So I just watched the concluding episode of the third season of Battlestar Galactica, and now I know what it was that had the fanboys ululating like dervishes in the desert. Read no further if you’re still working your way up to it.
You still here?
Okay, so now I know that even though the episode is called “Crossroads,” the pick-to-click theme song belongs not to Cream (or Robert Johnson) but Bob Dylan. Yep, that’s “All Along the Watchtower” all right, and depending on how the final season plays out, it could turn out to be either a brilliantly ballsy move or the kind of delusional low-rent inspiration we haven’t seen since Ed Wood keeled over. I’m not crazy about the rather cheesy version used on the soundtrack — what, the Sci-Fi Channel wouldn’t spring for Jimi’s cover, or His Bobness’ original? — but that is as nothing compared to the Gorgonzola gallery of characters muttering snatches of lyrics as they wander around looking dazed, confused or simply nauseous. I don’t often speak to appliances or inanimate objects, but when the line “There’s too much confusion” cropped up, I very clearly said to my television, “Please don’t do what I think you’re going to do.” Sure enough, “I can’t get no relief” happened just as I feared, with a toilet bowl and everything. I’ll never talk to my television again. It just doesn’t . . . friggin’ . . . listen.
So, what’s next? Are other tracks from John Wesley Harding equally useful for frying Cylon wiring? Are we going to see a pair of humanoid Cylons called Frankie Lee and Judas Priest? Why stop with this song? When the Cylons are defeated and sent packing, everybody can line up and sing the chorus to “Like a Rolling Stone” as the base ships flicker away.
Everything I’ve seen in Battlestar Galactica up to this point has been bold and brainy enough to keep me interested in how it finally plays out, but the producers better have one pretty goddamned awesome rabbit to pull out of their hat, or this show is going to go down as one of the grandest follies in television history.
Ever wonder what’s going on in Bob Dylan’s mind? By sifting through the themes and choices revealed in his Theme Time Radio Hour, Vanity Fair has been able to arrive at some conclusions. There’s a chart and everything.
For a lifelong TV-phobe like me, DVD box sets are a divinely ordained gift. First they allowed me to take in whole seasons of The Sopranos without having to endure the silly dream sequences, and now they let me catch up with The Wire and Battlestar Galactica – the first a superb, multilayered crime saga as absorbing as a great novel, the second quite simply the finest science fiction show ever seen on television. I realize that last statement will have Trekkies sobbing into their Tribble pillows, but hey — the truth is a harsh mistress.
I have miles to go with The Wire, but I’m nearly through the third season box of Battlestar and I’m drawing near the episode in which somebody hears “All Along the Watchtower” being played. Can you jump the shark in a zero-gravity environment? All I know is what I gleaned from the laments on Ain’t It Cool News and other geek sites, though it did inspire thoughts of an SF series set in a Bob Dylan-inspired universe with planets like Black Diamond World, which is nothing but islands rising from and falling into the sea, or the Planet of Thin Men, where nobody really knows what’s going on.
And now, thanks to Jeff Sypeck, I learn that the Capricans have been singing Baltar’s praises in Old English. Curiouser and curiouser. I just hope I don’t have to wait too long for the fourth season box to come out.
If it keeps on rainin’, levee’s goin’ to break
If it keeps on rainin’, levee’s goin’ to break
And the water gonna come in, have no place to stay
Well all last night I sat on the levee and moan
Well all last night I sat on the levee and moan
Thinkin’ ’bout my baby and my happy home
If it keeps on rainin’, levee’s goin’ to break
If it keeps on rainin’, levee’s goin’ to break
And all these people have no place to stay
Now look here mama what am I to do
Now look here mama what am I to do
I ain’t got nobody to tell my troubles to
I works on the levee mama both night and day
I works on the levee mama both night and day
I ain’t got nobody, keep the water away
Oh cryin’ won’t help you, prayin’ won’t do no good
Oh cryin’ won’t help you, prayin’ won’t do no good
When the levee breaks, mama, you got to lose
I works on the levee, mama both night and day
I works on the levee, mama both night and day
I works so hard, to keep the water away
I had a woman, she wouldn’t do for me
I had a woman, she wouldn’t do for me
I’m goin’ back to my used to be
I’s a mean old levee, cause me to weep and moan
I’s a mean old levee, cause me to weep and moan
Gonna leave my baby, and my happy home
If you’re looking for an example of how history becomes folklore, you could hardly do better than the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927, which began in April when the rain-swollen Mississippi River broke through a levee south of Cairo, Illinois. Over the next several weeks, well over a hundred other levee failures occurred, and by the time the flood subsided in August, seven states had seen significant chuncks of their territory indundated, sometimes by as much as 30 feet of water, killed 245 people and displaced thousands more.
