Thursday, April 10, 2025
Dylan and DeLillo's "White Noise"
Tuesday, February 25, 2025
Dylan: The Known Unknown
Exactly who Bob Dylan is remains a
mystery to his millions of followers. It’s been estimated that over two thousand
books have been written about Dylan since he emerged in the mid-Sixties, a
situation that gives us many versions of the who, what, and why of the former
Robert Zimmerman.Coupled with the songwriter’s infamous habit of fictionalizing
his biography, what we’ve had for
decades are many personal Dylans. You
could read him in any way that suited you. Dylan crafted a mystique by
withholding details about his upbringing. He remains a mystery, an enigma, a
man hidden in plain sight. The difficulty of saying who Dylan was hasn’t
prevented writers and filmmakers from creating versions of the Nobel Laureate.
The variations on the known facts of Dylan’s story settle nothing, of course,
and in fact compound the mystery around the man, a situation that only makes
the icon more alluring.
It was reported in July of 1966 that Dylan had a motorcycle accident while riding in upstate New York. The tour was cancelled. He was a recluse for eight years after the accident, not returning to the stage until 1974. He remained creative during his radio seclusion, releasing his John Wesley Harding album in 1967, Nashville Skyline in 1969, and Self Portrait in 1970, but this wasn’t enough to stymie the musings on who Dylan was truly and what he was up to. The absence of interviews, concerts, and new paparazzi photos resulted in artistic expressions about pop stars either ascending to unreal heights of influence or who performed vanishing acts of a sort. Great Jones Street, a brilliantly etched 1973 satire by novelist Don DeLillo, tells the tale of an influential rock star named Bucky Wunderlick who has burned out and finds himself approached, despite his seclusion, by promoters, fans, intellectuals, would-be gurus, and hucksters of all sorts, all of whom seek approval and a blessing from the reluctant Oracle, a stream of hucksters who need to be told what to do. A figure as vast, vague, and finally overwhelming as Dylan, though, makes for rich premises on fantasies about rock musicians who reach a level of influence in society and who become political tools to nefarious ends. 1968’s Wild in the Streets, based on a Robert Thom short story and who also wrote the screenplay, an American political party finds itself desperate to increase its power, with kingmakers seeking and getting the cooperation of an enigmatic and sullen rock star named Max Frost to convince the young fans to get involved in politics. In a sequence of events, the voting age is lowered to fourteen, Max Frost is elected president, and adults over the age of thirty are required to go to reeducation camps where they’re force-fed large doses of LSD.
With all the magical thinking about the meaning of Dylan, it’s a relief that director James Mangold’s biopic, A Complete Unknown, sticks with the best-known biographical arc associated with the singer. We meet him (portrayed by Timothée Chalamet) first being dropped off in New York and wandering into Greenwich Village, jean-clad, toting a battered guitar case. The world of 60s bohemia greets the man from Minnesota: coffee houses, poets, art galleries, street corner musicians, intellectuals, lifestyle avant-gardists—all real geniuses and posers alike—gathered in the few condensed New York blocks of the Village that comprised the free-thinking capital of America. And of course, the folk music, the folk boom, the sweeping interests in traditional music forms, Civil Rights, and opposition to the Vietnam War. This was a world the young Dylan wanted to be a part of, one he’d come to dominate. It was a world he conquered and abruptly left.
The movie is splendidly crafted, with Mangold’s
direction taking us through the known events in Dylan’s early life prior to his
1966 accident, progressing from his arrival in New York through his meeting of
his first girlfriend, Suze Rotolo (named ‘Sylvie Russo” in the film), meeting
Pete Seeger in folk legend Woody Guthrie’s hospital room, where the young Dylan
sings the patient a song written in his honor, his early days at open mics and
hootenannies, performing for benefits for civil rights and other lefty causes,
meeting Joan Baez, and growing attention from the public and the media. Mangold
and screenplay coauthor Jay Cocks (incidentally a former film critic for Time
magazine) enliven the oft-told incidents with precisely the right amount of
speculative dialogue, no speeches, no political rhetoric, and no exposition
dumps.
