Date, author unknown
AS BOB DYLAN RELEASES ANOTHER CLASSIC, THE CONNOISSEURS ARE
POISED TO DECONSTRUCT EVERY SYLLABLE - AND THAT, SAYS THE
DISGRUNTLED SINGER, IS JUST SAD
He skirts the Spanish Steps in the company of bodyguards, two gentlemen
of brick-outhouse proportions. The narrow streets here are choked with
young and pretty tourists, girls and boys made drowsy by travel and the
midday sun. They pay little heed to the slight figure who is now being
steered through and around them. But the realisation does come, five or
so seconds after he and his protectors have passed the crowd by. Over
one after another tanned, collegiate faces realisation washes like a
wave: 'Man, isn't that - wasn't that - Bob Dylan?' Too late. The icon in
a cowboy hat has gone.
It is almost four years now since I last met him. Then, aged 56
he was on medication and in slow recovery from pericarditis. Swelling of
the sac around the heart caused by a rare fungal infection. Though well
enough to tour again by that point, it was clear that the experience had
rocked and marked him. How could it not have done? At times, he had been
so weak and wracked with pain that he felt sure he must be dying. Now,
fully restored to health and welcoming me into this fussy, old-fashioned
hotel suite, he looks younger, brighter, a different man. He is talking
like a different man, too. The Dylan of that previous encounter seemed
genuinely bowled over by my enthusiasm for an about-to-be-released
album. I'm so glad you like it," he insisted. "In fact, I'm very
overwhelmed. I'm used to my records being slagged off and my shows
misrepresented... and you do get used to it."
"You have to. The acceptance of a record? I think it would take a while
to get used to that again. So, thank you." Coming from arguably the
greatest noncollabortive songwriter of the 20th century, this seemed depressing
and unjust. But happily, my enthusiasm for Time Out of Mind was to be
shared by many others.
Just over a week later, the LP debuted in the top ten of both
the British and US charts. Best Of... and Greatest Hits collections
aside, it would become his best-selling release in two decades (1.8
million units to date), and certainly his most award-garlanded: three
Grammies at the 1998 ceremony, including that for Album of the Year.
Yet, "not especially gratifying", he shrugs off the latter now,
"because, let's face it, you can win 'em in so many different
categories". Yes, perhaps (Best Bluegrass, Best Polka even), but Album
of the Year... surely you have to take pleasure when your creative peers
judge a piece of work to be that? "It's nice, I suppose," he allows,
grudgingly. "But, once you've finished a record, the fact that someone
wants to call it this or that is neither here nor there to my way of
thinking."
Curmudgeonly? Newly ungracious? Afflicted with a short and
selective memory? Just as I was about to tick a disappointing trio of
boxes on some mental checklist. Dylan's face is lit up by a grin and
he volunteers the fact that winning an Oscar last year for "Things Have
Changed", theme to the Curtis Hanson-directed Wonder Boys, really did
strike him as special. "A lot of performers have won Grammies.
Thousands. But very few have won Academy Awards, so that puts me on a
different plateau." He shrugs, and searches for the name of another
such victor: "I can only think of Springsteen" [for "Streets of
Philadelphia") from the film Philadelphia] Too quickly, and more brightly
than intended, I supply the name of Carly Simon (for "Let the River Run",
from Working Girl).
A tightening of the mouth, followed by. "I didn't know that. Yes. Well,
anyway there have been very, very, few the fact is that they're simply
not that generous with them. And if I hadn't won" (ironic roll of the
eyes now) "part of me would probably have been devastated." He wants
me to believe that he is joking, but I find myself reluctant to do so.
Because we had all thought Bob Dylan's glory days to be long gone, and
then he went and proved us wrong.
Somewhere inside he has got to be delighted, possibly even a little
surprised. Back on the eve of this unanticipated critical and commercial
renaissance, I had broached that very issue. Rather than take offence,
he had merely repeated my question ("Has it been disabling creatively to
have people say my best work is behind me?") before answering flatly:
"Not really because for the most part I felt - feel - that way myself."