The flood contributed heavily to the population shift of American blacks toward Chicago and other industrialized cities of the North. It was also the inspiration for the 1929 blues classic ”When the Levee Breaks,” released in 1929 by Memphis Minnie and Kansas Joe McCoy. Two generations of teenagers have grown up with this song through the apocalyptic cover version on Led Zeppelin’s fourth album, and it is the touchstone for not one but two recent Bob Dylan songs.
The video at the top of this post is chock-full of images that will give you a complete picture of exactly what it meant to have the levees give way in 1927. This next clip shows a more recent instance of what happens to people in the way of a storm:
Led Zeppelin’s version has slightly retooled lyrics, courtesy of singer Robert Plant:
If it keeps on rainin’, levee’s goin’ to break,
If it keeps on rainin’, levee’s goin’ to break,
When the levee breaks I’ll have no place to stay.
Mean old levee taught me to weep and moan,
Mean old levee taught me to weep and moan,
Got what it takes to make a mountain man leave his home,
Oh, well, oh, well, oh, well.
Don’t it make you feel bad
When you’re tryin’ to find your way home,
You don’t know which way to go?
If you’re goin’ down South
They got no work to do,
If you’re going NORTH to Chicago.
Cryin’ won’t help you, prayin’ won’t do you no good,
Now, cryin’ won’t help you, prayin’ won’t do you no good,
When the levee breaks, mama, you got to move.
All last night sat on the levee and moaned,
All last night sat on the levee and moaned,
Thinkin’ about my baby and my happy home.
Going, going to Chicago.. Going to Chicago.. Sorry but I can’t take you..
Going down.. going down now.. going down…
Depending on my mood, “When the Levee Breaks” vies with “What Is and What Should Never Be” as my favorite Zep song. The latter song is a fave because of its dynamic shifts: it starts out gently enough for a cocktail lounge jazz tune, then bursts into aggressive riffing, and so back and forth until the wild guitar break and the fadeout.
Zep’s take on Memphis Minnie might be likened to using a sharecropper’s shack as the foundation for a Gothic cathedral. There are no dynamics here: John Bonham’s drums (recorded in a stone stairwell for extra oomph) open like the footsteps of approaching giants, and the rest of the song is a surrealistic maelstrom of heavily distorted guitars, harmonica and vocals. The song itself is like a hurricane bearing down on the singer. The song, in a word, sounds scary.
Since all roads lead to Bob Dylan, even when they’re flooded — especially when they’re flooded — the Mississippi disaster flows through parts of his vast song catalogue. Dylan pays direct homage to Memphis Minnie in “The Levee’s Gonna Break,” one of the less objectionable tunes on the mediocre Modern Times album:
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
Everybody saying this is a day only The Lord could make
Well I worked on the levee Mama, both night and day
Well I worked on the levee Mama, both night and day
I got to the river and I threw my clothes away
I paid my time and now I’m as good as new
I paid my time and now I’m as good as new
They can’t take me back, not unless I want them to
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
Some of these people gonna strip you of all they can take
I can’t stop here, I ain’t ready to unload
I can’t stop here, I ain’t ready to unload
Riches and salvation can be waiting behind the next bend in the road
I picked you up from the gutter and this is the thanks I get
I picked you up from the gutter and this is the thanks I get
You say you want me to quit ya, I told you no, not just yet
I look in your eyes, I see nobody else but me
I look in your eyes, I see nobody other than me
I see all that I am and all I hope to be
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
Some of these people don’t know which road to take
When I’m with you I forget I was ever blue
When I’m with you I forget I was ever blue
Without you there’s no meaning in anything I do
Some people on the road carrying everything that they own
Some people on the road carrying everything that they own
Some people got barely enough skin to cover their bones
Put on your cat clothes, Mama, put on your evening dress
Put on your cat clothes, Mama, put on your evening dress
A few more years of hard work then there’ll be a thousand years of happiness
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
I tried to get you to love me, but I won’t repeat that mistake
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
Plenty of cheap stuff out there still around to take
I woke up this morning, butter and eggs in my bed
I woke up this morning, butter and eggs in my bed
I ain’t got enough room to even raise my head
Come back, baby, say we never more will part
Come back, baby, say we never more will part
Don’t be a stranger without a brain or heart
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
If it keep on rainin’ the levee gonna break
Some people still sleepin’, some people are wide awake
Personally, I much prefer Dylan’s earlier paddle across this waterlogged terrain: “High Water Everywhere (For Charley Patton),” from Love and Theft, an album that improves with each listening and keeps building in the mrmory, even as Modern Times slips down the same memory hole occupied by Down in the Groove, Dylan and The Dead, Saved and all the other albums commemorating times when Dylan’s muse was on vacation.
