when i was in college, everybody always said he’s sooooo brilliant and everybody was always kind of foaming at the mouth obsessive about how genius he’s supposed to be. but that nasaly high whinny of a voice of his always got my way. how was i supposed to listen to anything bob dylan had to say when his voice went through my head like a nail?
then one day, i downloaded “tangled up in blue” when napster was, well, napster. i couldn’t let it go. and i couldn’t believe me, clinging to that song and that voice, but God help me, i was riveted. the nasaly thing was still there but there was so much more. it was almost as though the nasaly thing was choking back the feelings that were imploding inside of him. there were moments when he was flat-out howling into the mic. almost immediately, the words made pictures that came alive like little moviolas in my imagination. and they still flicker to life whenever i think about that song, much less hear it. so yeah, he got me with that one.
it made me wonder what frequency i was living inside of all those years, to miss something so compelling and beautiful and alive. did i grow out of something and into something else? or maybe i grew up. or my ears matured. my tastes, my sensibilities. i don’t know. i have always loved billie holiday but i know a lot of people, singers even, who can’t stand the sound of her voice. when ethel waters heard her singing one of her signature songs and someone asked her what she thought, she said, “she sings like her shoes are too tight.”
but i digress.
like i said, i wasn’t in love with dylan at that point. but i could understand why everyone else was and i certainly had much more respect for him as a songwriter. my respect grew when i read and saw snippets about his life later on and started collecting certain albums and box sets.
the reason why this scorsese documentary is so cool and necessary and important is because it catches dylan from his somewhat humble beginnings to a very crucial time for him as an artist. he could have remained a folky activist but he grew into some other direction. that happens for a lot of musicians but very few have the temerity of mind, the balls if you will, to actually follow through, abandon their success and pursue their vision, however warped or lopsided or unpopular it seems to be. this documentary isn’t meant to be some far-reaching retrospective of his life. it is a snapshot of that choice—one that he had to make to stay alive creatively. because at that point, he’d written some iconic songs already that had been covered by some pretty amazing musicians. (jimi hendrix doing “like a rolling stone,” for example—or how about everyone doing “hey mr. tamborine man”?) oh, heck. he was an icon, at that point. a folky icon, but an icon nonetheless. he really didn’t have to do anything else—but the creative impetus compelled him and so he moved on and everyone threw rocks at him for it.
this film captures the rock throwing. and as i watched everyone—from the whiny british concert-goers to the critics to his fellow musicians, even—hound him and call him everything but a child of God for not doing the old folky activist material the way they wanted him to, i felt a strange sense of pride and satisfaction and, well, some kind of love for this stranger, so determined to do his thing, his way. he inspired me—because, after all, as an artist (even though i’m no bob dylan) that’s exactly what i’m trying to do, too.
if you’re an artist or even remotely creative—or if you’ve ever wanted to pursue your own vision, do your own thing, whether it’s opening your own business or having a baby or whatever—you really should watch this documentary. it’s well worth repeated viewing.
