to return. The music he made between that album and Blood on the Tracks was all part of Dylan’s continuing evolution, particularly in mid-1967 as he worked with members of the Band, in seclusion in upstate New York. Some of this material was released on The Basement Tapes in 1975, and much of the rest was long available on unofficial bootleg versions, eventually to be released in 2014 in a six-CD set. Then came the relative simplicity of language on the 1967 album John Wesley Harding, with its biblical engagement and old-school feel. Here Dylan sang with a more spare accompaniment, turning away from the hip, mod sixties to a sound that seemed rooted in nineteenth-century Americana, a return to a new, creative version of the folk traditions that had always been in his blood. Eighteen months later, with the 1969 release of Nashville Skyline, Dylan seemed to be creating a new genre, now inventing country rock, as he had invented folk rock a few years earlier. The next year saw release of his album Self Portrait, and then New Morning. Self Portrait was hit particularly hard by critics, including by music historian Greil Marcus, who famously opened his Rolling Stone review with the words “What is this shit?” It wasn’t until 2013, when Dylan put out The Bootleg Series Volume 10: Another Self Portrait, with alternate, live, and overdub-free versions, that the brilliance of this period truly came to light, as Marcus himself would eventually acknowledge.
But the fact is that in 1975, when Dylan put out Blood on the Tracks, the world changed for those who cared about his music, maybe in part because of the sublimation of life experience into art, which is the essence of the album. Gone for now was the “old, weird America,” as Marcus had so well described it, of the songs Dylan was laying down with the Band. Gone were the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century worlds of bootlegging, hoboing, and minstrel boys on Self Portrait, gone too the country pie of Nashville Skyline. And gone was the white picket fence that New Morning had tried to build around Bob and Sara Dylan and their four children, against the odds.
Many of the songs on Blood on the Tracks were constructed through the principles and practice of painting, a skill and insight he picked up from Norman Raeben, a painting teacher in New York City, in early 1974. To be sure, Dylan attributed to Raeben the very comeback that the album represented.
I was convinced I wasn’t going to do anything else, and I had the good fortune to meet a man in New York City who taught me how to see. He put my mind and my hand and my eye together in a way that allowed me to do consciously what I unconsciously felt … when I started doing it the first album I made was Blood on the Tracks.
Dylan is characteristically vague on the actual methods or techniques, and one could claim that a song like “Visions of Johanna” from 1966 already seemed to reveal painterly qualities, but it is true that the vivid narrative technique in a song like “Simple Twist of Fate” from the new album gave it new effects that catch what he is talking about:
A saxophone someplace far off played
As she was walkin’ by the arcade
As the light bust through a beat-up shade where he was wakin’ up
She dropped a coin into the cup of a blind man at the gate
And forgot about a simple twist of fate
In a radio interview with folksinger Mary Travers in April 1975, Dylan said of Blood on the Tracks, “A lot of people tell me they enjoy that album. It’s hard for me to relate to that. I mean, it, you know, people enjoying the type of pain, you know?” That’s the point, as Dylan, here deliberately disingenuous, well knew. His artistic genius—in his words, music, and voice—create pain, but precisely because of the brilliance of his art on this album, these songs produce recompense for the loss of love and the memory of what had once been. This is the quite intentional goal of songs like “Simple Twist of Fate,” “Idiot Wind,” or “If You See Her, Say Hello.” These songs also hold the trace of a hope that all might not be lost: in “Simple Twist of Fate” the man “Hunts her down by the waterfront docks where the sailors all come in / Maybe she’ll pick him out again,” this also giving the point of view of the character in the song; or the switch at the end of “Idiot Wind” from “You’re an idiot, babe” to “We’re idiots, babe.” Sharing the blame; or at the end of “If You See Her, Say Hello,” “Tell her she can look me up, if she’s got the time”—though in other versions, any hope is pretty remote, as we’ll see. To have lived through more than forty years with all of the music and poetry of these songs, from the album and in performance, is a source of good fortune and of genuine pleasure and deep contentment, even—or especially—with the pain the album so exquisitely expresses.