High water risin’ - risin’ night and day
All the gold and silver are being stolen away
Big Joe Turner lookin’ East and West
From the dark room of his mind
He made it to Kansas City
Twelfth Street and Vine
Nothing standing there
High water everywhere
High water risin’, the shacks are slidin’ down
Folks lose their possessions - folks are leaving town
Bertha Mason shook it - broke it
Then she hung it on a wall
Says, “You’re dancin’ with whom they tell you to
Or you don’t dance at all.”
It’s tough out there
High water everywhere
I got a cravin’ love for blazing speed
Got a hopped up Mustang Ford
Jump into the wagon, love, throw your panties overboard
I can write you poems, make a strong man lose his mind
I’m no pig without a wig
I hope you treat me kind
Things are breakin’ up out there
High water everywhere
High water risin’, six inches ‘bove my head
Coffins droppin’ in the street
Like balloons made out of lead
Water pourin’ into Vicksburg, don’t know what I’m going to do
“Don’t reach out for me,” she said
“Can’t you see I’m drownin’ too?”
It’s rough out there
High water everywhere
Well, George Lewis told the Englishman, the Italian and the Jew
“You can’t open your mind, boys
To every conceivable point of view.”
They got Charles Darwin trapped out there on Highway Five
Judge says to the High Sheriff,
“I want him dead or alive
Either one, I don’t care.”
High Water everywhere
The Cuckoo is a pretty bird, she warbles as she flies
I’m preachin’ the Word of God
I’m puttin’ out your eyes
I asked Fat Nancy for something to eat, she said, “Take it off the shelf -
As great as you are a man,
You’ll never be greater than yourself.”
I told her I didn’t really care
High water everywhere
I’m getting’ up in the morning - I believe I’ll dust my broom
Keeping away from the women
I’m givin’ ‘em lots of room
Thunder rolling over Clarksdale, everything is looking blue
I just can’t be happy, love
Unless you’re happy too
It’s bad out there
High water everywhere
Dylan’s oft-demonstrated love of Americana and old music leave no doubt that he’s channeling Memphis Minnie (and the Mississippi Flood) in this song, even if it is dedicated to Charley Patton. This time the floodwaters stretch all the way from Mississippi to Desolation Row, leaving Big Joe Turner and Charles Darwin rubbing shoulders as they swim to safety.
In the course of my reading on the culture of Prohibition-era America, I’ve come across this little anonymously written ditty about the joys of home brewing:
Mother’s in the kitchen/ Washing out the jugs;/ Sister’s in the pantry/Bottling the suds;/ Father’s in the cellar/ Mixing up the hops;/Johnny’s on the front porch/Watching for the cops.
I first came across it in John Kobler’s great popular history of Prohibition, Ardent Spirits, and Paddy Whacked, Thomas English’s history of Irish-American gangs and gangsters. No Bobcat worth his or her salt will miss the echo of the opening lines of “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” which leads off Bringing It All Back Home and inspired the famous opening of the D.A. Pennebaker film Don’t Look Back, the original rock music video and still one of the very few word-image pairings that doesn’t get stale after only a few viewings.
Johnny’s in the basement/ Mixing up the medicine;/ I’m on the pavement/ Thinking ’bout the government.
Since Dylan has shown himself time and again to be a veritable walking juke box of Americana, there’s not a doubt in my mind that he was toying with that Prohibition rhyme when he wrote “Subterranean Homesick Blues.” Certainly the drug-soaked mid-Sixties milieu would have had Prohibition in the back of anyone’s mind, and no less an authority than producer Don Was has said that it’s impossible to stump Dylan on an old tune. I may be out to lunch here, but I don’t think so. If any other Dylan work out there has mentioned this parallel, please send me the cite.