Not so. Love and Theft, a brand-new album and the 43rd of his
career, is released on Monday. And the happy news is that, although very
different, it is better yet than Time Out Of Mind. Moreover, in terms
of invention and consistency, it bears comparison with anything he wrote
and recorded 30 or more years ago. But before we turn to any discussion
of this latest work, there is another important event to remind
ourselves of. On May 24 this year, Dylan turned 60.
Across the world, and as a result of his usual reclusiveness and
non-availability, the grown-up media leapt into profiling mode.
Obituary mode almost. His role as voice of a generation; his
significance within the pantheon of our popular culture... "I know!
What was all that about?" Respect and affection, generally, I'd wager.
And as such, was it gratifying for him? There is no response. Amusing,
then? "I can't remember. It feels like several years ago." At least,
I suggest, it must have reassured him as to what the consensual
assessment of his contribution will be on that day, hopefully far off
into the future, when he does depart this world. Dylan smiles and says
nothing, so I try again. Is he confident of what his place in history
will be judged to be? "Oh, absolutely, absolutely," he says. "There's
no doubt in my mind." So how did he celebrate his birthday? "I blew
out the candles, ate some cake, and went to bed." Please? "I had a
bunch of family around and that was about it. "I'm not that big on
birthdays. It's kind of a pagan holiday after all."
This blocking of all non-musical discussion is very much a
feature of the man. We know, because it is recorded fact, that Dylan
has four now-adult children - Jesse, Anna, Samuel and Jakob, lead singer
with the acclaimed rock band the Wallflowers from a 12-year marriage,
dissolved in 1977, to Sara Lowndes. We are not allowed to know if he has
a current partner or, if so, who that might be. And even the gentlest
inquiry about what are believed to be his recreational pursuits - golf,
gym work-outs and, it is whispered, a little light boxing - is treated
as an impertinence. This leaves us with his music, consideration of
which has become the life's work of a legion of critics, biographers and
professional fans.
In his cheerful but decidedly combative mood of today, they are
not spared: "These so-called connoisseurs of Bob Dylan music...
I don't feel they know a thing, or have any inkling of who I am and
what I'm about. I know they think they do, and yet it's ludicrous, its
humorous, and sad. That such people have spent so much of their time
thinking about who? Me? Get a life, please. It's not something any one
person should do about another. You're not serving your own life well.
You're wasting your life."
In the light of this statement, it becomes easier to understand
why external validation should mean so little to him. Basically, he
reckons that we all get it wrong. For example, where the so-lauded Time
Out Of Mind is concerned. "My recollection of that record is that it was
a struggle. A struggle every inch of the way. Ask Daniel Lanois, who was
trying to produce the songs. Ask anyone involved in it. They all would
say the same. I didn't trust the touring band I had at the time to do a
good job in the studio, and so I hired these outside guys. But with me
not knowing them, and them not knowing the music, things kept on taking
unexpected turns. Repeatedly, I'd find myself compromising on this to
get to that. As a result, though it held together as a collection of
songs, that album sounds to me a little off.
"There's a sense of some wheels going this way some wheels
going that, but hey, we're just about getting there." This of the
album which restored him to multimillion-selling status, and which won
him those three Grammies.
"But that's my truthful memory of it, and that memory over-
shadows any gratification about its acceptance."
So let's not even begin to imagine he will be anything other
than irritated that its downbeat, world-weary lyrics were interpreted as
being inspired by an increased awareness of his own impermanence (this
despite the fact that they were completed before ever he became sick).
"Where?" he demands.."Show me? I don't see it like that. But
again, that's the story of my life."
"From 'The Times They are a-Changin'' onwards, people have mis-
construed my words. They've attached the wrong meanings to them. That's
the status quo. That's what happens, and there's nothing to be done
about it."
Again, not so. Because, if he chose to, he could put the
Dylanophiles right.