Much of the album focuses on nighttime, the time of day when the relationships in its songs seem to fall apart, perhaps also the case with Dylan’s real-life relationships. The first line of the first song of the album, “Tangled Up in Blue,” seems to start on a bright note: “Early one mornin’ the sun was shinin’ / I was layin’ in bed,” but within a moment that feeling is illusory, as the relationship is suddenly no more: “Wonderin’ if she’d changed at all / if her hair was still red.” The singer’s early- morning memory eventually gets back to the evening breakup, after driving out west in a car that the couple abandons as they “Split up on a dark sad night / Both agreeing it was best.” The next song, “Simple Twist of Fate,” begins with a twilight encounter, now in third-person narration: “They sat together in the park / As the evening sky grew dark.” After a one-night stand that could in the narrator’s mind have led to something, in the morning he finds that she’s gone: “He woke up, the room was bare / He didn’t see her anywhere.” In “Meet Me in the Morning,” morning and night frame the song, which begins with “Meet me in the morning, 56th and Wabasha,” and ends with the “sun sinkin’ like a ship,” and in between “They say the darkest hour is right before the dawn.” The year after Bob and Sara Dylan’s divorce, finalized on June 29, 1977, Dylan seemed to recall this aspect of the album’s songs: “I don’t have anything but darkness to lose. I’m way beyond that.” A good deal of the melancholic and painful power of this album, whatever the realities of Dylan’s personal situation, comes from these moments, all shadows in the night, a time of day that would continue to be the temporal setting and condition for the best of Dylan’s song.
In the beautiful “If You See Her, Say Hello,” the narrator’s memories of what has been lost in the relationship also come as night falls, in the second verse: “But to think of how she left that night, it still brings me a chill,” and then again in the final verse: “Sundown, yellow moon, I replay the past.” I single out this song for its intense lyric qualities, and not so much for the painterly qualities so apparent elsewhere on the album. The gift of lyric poetry resides in its ability to precisely capture the condition of individuals in their sorrows, joys, loves and losses, desires, hatreds and jealousies. Such poetry is intimately connected to song—again, lyric from lyre, the guitar of the Greeks and Romans. Like song, it enables us to read ourselves into the situations that the poetic voice creates in aesthetically compelling modes. “If You See Her, Say Hello” is another such lyric song-poem. Its five verses are an elaboration of the title, a request by the singer for someone to say hello to a woman who walked out on him, its first verse closing with the rawness of the singer’s feelings: “She might think that I’ve forgotten her, don’t tell it isn’t so.”
This song actually exists in two versions, and in performance with many variations. The first version that Dylan released, on Blood on the Tracks, as quoted above, was actually recorded on December 30, 1974, effectively revising and for many years canceling out an earlier version, which was recorded in September 1974 and eventually released in 1991 on The Bootleg Series Volumes 1–3. In this version, the messenger was a rival, at least in the singer’s imagination: “If you’re makin’ love to her, kiss her for the kid.” The change makes a world of difference, as the element of jealousy complicates things and makes it a different song, as do multiple other changes in yet other versions, including the first known live performance, at Lakeland, Florida, on April 18, 1976, during the second Rolling Thunder Revue, as the Dylans’ marriage was falling apart: “If you’re making love to her, watch it from the rear / You’ll never know when I’ll be back, or liable to appear.” Other parts of the song change in different performances over the years, replaced by brilliant absurdist lines, “Her eyes were blue, her hair was too, her voice was sort of soft,” or a brutal closing to the song in concert in 2002: “If she’s passing back this way, and it couldn’t be too quick / Please don’t mention her name to me, you mention her name it just make me sick.” And the third stanza is gone altogether, absent from official collections of Dylan’s lyrics. But what I heard all those years ago in Ann Arbor was the pure, lyrical version from the 1975 album, and that’s the one that has stayed with me over the years: “Tell her she can look me up if she’s got the time.”
