Bob Dylan

by Lee Marshall

  [My guitar playing is] not incidental stuff and it’s not inconsequential. I don’t play lead guitar, like you have probably heard a lot of people say. I don’t see that. What I do is restructure a song and my guitar is more or less like my vocal style. (Edna Gunderson interview, 1997)**

  Dylan does not ‘stop time’ in everything he does on the NET, but the times when he becomes most engaged in his performances owe something to repetition and relate to this idea of stopping time: picking up on a particular rhythmic phrase which he repeats, or transfers into the next line of the song. This is something he works at with his voice, guitar and harmonica. Again, I will try to record my personal experience of how this works. At a recent show I attended, Dylan got into a particular groove with his vocal delivery on ‘All Along The Watchtower’. Rather than singing each line as a line, Dylan broke each line down into duo-syllabic chunks, with the rhyming word at the end left to hang. The pause between the mini-lines was relatively short (the gap between ‘All a’ and ‘long the’ was roughly the amount of time to say ‘long’) but each gap distinctly punctuated each line. Dylan added small words to the initial text in order to keep the rhythmic couplets scanning (detailed below). The third verse of the song was, therefore, sung roughly like this:

  All a

  Long the

  Watchtower (sung as two syllables, as ‘watchtowr’)

  Princes

  Kept the

  View

  All the (‘while’ is dropped)

  Women

  Came and

  Went the (‘the’ is added)

  Barefoot

  Servants

  Too

  Outside

  In the

  Distance

  Know a (either a ‘you’ is dropped or a ‘know’ is added – depending on whether he is covering his or Hendrix’s version!)

  Wildcat (he can’t quite cram this into two syllables – it’s more ‘wy-uld-cat’ – instead it is sung at a higher pitch than previous lines)

  Did a (‘a’ added)

  Growl

  Two riders (sung as three distinct syllables, at the same pitch as ‘wildcat’)

  Were a

  pproaching

  And the (‘and’ is added)

  Wind be

  gan to

  Howl.

  What does this achieve? It breaks the linear narrative of the story and, therefore, of our experience of the music. It becomes impossible to focus on these four lines as lines, as telling any particular story. Rather than hearing the complete line, the presentation forces you to concentrate on the two syllables you are hearing at that moment. It becomes virtually impossible to maintain an awareness of even the previous line. This means that particular elements of the words may come to the forefront (I had never noticed the little ‘outsidein’ phrase at the start of the verse’s third line, for example) and new internal rhymes are created (All a / long the). The single syllable rhymes gain intensity from their positioning, and are given particular emphasis by Dylan – growl and howl were elongated to cover the space given to two syllables and a pause in the other lines. All in all, experiencing the sound of the words becomes important. This is something I have already discussed in relation to the ‘meaning’ of the words, but it also has an effect on the experience of time. Because the linear narrative of the words has been broken (you cannot concentrate on what the words are saying), the moment of hearing the little phrase becomes the focus of your concentration, creating an instance of ‘moment time’.

  DYLAN AND MUSICAL TRADITION

  Discussing the NET in the last chapter, I emphasised what we might want to call the experience of moment time for the NET’s audience. Within NET consciousness, what matters is the intensity of experiencing the performance in front of you and not any other possible performances, ‘original recorded versions’ or otherwise. There is, however, another element to NET consciousness that relates to the ‘inner time’ described by Schutz. If NET consciousness is successful in reducing recording consciousness, then the listener is aware that the performance they see in front of them is part of a wider chain of performances from the past and into the future. A particular performance of a song is always heard within the context of all the other performances of that song, already heard and still-to-hear; phrasing is semi-consciously ‘compared’ to previous phrasing; motifs are subconsciously united to earlier versions. Each individual performance straddles the line of sameness and difference so that: ‘You’re always hearing tonight’s performance as, in some sense, a variation on a theme you already know. The April ’93 “Mr Tambourine Man” is a great performance in itself, but a part, a very large part of its pleasure lies in its variation from every other performance of “Mr Tambourine Man” you’ve ever heard.’16 Scobie suggests that the effect of this is to ‘de-emphasize the linear progression of the song and to see its structure more in spatial terms, as if all the images were laid out alongside each other in a continuous present tense’.17 This shift from linearity to spatial awareness is similar to the effect that hyperlinks have on written texts and is characteristic of postmodern culture generally.18