The interactions between the singer and those who
befriend him and come to love him are quirky, set in a natural rhythm of give
and take. It’s no small accomplishment that the screenwriter restrains a desire
to explain, hypothesize, or convert the Dylan saga into a weighty and unreal
melodrama. There’s a natural, unforced progression here, with telling scenes,
well known to Dylan completists, given the right emotional temperament. What
might have been a segment ripe for overdramatization, such as when Al Kooper
showed up for an electric Bob Dylan session for Like a Rolling Stone, preparing
to play guitar only to be temporarily sidelined when he hears the red-hot fret
master Mike Bloomfield play some snarling blues licks. Kooper knew he couldn’t
compete with Bloomfield but insinuated himself behind an organ, insisting
he had a terrific keyboard idea .Kooper had no
such idea and was barely a keyboardist at the time, but when the tapes
rolled, the musician’s poking and jabbing at the keys became an integral ingredient
in one of the greatest rock songs. There were any number of grandstanding
Hollywood clichés the filmmaker might have relied on to create this scene, with
fast edits, loud voices, cartoonish facial expressions, and lots of rapid edits
to enhance tension and drama, but Mangold maintains his sure hand. Obviously,
an abbreviated rendition, there is no natural arch nor false about the scene,
only an intriguing showing of musicians and producers working their way through
a problem.
A Complete Unknown doesn’t portray Dylan as a saint or would-be
prophet as (maybe) some fans might have liked, and one of the issues they
tackle with the icon is inconsistency with both who he is and how he treats
those close to him. Well known for telling tall tales and otherwise fabulating
about his upbringing and experiences prior to landing in New York, we witness
where those he meets are awestruck at the apparent uniqueness of the young
genius in their midst, only to have those closest to him become distressed and
(perhaps) a bit disillusioned when Dylan’s accounting of himself is found
wanting. He’s seen being duplicitous in his relationships with Sylvie Russo and
fellow folk singer Joan Baez, an unfaithful lover and user of other people’s
good graces to get ahead. Those who’d welcomed him into their world of folk
music and left-wing politics witnessed the man they looked up to. By the time
the film lands on the infamous Newport Folk Festival, where Dylan “goes
electric,” his relationship with the traditional folk community has become
tentative at best. He refuses to sing his old songs with Joan Baez when she
attempts to get him to duet on “Blowin’ in the Wind.”. Despite pleas from the
crowd and Baez’s chiding, Dylan walks off stage. Later, as the noise from his
performance with the Butterfield Blues Band creates a backstage argument, an
incensed Pete Seeger attempts to take a fire axe to the speaker cords but is
stopped by his wife. Dylan is booed after his three-song set but is coaxed back
for an encore with only an acoustic guitar, where he sings, to rapt attention,
“It’s All Over Baby Blue.”. It’s a fact that Dylan did perform “Baby Blue” as
an encore to the discontented crowd, and it works well as a subtle, cleanly
presented symbol of Dylan’s leaving the folkie world that nurtured him behind
as his music became more raucous and rock and roll and his lyrics ceased being
topical and instead became surreal, Dadaesque, a landscape of existential
confusion and wonder.
The casting is as perfect as one could want,
with Edward Norton virtually disappearing inside his portrayal as Pete Seeger,
with the entire ensemble, especially Monica Barbero as Joan Baez and Elle
Fanning as Sylvie Russo (the name given the real-life Suze Rotolo, Dylan’s
early love interest), inhabiting their characters with a particular reserve
that makes their changing view of the Dylan character through the movie’s near
two-hour length believable, credible as felt experiences. Early in the film,
Baez watches Dylan in a folk club as his voice, his words, and his wise guy
attitude captivate her. She’s aware that she’s witnessing something original,
unique. Later, after their affair ends and his continual flaunting of his
creativity, she tells him the morning following an unexpected one-night stand,
“You know, you’re kind of an asshole.”
Nothing overplayed here, just a hard stare and
some direct words indicating the end of something that was never going to
progress to anything fulfilling. The storytelling style, the reined-in
performances, and the uncluttered dialogue give the sense of the changing
status of Dylan’s relationships with others. The disappointments of others in
what the songwriter had become are tangible and powerful, effective without
bombast or visual flash. A Complete Unknown is a fine-wrought telling of a
well-documented life, laying out the slightly fictionalized iteration of the
tale that tells what we already know, that Dylan was an enigma in his early
life and has remained an enigma ever since those days.
(Originally published in the San Diego Troubadour. Used with kind permission).