Meanwhile, it gives me an excuse to run not only the famous Pennebaker video, but this clip of the parody/ homage performed by the cast from I’m Not There:
Bob Dylan’s main guitarist and problem-solver on Bringing It All Back Home was Bruce Langhorne, an unheralded musician whose distinctive style was all the more remarkable for the fact that he was missing some fingers — the result of a childhood firecracker mishap. Langhorne had already been a session player for a few years — he and Dylan met in 1961 while playing backup on Carolyn Hester’s third record, and he played in the tentative band sessions for The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan — but Bringing It All Back Home made Langhorne the defining player of the folk-rock era. Though Dylan recruited the harder-edged guitarists Mike Bloomfield and Robbie Robertson for the next two installments of his world-beating triumvirate of albums, Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde, he reunited with Langhorne for the soundtrack to Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, which benefitted enormously from what Michael Gray calls Langhorne’s “customary, admirable mix of feeling and restraint.”
Despite having played on some of the best-known rock music ever recorded, Langhorne kept a low profile over the next few decades and remains known mainly to dedicated music lovers. His work cropped up in unexpected places. “Brother Bru-Bru” composed the soundtrack for Jonathan Demme’s 1980 film Melvin and Howard, and his work was featured in Peter Fonda’s 1971 anti-Western The Hired Hand, which is the source of the YouTube clip posted above.
In this interview, Langhorne talks about working with Dylan on Bringing It All Back Home:
I had been experimenting with just putting a pickup on my Martin for a while, before that. But not long. Because my playing, it was just amplified and sustained acoustic playing, really. And I played the same sort of lines that I would play with somebody like Odetta, who would provide the same sort of thing that Dylan provided, or Dylan and the band, which was like a really inevitable rhythmic structure. I mean, I always thought that the people that I most enjoyed playing with were the people who had like an unstoppable thread to their music. And it couldn’t be diverted easily. I mean, it was gonna be there, the root, the core was gonna be there. And my job was really, essentially, icing. I put icing on the cake. But in order for me to do my job, that basic thread had to be there. . . since I have fingers missing, some styles of guitar playing were forever unreachable for me. Like, I couldn’t really play good flamenco. Classical was difficult for me, though I did play some classical. But since I couldn’t develop technique to the point where I could just play the entire repertoire of guitar music, I had to develop a technique based on my own aesthetics. Because I had to listen to everything and say, okay, this sounds okay with three voices. Because I had pretty good control of three voices on guitar. I could control four-note voicing, but it was only with extra physical effort. Because it would mean, since I played basically with three fingers, it would mean that I would have to play two notes with one finger on a six-string instrument, or I would have to strum. So I developed a style and a technique that was based partially on classical music, because I separated voice. I used each of my fingers to generate a line, a polyphonic line, or I would play, which is why I say I really needed someone who had a thread going to really do my job. Because then they could generate a couple of lines of polyphony, or a rhythmic structure. And then I could enhance that.
And I got to be a very good accompanist for that reason. Because I was really forced to listen. So I listened. And that’s very essential for an accompanist.
You can either go to the church of your choice/ Or you can go to Brooklyn State Hospital/ You’ll find God in the church of your choice/ You’ll find Woody Guthrie in Brooklyn State Hospital.
Though Woody Guthrie had been transferred to Brooklyn State Hospital by the time Bob Dylan wrote “Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie” in the early 1960s, the folk icon’s decline had begun years earlier, and when the young Dylan came to the New York area to launch his career, Guthrie was under care in Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital in Morris County, New Jersey. Guthrie’s stay at Greystone and his visits from Bob Dylan are the subject of a TV segment (apparently unaired) from the same people who brought you Weird New Jersey, and you can watch it up above.
The clip plays up the spooky aspect og Greystone, but nobody who grew up or lived in northern New Jersey in the mid-20th century will have trouble seeing Greystone as a spectral presence. Back then, if somebody goofed around too much, we would invariably joke about calling the men in the white coats to have him taken to Greystone. Those were the days when involuntary commitment had not yet been ruled unconstitutional, and the possibility of getting carted off to the nearest loonie bin was a recurring theme in everything from Tennessee Williams plays to Miracle on 34th Street, not to mention the grade-B horror movies that were catnip to me. Classic movies like The Snake Pit were on afternoon television, and every now and then, a radio DJ would play the Napoleon XIV song “They’re Coming to Take Me Away Ha-Haaa!”