  One dimension of this spatiality concerns how Dylan’s stardom has become wedded to an idea of ‘tradition’. My argument is that in the latter part of his career (since the start of the NET but much more noticeably since 1997) Dylan has become much more firmly associated with a conception of traditionality, a traditionality which is considered inherently virtuous. I am not saying that Dylan’s work has dramatically changed in its relationship to ‘tradition’ in the last few years – it has a bit, but there are also many continuities with his earlier work. What matters, however, is not textual or biographical accuracy but how these issues are understood and presented. This also explains why I am using the label ‘tradition’ uncritically in this chapter. The notion means a lot of different things and, invariably, traditions are more complex than they first seem. I do not need to interrogate the concept here. People have an assumption of what ‘tradition’ means, and it is this intuitive or impressionistic understanding of the concept that is significant when considering how it overlaps with Dylan’s stardom. I am, therefore, keeping the notion of ‘tradition’ deliberately vague. It is not necessary to be more specific for the current project. This is not about ‘Dylan and the folk tradition’ or ‘Dylan and the blues tradition’ but, rather, how Dylan has come to stand for and represent the maintenance of a link with the past, of the importance of a tie with an idealised tradition for reclaiming the authenticity of the present. For a variety of reasons, this has resulted in a dramatic intensification of Dylan’s status in recent years and, I would argue, this contemporary star-image is characterised by an association with an ineffable tradition rather than, as previously, with an ideal of ‘the sixties’.

  A variety of wider factors are significant in creating a context in which this realignment of Dylan’s star-image can occur. The strength of the work alone is not sufficient – I would argue that if Dylan had released Time Out Of Mind in 1992 it would not have resulted in such a radical reconceptualisation of Dylan (quite apart from the fact that he couldn’t have released Time Out Of Mind in 1992 because his voice wouldn’t have been the same). One notable event in this reframing was the reissuing of Harry Smith’s Anthology of American Folk Music in 1997. In an interesting article, Katherine Skinner discusses the change in status of the Anthology since its original release.19 Skinner argues that when initially released in 1952, the Anthology was actually fairly inconsequential. In 1953, it sold only 50 copies, 45 of which were to university and college libraries. Because of a copyright dispute, the Anthology was withdrawn from sale from late 1953 until at least 1956 and its average annual US sales between 1959 and 1978 was a mere 74 copies. There were very few reviews or references to the Anthology in the popular press – Sing Out! did not publish a full article on it until 1969 – and infrequent references to it in scholarly journals.20 On its reissue in 1997, however, the Anthology was considered
a canonical work and a formative influence on the folk revival of the fifties and sixties. ‘According to critical reviews that accompanied its reissue, [the Anthology] is the cornerstone upon which much contemporary American music rests.’21 David Fricke, in Rolling Stone, stated that ‘today, it is impossible to overstate the historic worth, sociocultural impact and undiminished vitality of the music in this set’.22 Skinner’s intention, like mine, is not to argue that the latter reviews were simply wrong but, rather, to try to explain the reasons for the change in the Anthology’s status. These reasons are not to be found in the text themselves but instead are in the wider social practices of ‘cultural valorisation’. Even if you think that the Anthology has always been that good and that influential, why is it that its quality and value only become recognised at this particular time? Similarly for Bob Dylan. Dylan’s work has always – always! – been deeply embedded within an awareness of the traditions of American (and, indeed, British) song, even during the radical mid-sixties. So why is it at this moment – 1997 – that it suddenly becomes the dominant element of his star-image?

