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thursday, november9, 1978
ment. I hope so. I'd like to think he could
get some pleasure from playing before an
obviously excited crowd, even at the end
of a long city -hopping tour.
At most concerts, the noise is a bother
some factor for me. I sit with my hands
over my ears, to drown out the excess
noise, and to keep myself from being too
involved in the music, so that 1 won't
come out drained at the end of it.
This time, I wanted that involvement,
wanted to let the music wash over me,
pulle me into it, and set me free to experi
ence it all, without worrying', as I usually
do, "how will I get out in case there's a
fire?"
Maybe it wasn't all I expected. Maybe
I resented the tampering with certain fa
vorite songs, the change from fast to slow,
and vice versa. Maybe I was annoyed with
the intrusion of the back-up singers. If I
stepped back and looked at the concert
objectively, I could find fault with a few
things, I'm sure.
Keep the "magic"
But I don't want to do that. I guess I
don't want to ruin the magic that Barb and
I always used to talk and write about in
our letters. I can't go back and make it like
it was-when we were the best friends in
the world, and always would be, when Bob
Dylan and his ideas and his magic were new
to me, and I was discovering something I
had never known before. Barb is far away
from me now, and I'm not sure what she
thinks about Bob Dylan, or even if she still
does.
I know so much about Dylan now, have
read so much about him and listened to his
songs so many times, over and over, that
I can't get that excited, stunned feeling
again, and I'm sorry for it. I'm sorry I'm
older, and I'm sorry Barb was never able to
go to either concert with me. But I'm
happy I had that feeling once, and that she
was there to share it with me. So, Barb,
when you read this, it's mostly for you
and thanks.
ii 0
Dylan photos courtesy Mahoney Wasserman and Associates.
Dylan underfire: times are - a- changin
By Michael Zangari
The kid's name was Robert Allen Zim
merman. At the tender age of 19 he cautiously
left the confines of a small Minnesota town
to attend the state university-mainly be
cause it's what his friends decided to do. It
was more than likely for the same reason
that he took a shot at being a fraternity
boy.
Somewhere along the line though, some
thing snapped. He could have been an Eng
lish major, or maybe a business major, but
like many freshmen, he bailed out, left
school and floundered.
Twenty years later he's hanging out
back stage at some auditorium listening to
an instrumental version of his song "My
Back Pages." The song is loosely about his
early days of school and forging an identity
he was comfortable with. But it's doubtful
that's on his mind. He stands away from
everybody else.
The sound quality backstage is terrible;
the sound just echoes.
He's not unaware that his energy level is
off. He's been stronger, but he's also aware
that it really doesn't matter. The name he
has taken on is a legend, and the crowd is
on its feet before he walks out. He smiles
to himself, and for all practical purposes,
looks just like Bob Dylan.
Bad year
This has not been a good year for Bob
Dylan. A film that was very important to
him impressed all of the right people, but
stiffed at the box office. He weathered a
painful and publically messy divorce and
to add insult to injury, his current album
has (Heaven!!!!) not produced any hit
singles.
The album, Street Legal, is as much as
an immediate statement as is possible in
over-blown rock V roll. It was cut in less
than three weeks with a thrown-together
band, and is pretty raw. It's probably the
most under-rated album of the year, with
moments that are as lyrically tender and
reflective as any of his material. That's
more than you can say for the critics. They
have almost universally broadsided it as
"trite" and not up to the quality of High
way 61 Revisited or Blonde on Blonde . . .
Not much is.
His concerts are getting mixed reviews,
being called everything from a "Las Vegas
show" to "Pretentious Rock 'n' Roll."
Evidently Bob Dylan isn't doing a very
good job of being Bob Dylan.
Ironically it's the same old song.
Nobody wants Bobby Dylan to grow up.
In 1965-66 when Dylan hooked up with
the Hawks (later seen waltzing as the Band)
to play electric music, he was bombarded
from all sides with abuse for "selling out."
Audiences and critics alike wanted him to
go back and climb into the Bob Dylan box
he had built for himself. He was faced with
the bizzare situation of selling out concert
after concert only to be booed and heckled
during the entire show.
Uncompromising
Al Keeper who played with him off and
on during this period, remebers Dylan
making him play the "de dum" piano in
troduction to "Ballad of a Thin Man" over
and over again until the audience would
quiet down long enough to listen to it.
Dylan would not compromise. Because
"Like A Rolling Stone" was a monster hit
at the time the audience would alternately
boo and mouth the words to the song. It
was a circul, but Dylan was one step ahead
of his audience at all times, and that is
pretty clear now.
The problem is that Dylan's audience is
severely more critical of him, not out of
any demanding sense of aesthetics, but
because of the incredible level of emotional
empathy they feel for his material. When
Dylan changes a line, he is toying with the
sacred. Everyone in his audience has taken
a Dylan song or line for their own.
When Dylan sings "Like a Rolling
Stone" in concert, you get an incredible
feeling of this power. Although few people
are actually singing it out loud, there is an
incredible mental energy. When he rips into
the chorus-"How does it feel. . .?" you
can feel the entire audience mentally
screaming along with him. It has very little
to do with the vehemence for a lost lover
that is implied in the song. It is everyone's
fantasy of personally being around to
watch everyone who has ground you into
the dirt being forced to eat that dirt. "How
does it feel. . .?" It's a rare moment and an
incredible catharsis.
It ain't me?
Because Dylan has had more effect on
the way rock 'n' roll sounds than anyone
else with the possible exception of the
Beatles, he is a living legacy. As such he's
entered popular myth.
But it is well to remember that Dylan
has proven himself amazingly human over
the years. His near death in a cycle
accident sobered many, and the legends
about his compulsive lying and cruelty, and
the later day bursts of anger and depres
sions have acted as a not so subtle reminder
of his humanity. Dylan, the man, is not
meditating on a mountain. He, as is his
right, is still growing painfully at times.
If Dylan, the artist, chooses to parody
himself (as he hinted at during his Omaha
show) it maybe is as important a statement
as any he has yet delivered.
If anyone has earned the right to criti
size Bob Dylan, it's Bob Dylan. And like
everything, I'm sure that sooner or latei
hell break his own myth. And when it all
comes down, hell be the only one that
could possibly do it.