LEAVING AND COMING BACK TO DYLAN
In the fall of 1977, I left Ann Arbor for Cambridge, Massachusetts, to begin teaching in the green pastures of Harvard University, about fifteen years after Dylan met folksinger Eric Von Schmidt in those same pastures. By then my Dylan collection had been topped up. Dylan’s Muse also seemed to have returned in what looked somewhat like a second classic phase, matching the first from a decade earlier. In early 1976, he had released Desire—not quite up to Blood on the Tracks, but fine enough. With Dylan’s next album, Street Legal, appearing in 1978, the winds of change were again beginning to shift in his music. The opening lines of its first song, “Changing of the Guards,” are vivid and allusive: “Sixteen years / Sixteen banners united over the fields,” inviting the listener to look back those sixteen years to the beginning of Dylan’s career, and take stock of how far he’d come and think in the apocalyptic lyrics of the song about where he might be headed: “But Eden is burning, either brace yourself for elimination / Or else your hearts must have the courage for the changing of the guards.” There are some good songs on this album, chiefly for me “Is Your Love in Vain,” but the album as a whole was flawed, as Dylan clearly felt by the best index available: only one song, “Señor,” truly entered the repertoire of Dylan performances, and most he didn’t play after 1978.
For the most devoted Dylan fans who have followed his music through each new stage, his songs and all they evoke become a part of us, with each new album adding another layer. For other fans, he effectively disappeared at various points, starting in 1964 or 1965, quitting their world of folk and protest songs to create a different kind of art. To these fans, Dylan had sold out to a hipster look, and had traded acoustic for electric, with all that connoted for the causes with which they had identified him. But what he gave them in those first two years endured, along with the bittersweet memory of what he had been to them, kept alive by new covers of those particular songs by generations of folksingers who came after. Some disappointed fans stuck around through 1966, hoping that Dylan’s sound, which alternated in performances of that year between solo acoustic and electric with supporting musicians, would return to the former. When it didn’t, these people booed at his concerts, and eventually either came to see what was happening there and found something in it that made sense, or decided to leave for good.
The next crop of Dylan fans to take their leave did so for different reasons, in 1979, when the changing of the guards had come to pass as he started writing and singing Christian songs, often preaching from the stage about hellfire and damnation before launching into his performance. That version of Dylan just didn’t fit in with where they were in their lives or what they believed, or didn’t believe in, or with the Dylan they thought they knew from 1966 or 1975 or some other moment. And so it has continued with Dylan’s constant evolution through the decades, with some fans disembarking and others coming back on board, and newer, younger ones signing up for the first time. It is an essential part of Dylan’s genius that he is constantly evolving as an artist. This is not true of the artists of similar longevity, say Leonard Cohen, Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Van Morrison, or Bruce Springsteen. Inevitably that constant evolving creates periods of experimentation and exploration, some less successful than others, but always moving restlessly toward something, and with the music of the last twenty years now having reached, and sustained, a third classic period.
Dylan’s art works in elemental ways, not just through his words and music and voice, but also through his look and appearance. This is also part of his art, from his look of youthful, potent frailty in his early twenties, to his hip and sexualized look on the 1966 tour, through to the powerful maturity of his middle years. His look during the Rolling Thunder Revue tours of 1975–76, which you can see on YouTube and in the 1976 TV movie Hard Rain, is part of the appeal of those performances: 1970s hipster in his mid-thirties, dressed in denim and leather, sometimes sporting a bandana or turban, sometimes with an ornate floral arrangement in his hatband, frequently with white face paint, or with a straggly beard. And into recent years with his elegant, expressive, weather-beaten face, and his scrupulous attention to costume: outfits and hats that at times turn him into a Civil War officer, at times a cowboy, at times the vaudeville performer. In all of these evolutions there is an enigmatic presence that can’t quite be comprehended or described. With Dylan, everything is performance, and all aspects of performance—the words, the music, the voice, the bands, and the look—coming together to create the unique phenomenon that is Bob Dylan.