  Skinner’s explanation for the reception of the Anthology’s reissue centres on the repositioning of ‘folk music’ within American popular music more generally. In particular, she suggests that by the 1990s the academic study of popular music had been institutionalised within the discipline of Cultural Studies and that ‘scholars and critics increasingly sought to create a taxonomy of the roots of popular music forms’.23 These roots included an ‘expanded definition of “folk” or “roots” music’ that incorporated the commercial recordings of the 1920s and 1930s that were contained on the Anthology. At roughly the same time, there emerged a new popular interest in traditional-type music, labelled as a new genre, ‘Americana’. These provided a new context for the Anthology. Finally, Skinner argues that the fact that the Anthology was among the first reissued box sets of these kind of recordings enabled it to represent, to stand for, a much larger body of music.24 Skinner’s points are reasonably convincing. There are, however, aspects of the music industry that are not sufficiently considered, notably how a combination of cheap, digital storage opportunities in the CD era and the expiration of copyright in sound recordings and songs resulted in an explosion of traditional music being made available, very cheaply in many instances. This would have increased general awareness of the foundational role that these early recordings made to popular music both at a scholarly and popular level (for example, weekly magazines with free CDs on the history of the blues, or cheap roots CDs available in petrol stations). We also need to consider the wider social context of the interest in traditionality. David Boyle argues that there has been an upsurge in the cherishing of notions of the ‘authentic’ as people become increasingly concerned about artificiality and the endangering of what they consider real.25 This can be seen in, for example, a rising interest in eco issues such as organic food or the desire for authentic rather than touristy holiday experiences.

  The event that links the Anthology’s re-release with Dylan’s 1997 re-canonisation is the publication of Greil Marcus’ book Invisible Republic. The book is ostensibly about The Basement Tapes, the songs recorded in Woodstock by Dylan and The Band in 1967 (not just the officially released recordings but the 106 songs available on bootleg). It isn’t wholly about Dylan, however, but instead offers a broad, impressionistic sweep across the realm of ‘American music’. In particular, it unites the Anthology with The Basement Tapes as collections of recordings that document ‘the old weird America’. The book was criticised by many Dylan fans as being unreadable. This criticism normally translates as ‘it’s not all about Dylan’, but it was repeated in a range of media. The criticism of the book tends to come from the fact that it is not ‘biographical’ – there is little detail of how these songs were recorded, who dropped in, how Dylan treated his wife, what drugs were taken, who said what to whom, and so on. Instead, Marcus’ interest lies in consideration of shared cultural ideals and cultural memory. The book explains how ‘Dylan and The Band explored new songs and old, digging deep into their own private mythologies and the collective unconscious of North America to mine a fresh-minted folklore, simultaneously ancient and modern’.26

  The eclecticism of Invisible Republic can be a hindrance (it is difficult to follow if you are unfamiliar with the basement recordings and the Anthology), but it offers a thoughtful consideration of popular music that does not rely on high cultural ideals without merely descending into uncritical populism. And, like The Basement Tapes themselves, its influence was felt beyond merely those who read it. The publication of the book was a significant event in the non-music press (it received a large number of commentary articles and reviews in the British serious press, for example). Given its coverage in the broader media, it played a significant role not only in the canonisation of the Anthology but also in the subtle reconceptualisation of Dylan as a contemporary exponent of an ancient tradition. The logic of the NET had managed to chip away some of Dylan’s star meaning, but it was not total (the release of two albums of traditional songs in 1992 and 1993 had not effected this reconceptualisation, for example). It seems that the confluence of a range of factors – CD reissues, the reconceptualisation of roots music, the continuation of the NET, Marcus’ book, Dylan’s health scare – came together at a particular historical moment that was finding authenticity in organic, pre-modern entities. None of this would have mattered, however, were it not for the release of Time Out Of Mind.I have already discussed some of the ways that the album reflected and reinforced Dylan’s star-image, but I want now to specifically discuss the way that the use of quotations, on this album and subsequent work, has helped to embed Dylan within this idea of tradition.