It probably says a great deal about the anxieties and insecurities of a more conformist age that so much popular culture was based on either the fear of being thought crazy, or the fear that one might pretend to be crazy and then become trapped in the deception, as in Brainstorm (1965) or Nightmare Alley (1947). Long before Thomas Szasz and other critics launched the anti-psychiatry movement, there was plenty of evidence of the ways in which the label “mental illness” could be applied to people who were socially or politically bothersome, along with those who were genuinely sick. For this reason, Allen Ginsberg name-checked Greystone’s “foetid halls” as one of “the madtowns of the East” in his 1956 poem “Howl,” lamenting that he had seen “the finest minds of my generation destroyed by madness.” The sediment of that anxiety could be stirred up by the mere mention of Greystone, and the fact that the looming stone towers of the hospital could have doubled for Hill House in The Haunting did nothing to dispel the feeling of menace and queasy fascination whenever I drove past the place.
Guthrie, of course, was there for a good reason: the hereditary disorder Huntington’s chorea had begun destroying him physically and mentally, but when Bob Dylan came to the area in 1961, Guthrie was still capable of spending weekends at the East Orange home of Ralph Gleason, who arranged Sunday gatherings of friends and musicians for Guthrie’s benefit. According to Anthony Scaduto’s Dylan: An Intimate Biography, the young Zimmerman spent most of his first meeting with Guthrie simply sitting on the floor next to the couch where Guthrie was lying, propped up on pillows.
One witness said that when Dylan finally did play something for Guthrie, the old lion liked what he heard.
Bob began visiting Woody at the hospital several times a week, and he showed up at the Gleasons practically every weekend over the next few weeks. By the second weekend Woody was asking for Bobby, and he would ask for him all the time: “Is the boy coming today? When is the boy coming back?” Something grew between them, between the dying originator of modern folk, and the boy who was imitating him, idolizing him, and who would soon surpass him. He would talk to Woody when there weren’t too many people around, patiently waiting for Woody to form the words that were so hard coming. Woody could not compete with crowds of people talking; he would get excited and stutter and ramble and be unable to pull together what he wanted to say. But Dylan would sit at his feet, in a corner, and they would talk. At one of those first Sundays, Bob played “Song for Woody” for him, privately, in the corner, and everyone in the room stopped to listen. And, someone remembers, Woody’s face broke into a broad smile of joy, and he said: “That’s good, Bob. That’s damned good.” Bob seems to have gone to Woody’s heart, and after everyone left, Woody told the Gleasons, “That boy’s got a voice. Maybe he won’t make it by his writing, but he can sing it. He can really sing it.”
Well, Guthrie may have gotten things a little backward, but even in the grip of illness, with his death only a few years off, he could still spot a talent.
The last time I heard David Bromberg was back in my bright college days, when a few of my friends were quite taken with his “Bullfrog Blues,” the kind of endless shaggy-dog joke song that is amusing the first two times you hear it. After that . . . I dunno, but after the fourth go-round I began to wonder if “Bullfrog Blues” hadn’t been the sound Charles Whitman heard in his head while he was picking off pedestrians from the top of the Texas Tower. That wasn’t the only Bromberg song I heard, of course, but for all his impeccable musicianship and wide-ranging tastes, there was just something about Bromberg that made keeping up with his records a little less than a matter of life or death.
Are you still with me? Well, forget everything I just said. I went to Bromberg’s show at the Count Basie Theater on a windy, slushy Friday night, and I emerged from the concert ready to buy every single David Bromberg CD I could lay hands on. One of the highlights of a show filled with highlights was his solo performance of Bob Dylan’s “It Takes A Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry,” and while the clip above isn’t from the Count Basie show, it’s very much in the spirit of the performance.
(And as long as I’m talking about this past weekend’s great show, let me sing the praises of the Count Basie Theater, a grand old space with superb acoustics. How nice that it’s named after a real musician instead of succumbing to the same corporate crapification that afflicts us with the Izod Arena, the Kaopectate Arts Center and the Centrum Silver Center. All right, I made up those last two names. They aren’t real. Not yet, anyway.)
The single biggest change in Bromberg’s sound is, quite simply, his voice. He’s finally got one. In the past, Bromberg vied with Leo Kottke for the title of Folk Musician Whose Singing Is Most Like To Make You Realize Bob Dylan’s Voice Isn’t All That Bad. Well, Dylan should have followed Bromberg’s example and taken some serious voice lessons. Not only can Bromberg sing, but his voice now has that chest-bursting fullness B.B. King can still deliver on nights when he’s in front of an audience that wants to hear some real music instead of just bask in the aura of An Authentic Blues Legend. On the second number of the evening, the jokey blues “I’ll Take You Back,” Bromberg was truly belting it out, and several times during the show he hit high notes that would have been a couple of stratospheres beyond his reach when he was about a third of his present age.
