Category: Bob Dylan

Crying like a fire in the sun.

R.E.M. talk Around the Sun and, in discussing their dwindling popularity Stateside, pay credit to Bob Dylan. Notes Peter Buck, “In 1975, people thought he was going to be president. Now he plays 3,000 seat theatres. His last two records are the best things he’s done in years. So I won’t calculate who our audience is. I’ll take whoever I can get at whatever level I can get them.'”

All Over You.

“You are able to take an idea and give it form: the idea that Harlem has hands, feet are flaming, lips are cracked and country, hail hammers and skies crack poems.” In a burst of NY Times Dylanania, Jonathan Lethem reviews Dylan’s Vision of Sin, the new tome of poetry criticism by acclaimed Oxford Professor Christopher Ricks, while Lucinda Williams pays her own respects to Robert Zimmerman. And, elsewhere in the music-themed Book Review this week, Time politico and Primary Colors author Joe Klein proclaims his fondness for Wilco.

Gotta Travel On.

“The creepiest on-screen clone army of 2003 wasn’t The Matrix’s league of Agent Smiths at all, but Masked and Anonymous‘s cast of Bob Dylans. He was everybody, everywhere. Or, rather, everybody was him.” Via my friend Mark, an intriguing take on Bob Dylan’s recent run, including M&A, Live 1964, and the new book on Blood on the Tracks. (No Victoria’s Secret, however.) Also in Dylan news, by way of Absolute Piffle, Bob’s apparently also gotten into the wine business. Lingerie, wine…are Dylan-brand scented candles next?

Bras of Spanish Leather.

Well, I see you got your brand new leopard-skin pill-box linens… Good friend Seth Stevenson holds forth on the Dylan Victoria’s Secret ad. I found this particular tidbit quite interesting: “Asked in 1965 what might tempt him to sell out, Dylan replied: ‘Ladies undergarments’.” Hmmm…Well, now that Bobby D has fallen for Victoria, will Ray Davies be next?

Gotta Serve Somebody.

“As I went out one morning to breathe the air around Tom Paine’s,
I spied the fairest damsel that ever did walk in a new unlined demi with lace…” The times they are a-changin’, ’cause apparently Bob Dylan is now hawking Victoria’s Secret. Ah well, as the guy notes in this article, I’d rather have Dylan selling lingerie than the new BMW or something. In fact, this may even be a step up for the big fella after Masked and Anonymous.

Cash is King.

Bobby Dylan remembers Johnny Cash: “If we want to know what it means to be mortal, we need look no further than the Man in Black. Blessed with a profound imagination, he used the gift to express all the various lost causes of the human soul. This is a miraculous and humbling thing. Listen to him, and he always brings you to your senses. He rises high above all, and he’ll never die or be forgotten, even by persons not born yet — especially those persons — and that is forever.“

Ballad of a Thin Man.

So I went down to the Angelika yesterday afternoon (always a strange experience – you can hear and feel the subway running under you during films) to catch Masked and Anonymous and, well, I can only recommend this film to two types of people: Hard-core Dylanologists, and those cinema completists who need to see Ed Harris in blackface. I consider myself a pretty heavy-duty Dylan fan, and even I was a bit bored at certain points. The movie is basically Dylan’s version of Waking Life, or what might happen if Bob had entered his own portal a la Being John Malkovich. All of the characters in the film speak in Dylanistic soliloquys (You actually get a very good sense of this from the website), and thus you end up with Giovanni Ribisi’s disquisition on war, Val Kilmer’s take on animals, etc. The movie takes place in a strange alternate present, where (I’m guessing) the revolutions of the Sixties went sour and ended up tearing the nation apart. Dylan’s dad seems to be the ailing leader of the Bearflag Republic or something, and…well, there’s no point in trying to explain it.

The movie is basically an extended riff on Dylan and Dylania…at (brief) moments it has the scope and absurdist grandeur of “Desolation Row,” “Idiot Wind,” or “It’s Alright Ma.” And some of the renditions of Dylan’s music, from the new “One More Cup of Coffee” to the acapella “The Times, They Are a Changin’” are truly beautiful. Most of the time, however, it fails to capture Dylan’s spark, and comes off flat and, well, embarrassing (particularly in some of the more questionable racial choices.) I think the extended monologues on life, death, and humanity are meant to have you dwell on the fundamental questions, but as the movie wore on I found myself contemplating altogether different queries: Did Chris Penn eat one of the Baldwins? Who would win in a caged deathmatch between Penelope Cruz and Audrey Tautou? Who knew it would end so badly between Walter and the Dude? When did Mickey Rourke turn into Billy Bob Thornton? So on, so on. I guess I’d recommend that Dylan fans see this film (particularly if you’ve sat through Renaldo & Clara), just to see where our man is at these days. (In fact, some Dylan fans seem to love it.) All in all, though, I can’t say I recommend the film as a film.

On another note, in the two hours I had to kill between this movie and seeing a friend’s (very good) band at the Baggot Inn, I stumbled upon a huge line at Tower Records, dutifully waiting to get Dave Gahan‘s signature. Times change, I guess. Ten years ago, I probably would have staked out this line with a handful of vinyl 12″ DM singles. Nowadays, I just skipped it in favor of Forbidden Planet and The Strand. Must be getting old.