Tuesday, February 11, 2025
A BRIEF EXCHANGE WITH BARRY ALFONSO ON BOB DYLAN WORSHIP
(Barry Alfonso, a scholar, writer and a cultural critic of uncommon depth and equipoise, is a friend with whom I've been having an ongoing conversation about many interests we have in common, Bob Dylan among them. I have been skeptical of Dylan's work since John Wesely Harding, and Barry has been an impressive defender. But with all things Dylan achieving critical mass , even Barry had to slam on the brakes. The dust mote that tipped the scale was an inanely praising review of Dylan's pricey retrospective, The Cutting Edge: 1965-1966 that appeared on the increasingly tone-deaf news site The Daily Beast. We had a brief exchange over what appears the relentless pouring over of Dylan's great period of work. We both agreed, it seems, that it's gotten thick and mindlessly redundant. -tb)
Tuesday, August 18, 2020
HIGHWAY 61 REVISITED
Everyone seems to start and end at different places, tempos are ragged, sometimes tentative, the pace is bludgeoning, the instruments are often out of tune, and its all glorious,brilliant Dylan in the middle of it all, snarling, burning through his genius and abusing his muse for the greater glory of what would become a definitive record. It is raw and spiky and gives you a perspective that says that there is no proof because there is no pudding.You'd be right, I suppose , in linking Dylan's early cynicism about the motives of people and the institutions they represent to his dalliance of brimstone Christianity. It does seem a natural progression, although I've expanded my view on is SLOW TRAIN COMING album and would equate it closer to the fatalistic Christianity of Flannery O'Connor, a writer who was obsessed with the vision of Christ, the afterlife, as a strange way of thinking that you've cut the spiritual requirements to sit at God's right or left hand,which ever comes first. Her's was a body of thinking about Christianity that was too weird and personal to be of any use to any to anyone except those readers of American Southern fiction who marveled at the writer's skill at imagining the worst while dealing, even in submerged form, on matters of Belief.Her measure of Christian love was a love of Christ himself, not so much for the fellow man.
Sunday, April 26, 2020
MURDER MOST FOUL by Bob Dylan
Tuesday, May 28, 2019
DYLAN SINGS TERRIBLY, AND THAT'S WHAT MAKES HIM A BRILLIANT VOCALIST

There's room for an agreement that the Bard of the Counter Culture has created a good number of impressive, moving, and subtle vocal performances during his long stay in the public eye, but that isn't the same thing as being the Greatest Singer this culture has ever produced. Slate gushes like a nervously prolix fanboy as he over rates the artist's obvious accomplishment. He undersells what was going on in the
Dylan is a more extreme example of this. His early versions of anonymous folk classics
I've argued that Dylan and Jagger were not singers, but VOCALISTS, men who could do interesting things with their voice to dramatize a lyric. What those two do is a certain singing, but the distinction is helpful in keeping one's statements about an artist's work both sober and sane.Dylan, though, is not the greatest American singer. Sinatra can , hypothetically, could sing "Blowing in the Wind" or "Just Like a Woman" with style and aplomb (the results , no doubt, would sound ridiculous), but Dylan couldn't handle a single tune from Sinatra's songbook. Many argue otherwise,insisting he could pull off the fete and change music history again.but the brilliance of this man, Dylan, lies entirely on the work he created.On his own songs, the gentleman rules without peer. "No sings Dylan like Dylan" was an early Columbia slogan for the songwriter, quite a prescient declaration as we take the long view of his career. But is less about Dylan's singing than it is about the article writer's rote hyperbole.
Sunday, August 26, 2018
DYLAN SINGS

Tuesday, April 25, 2017
making Sinatra grate, again
But there is the habit of seeing everything particular artists do as evidence of genius when in fact what is served is dried out, tired, mannered, lifeless as a stain. Sinatra and Dylan, though, are two seemingly fault-free icons of Americana that Gilmore, like more than a few old guard reviewers, goes into a bubble of a kind and create their very own mythology, a homemade dialectic. In this case, it's the convenient narrative that Sinatra and Dylan represent the thesis and antithesis of American pop music and that what's happening with Triplicate amounts to a fabled synthesis. Gilmore gets disconcertingly close to aping Greil Marcuse's worst habit, which is to treat a trilogy of albums as a Major Historical/Cultural Event. In making such claims against a word limit, it is necessary to exclude practically everything and everyone else in the historical record. His four-star review is premised on the assumption that one thinks Dylan's performance of this material is arguably good on considers other than technical skill. One can make such an argument, of course, but I don't find them especially convincing. Willie Nelson has a reedy, nasally voice, but he does have range and color and a demonstrated mastery of his abilities as a vocalist; his renditions of old standards ala "Over the Rainbow" or "Blue Skies" work rather well and are effectively reimagined, as that atrocious phrase goes. We can push this even a bit further by remembering Elvis Costello's moving and too-brief reading of my "My Funny Valentine", choice ballad one would associate with the soaring and splinter texture of Tony Bennett's offhand croon, or the rich tone poems that Mel Torme turns his vocal performances into.
Costello style, at the time, noted for being nasal, untrained, bellowing, only occasionally tuneful in straightforward line readings, demonstrates on "My Funny Valentine" that he, like Nelson, could shore up is supposed limitations and turn them into virtues that could make the performance memorable; while we can continue on and on that Costello's rendition doesn't come near to achieving the definitive version Bennett imprinted upon the culture, that would be to miss the point of interpretation. Costello's version is his own, his vocal apparatus had richer registers to use to approach the delicacy of the melody and simple poetry of the lyrics, the result being, I think, is that great songs are written for a great vocalist. The further point is that Costello's voice had the technical qualities to make his version worth a listen or ten.