“Ecelctic” has always been the default setting for any attempt to describe Bromberg, and eclectic the show certainly was: a bit of bluegrass, a bit of Irish folk, a bit of country and a bit of N’awlins, all seasoning hefty servings of blues. All of it was played with elegant virtuosity and welcome flashes of wit, and by the time the show closed with Dr. John’s “Such a Night,” I could say that this had been a truly satisfying and engaging show.
Great song, great video. Instead of the standard face-shots and lip-synching, the video concentrates on illustrating the wealth of mythological and classical allusions in the lyrics. The overwhelming majority of videos diminish the underlying songs, turning them into nothing more than soundtracks for junky little movies. This one actually points the way to a better understanding of one of Bob Dylan’s more enigmatic epics, one that repays continued attention.
A rocked-out version of “Jokerman” was the highlight of Dylan’s first-ever appearance on David Letterman’s show in 1984. His Bobness had brought together some young, tough-sounding L.A. musicians for a number of private sessions. They quickly learned that backing up Bob Dylan is not a job for the faint of heart. For the first of the three numbers, Dylan decided he wanted Sonny Boy Williamson’s “Don’t Start Me Talking,” which they hadn’t even rehearsed. Fortunately, the musicians had grown up on the New York Dolls version of the song, and they acquitted themselves quite well:For the next segment, Dylan picked “License to Kill,” one of the crankiest numbers on a pretty cranky album:
But for sheer audacity, the stripped-down version of “Jokerman” stands as one of the great Dylan deconstructions of his own music. I love the interplay Dylan arranged on the album version — the impeccable smoothness of Sly and Robbie on the rhythm section, the blend of Mark Knopfler and Mick Taylor on guitars — but this “Jokerman” points the way down a promising road Dylan ought to have taken, but didn’t:
All the kerfuffle towards the end of the song happened because Dylan wanted to do a harmonica solo and found the only available harp was in the wrong key. A suitable instrument was finally located, and a classic Dylan performance — all the better for the element of near-disaster — careered to a close.
According to Clinton Heylin’s biography Behind the Shades, Dylan was prevailed upon to abandon his punk backup and hire a bunch of pros for the same year’s tour of Europe. The not terribly interesting results were released on Real Live, which vies with Dylan and the Dead for the title of crappiest concert album in the Dylan catalogue. Oh well. The Eighties were not a great decade for Bob Dylan, and such compulsive second-guessing of his initial good instincts was a big part of the reason why.
Some Bob Dylan albums grow with time while others shrink. Oh Mercy and Good As I Been to You, each hailed upon release as an artistic rebirth, seem slighter with each passing listen; meanwhile, Street-Legal keeps surprising me years after I reviled it for the Vegasy sound — arriving in the middle of the New Wave’s glorious last hurrah — that at the time made His Bobness sound like he was auditioning for The Ed Sullivan Show a decade too late.
Meanwhile, Modern Times, which started out as a disappointment, becomes steadily more irritating because it’s practically inescapable. As Michael Gray points out, this extremely slight collection of songs signaled the start of a sustained marketing push that’s clearly meant to introduce Dylan to a new generation of fans, but which may just end up alienating them. After taking in the pleasant crooning of “Beyond the Horizon,” who’s going to buy into the genius talk, or be interested in seeking out the real work that supports it?
Of course, I was lucky enough to have picked a great year to start exploring Dylan’s work: my first Dylan album was the just-released Blood on the Tracks, purchased with the help of the Sam Goody coupon I got for bringing in a $1 roll of pennies at the Garden State Plaza store, and later that summer the official release of The Basement Tapes arrived like manna from heaven at the very hole-in-the-wall store where I scored Joaquin Antique, the bootlegged original version of Blood on the Tracks. I spent the fall scarfing up Rolling Stone reports on the progress of the Rolling Thunder Revue, and only a few weeks into the bicentennial year I found Desire waiting at that very same Sam Goody. The year of our lord 1975 may not have been too hot for a lot of people, but it was a fantastic time to be a Bob Dylan fan.
So maybe I should cut the record a little slack. I’ve read and heard plenty of hosannas for Modern Times and have yet to hear anything that could change my mind, but this whippersnapper Chris Gregory has enough interesting things to say about the album-closing “Ain’t Talking” to make me hope he’ll see his way clear to writing about Love and Theft, or the records that preceded it.