"Our function is not to explain. If it's not too bold, I
consider myself to be an innovator, one of very few around. And as such,
it's certainly not for me to account for what I'm doing, I leave that to
others. Hopefully there are one or two out there who have the knowledge
and the insight to make fair comment. Beyond that, "what can I say?"\
Well, for instance, he could tell us if the experience of
illness and subsequent recovery of full health actually has had any
effect on his belief system at all. "I don't know," is the reply. "As
you aware, I was on medication for a good long while afterwards. But
was able to cut down gradually and, one day stop taking it. And at
some point during that process - it's hard to say exactly when or
where - the sickness faded away. I drew no profound conclusions from it
at all."
Love and Theft is what he wants to talk about. This time, no
outside producer was involved. "Because I didn't feel any additional
help was necessary. Not that I want to take credit or draw attention to
myself. I don't want to get flooded with calls from other people, asking
me to pilot their records. Heh-heh-heh! It's not like I'm in need of the
work!"
Playing it through is like turning the dials on some ancient
crystal wireless set. Though the sound is crisp and new, the musical
inspiration feels to be as old as time. And most striking of all in
as era of composition-by-numbers, of hooks and choruses and samples, is
the fact that all 12 tracks are narrative in structure and essence.
They are a reminder of what songwriting used to be for and about - the
simple telling of a story. Dylan nods, looking pleased at this
suggestion: "Exactly so!"
In this, the album will be an anomaly within the current marketplace. For another reason, it is unusual even within the context
of his own back catalogue. Among its tracks is "Mississippi", written
and recorded for the Time Out Of Mind project, but not included in the
final line-up (Sheryl Crow later covered it on her 1998 release, The
Globe Sessions). Subsequently Dylan has cut a new, definitive version -
the first time he has ever re-recorded one of his own unreleased songs.
Or has been of a mind to. "With all of my records, there's an abundance
of material left over - stuff that, for a variety of reasons, doesn't
make the final cut. And other people seem to think they have some kind
of right to it. That it's their property even, which is baffling to me.
I mean, you don't drive a car out of the showroom without paying for it,
do you? You don't leave the supermarket without passing through the
check-out with your goods. It's called stealing. Why the principle
should be thought to be any different when it comes to music, I
really don't know."
He is referring to the hosts of bootleg recordings that have
found their way into the public domain across the years. "And have been
bought up by so-called hardcore fans of mine [a sneering tone here],
whoever they might be - those folks out there who are obsessed with
finding every scrap of paper I've ever written on, every single outtake.
All right, that's the world we live in. I accept it's just the way
things are. But the fact is that I can no longer be interested in it
[material released without his consent in this way]. It's already been
contaminated for me. I turn my back, move on to something else. This
time though [and as a result of the stricter controls he is now exerting
over his own recordings], my original wasn't floating around out there,
and I felt able to go back and revisit it. I'm glad for once to have had
the opportunity to do so.
It is hard to believe that Love and Theft will do anything
other than continue this process of Dylan s critical and commercial
rehabilitation.
Meanwhile, and independent of this, his work diary remains
fully booked for the remainder of 2001. and there seems no prospect of a
let-up in the number of live dates - habitually between 100 and 150 - to
which he and his band commit themselves each year. "Come January, we'll
just look at a map of the world and decide where it is we want to go and
what it is we want to do there."
With this in mind, I mention a recent comment to me by the
blues guitarist Buddy Guy: "Musicians don't retire, son. They just
drop." A brief smile is the response. "Well, I've no plans myself right
now to draw any line within the sand. What's more likely is some day
I'll just wake up and decide that I have had it and when that happens I
won't have any problem with walking fulfilled every single thing I wanted
to do. I feel like there is nothing left for me to prove."
He has no plans, he tells me shortly for writing his
autobiography. Because all he wants the world to know about his life
are contained within the songs, perhaps? This remark provokes a narrowing
of the eyes, and then the following statement: "I don't even consider
this work as a part of my life. Not even close. My life doesn't
revolve around my work, Not even a little bit. I mean, I've got
millions of fans and I know that and I'm more than happy to
go out there and play for them...But that's not my life. My life is
private and personal and completely filled up." With that Bob Dylan
stands, pats my shoulder and gives a conspiratorial wink. Seconds
later, he is gone.
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