"Redefined "is perhaps the better word. Sinatra's songs were written for Sinatra's voice, or voices similar in color, nuance, range, and regardless of what style you wish to cast the material in--soul, reggae, country, folk, blues--the requirements for voice remain the same. Dylan's appeal as a vocalist was that he wrote his own songs and that those songs fit the limited apparatus he had. His original material, and the songs by others (early on) he selected to perform fit his voice, his rage, his tone, which he was able to manipulate in effective ways. I am quite a bit more reductionist in my opinion of Dylan's attempts to interpret the great American songbook. I think it's awful stuff, a grating and embarrassing display. That said, I am also willing to admit my view reveals my limits more, perhaps, than they do anyone else's.
Friday, September 30, 2016
Stax of wax and wane

Criticism, distinct from the consumer-guide emphasis with reviewing, is an ongoing discussion that seeks less to pass judgement than it does to comprehend large subjects thoroughly by interrogating one aspect of the work at a time. It is, of course, something like a make-work project as well, a means that some of us use to escape the terrifying silence that falls behind all of us at one point or another, that emptiness of space that sends a shudder down your spine when it seems even your thoughts are too loud and echoing off the rafters. Many writers keep writing, turning from mere expression into pure process, and it is with a good many worthy writers where we can look and see where their particular timelines became crowded with product that vacillates crazily between good , bad and awful, rarely matching what critical consensus considered their best material from their best period.
Edward Dorn is said that almost any good poet has written all their best work by the time they reach age 35, with the general output after that time becoming less daunting,daring, spry. Dylan is like this, I suppose, as is Woody Allen, John Ashbery , John Upidke, and Elvis Costello. I'd always thought that it was a hedge against death, that as the hair and teeth fall out , the arthritis escalates its assault on the joints and the memory takes on the consistency of swiss cheese, the writing, one poem after another, one novel after another, one movie, one song, one opera after another, the work somehow forestalls the inevitable darkness that awaits everyone. And criticism comes in again during these late period efforts of less notable content and turns itself into apologetics, where one theorizes about the proverbial canvas and kinds being changed, the brush strokes being bolder and less intricate as established ideas are played through yet again. It seems we're stuck with this crazy cycle ; even critics, great ones and mere carpetbaaggers, want to deny death in some sense and also avoid the idea altogether that they've nothing left to say about another man's words.
Monday, November 2, 2015
Over sold
Friday, February 6, 2015
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Shadows in the Night--Bob Dylan |
He couldn't sing well, but he could dramatize. So we have this paradox with "Shadows in the Night," a lousy singer from a technical viewpoint taking on songs that, from a technical standpoint, are sophisticated to the extent that expectations demand a vocalist who can actually hit the notes correctly and do something stylish with them. The result here is an awful, painful album to listen to. It's that simple. I am sure there are subtly argued defenses of what's been done here. I don't buy the apologies. I think less of what's been accomplished with this record and more of what's been committed, as in sin, a crime, a horrible insult to the brain. It's one thing for rock, and pop singers noted for singing styles that even the most uninterested among our company can admit to having tuneful voices to attempt the classic songs of Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Rosemary Clooney, or a Tony Bennett. It's been enjoyable, if not always rewarding, to hear vocalists as diverse in approach and grit as Linda Ronstadt (good) to Rod Stewart (awful) to Pat Benatar (middling) try and wrap the gritty edge of their usual approach to a song around the sumptuous curves and segues of pieces that beguiled radio and ballroom audiences in World War 2. It's become a career stunt for old rock and rollers to dig into the vaults and revive the songs their parents were listening to, something that no longer intrigues.
Dylan's approach might have been interesting had he done this album quite a long time ago when the raggedness of his singing still had a bit of a range, and Dylan was capable of remaining in pitch; one thinks that Dylan of the Seventies and the Eighties, with a voice that was more versatile than people like me, have admitted, could take the classic songs and truly and surely redefine their melodic and thematic essence. Dylan was not a great singer, but he had a genius as a vocalist, the same fleeting skill one regards Mick Jagger's work. He could cajole, announce, exclaim, insinuate, and fashion an effective, reedy croon to dramatize, characterize a lyric. But that is not to be, and one can only sigh over what might have been had Dylan attempted a project like this when he still had the equipment to make it credible. One can only wonder, and one is better off not suffering his dead, toneless rasp here.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Ballad of a thin man
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The Atlantic a month ago ran a pig-headed bit of snark-slamming prog rock as "The Whitest Music Ever, "a catchy bit of clickbait...