  Dylan’s album titles often relate to the overall theme of the music, but there are few that have the manifesto-like quality of Time Out Of Mind and “Love And Theft”. Time Out Of Mind makes a clear reference to the idea of a tradition; the phrase is applied to something that has been done for so long that its origin can no longer be recalled, beyond not just a living memory but beyond a shared, cultural memory. “Love And Theft” is also an extremely evocative title, explicitly drawing attention to itself as an opening statement of intent. The quotation marks surrounding the words highlight that the title itself is taken from elsewhere.*

  The use of quotations on Time Out Of Mind and “Love And Theft” is the clearest way that Dylan draws attention to his relation to tradition. What matters is not that there are lines from other sources within these ‘original’ songs. This is something that Dylan has always done (for example, the line ‘railroad men drink up your blood like wine’ (from ‘Stuck Inside Of Mobile With The Memphis Blues Again’) is lifted from Bacsom Lumsford’s ‘I Wish I Was A Mole In The Ground’, a 1928 song on Harry Smith’s Anthology, while ‘I don’t mind a reasonable amount of trouble’ from ‘Seeing The Real You At Last’ is taken from the film The Maltese Falcon, one of a number of lines from Bogart films used on Empire Burlesque). The important issue is not Dylan’s use of these ‘stolen’ lines; what matters on Time Out Of Mind and “Love And Theft” is his explicit drawing attention to their use. These are not just borrowed lines, they are deliberate quotations. Many of the lines used on Time Out Of Mind are so obvious, from such common stock, that they are clearly there to be recognised by the listener. Most people interested enough in popular music to be interested in Dylan will pick up on references to ‘That’s Alright Mama’ (Arthur Cudrup and Elvis Presley) and ‘Rock Me Baby’ (Muddy Waters and B. B. King) in ‘Million Miles’. Lines like ‘I’ll eat when I’m hungry, drink when I’m dry’ (‘Standing In The Doorway’), and ‘The cuckoo is a pretty bird, she warbles as she flies’ (‘High Water’) come from songs that Dylan performed early in his career (‘Moonshiner’ and ‘The Coo-Coo Bird’). Such blatant borrowing emphasises Dylan’s absolute comfort and confidence in his knowledge of traditional music. It is as though he holds the entirety of these traditions in the palm of his hand.


  Scobie argues that Dylan’s use of quotations on these albums creates an ambivalent relationship to tradition: ‘the use of quotations signals Dylan’s sense of continuity. . . But at the same time, his use of them as quotations signals his sense of distance from the tradition’.27 Because of the necessary temporal distance from the tradition from which Dylan borrows (times have changed), there is an ironic distance inherent within the songs and in Dylan’s place in the tradition. I understand why Scobie would argue this. Theoretically it may even be correct. I don’t think it is appropriate, however, when considering how Dylan is perceived. In this aspect of Dylan’s contemporary image there is no space for irony. That voice just doesn’t sound ironic.* This is clearer with the vocal style on Time Out Of Mind and Modern Times, but even the much more playful tone of “Love And Theft”, does not suggest an ironic relationship to the songs themselves, or to the traditions from which he borrows. It is, rather, the confidence of the singing on “Love And Theft” that suggests someone at one with the entire panoply of American popular music, a musical version of Whitman’s claim that ‘I contain multitudes’.

  The second reason that Dylan’s relationship to the tradition of American popular song is not ironic is because, in many ways, his position in that tradition is genuine, is authentic. ‘Dylan, remember, has been out there a very long time. He spent time with the Rev. Gary Davis, and Robert Johnson’s rival Son House, and Dock Boggs . . .’28 Robert Cantwell wrote that in the pre-war folk revival, ‘Leadbelly was a living representative of an inaccessible past’.29 Dylan plays a similar function today. He is the only significant link to the musical culture of the 1930s. Pete Seeger may still be alive, and Joan Baez and Ramblin’ Jack Elliott still playing songs but they are on the margins of popular music (and have been since 1964). No one with Dylan’s pull, or his central role in popular music, offers that genuine connection to the culture of a bygone era.