Getting to know... Bob Dylan

A few years ago I was rooting around in the shed at my Granny’s house, looking through assorted bits and pieces left by various family members over the years, when I came across some discarded records. There were quite a few, but the ones that caught my eye were two Bob Dylan albums: Bringing It All Back Home (1965) and More Bob Dylan Greatest Hits (1971). Both have extremely striking covers, and they immediately grabbed my attention. The expression on the face of the young man on the Bringing It All Back Home cover seemed to be saying “Don’t even think about leaving me in this shed”. I am happy to say that I didn’t, and ended up becoming a huge fan. But not straight away.

When I got back home I put on Bringing It All Back Home, and the first thought that struck me was “What is this?” I had always thought of Bob Dylan as an acoustic guitar-wielding folksinger, the man who sang the song that played over the opening credits of Watchmen. But this was very different. This Bob Dylan was backed by a rollicking blues band, thrashing an electric guitar while singing a stream of strange, surreal lyrics: “Johnny’s in the basement mixin’ up the medicine/I’m on the pavement thinkin’ ‘bout the government”. What? I didn’t know what that meant, but he certainly sounded like he did. And that voice! I didn’t find it off-putting, but it was unlike any singer I had ever heard and I had no idea what to make of it. More Bob Dylan Greatest Hits provided no easy answers; a daunting 24-track melting pot of musical styles, it was far too much to take in in one listen. Fortunately, a chance encounter with the far more accessible Bob Dylan at Budoken album caused everything to fall into place, and before long I was officially a fan. Delving into Bob’s back pages, I was fascinated by the amount of stylistic changes he had gone through over the years.

Bob began as a Woody Guthrie-ish folksinger before starting to write his own songs, which ranged from moving love songs, (‘Girl from the North Country’), to goofy comedy monologues (‘Talking John Birch Society Paranoid Blues’) and austere observational songs (‘The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll’). By 1964 Dylan was moving away from writing songs that could be interpreted as ‘protest songs’, and his writing leaned increasingly towards the surreal, although he still retained his trademark wit (‘Motorpsycho Nitemare’) and talent for love songs (‘To Ramona’). A big change came in 1965, when Bob started using a backing band for the first time; a significant portion of his fan base apparently felt that he had ‘sold out’ in pursuit of a more commercial sound, but personally I think the extra musicians added texture and colour to his already impressive compositions. My favourite song from this period is ‘Desolation Row’, an extraordinary phantasmagoria of people and places which benefits immensely from Charlie McCoy’s sparkling guitar and Russ Savakus’ pulsating bassline, not to mention Dylan’s impassioned singing.

After an exhausting tour in 1966 to promote the album Blonde on Blonde, Bob Dylan disappeared from public view, having been injured in a mysterious motorcycle accident. For the next eight years he appeared in concert extremely rarely, and his recorded output during this period sounds like the work of a content family man enjoying a quiet yet happy life of domestic tranquillity (Bob was by this time married with children). Unfortunately this was not to last, and by 1974 rumours suggested that Dylan’s marriage was breaking down. This speculation appeared to be supported by the appearance in January 1975 of the album Blood on the Tracks, which contained numerous songs dealing with relationships ending. This album is often thought to be autobiographical, but Bob has denied this and I believe him; while elements of his personal life must surely have seeped into the record (especially on the raging ‘Idiot Wind’), Bob for the most part retains a healthy detachment as a narrator, and the gentle lightness of the music prevents the album from becoming maudlin, despite the subject matter. 

I976 saw the release of the wonderful Desire album, on which Dylan collaborated with playwright Jacques Levy to create a series of incredibly visual and cinematic story songs; pieces like ‘Hurricane’, ‘Isis’, ‘Joey’, ‘Romance in Durango’ and ‘Black Diamond Bay’ could easily be adapted into full-length motion pictures. Dylan’s personal life remained troubled, however, and the following year Bob’s wife Sara filed for divorce.

I mention this because it appears to have had a profound effect on Dylan’s music making. From 1978 onwards Bob’s songs, once so bright and outward-looking, veered increasingly towards melancholy introspection, and his voice, formerly powerful and confident, suddenly seemed strained and frail. His mood only appeared to worsen when the public rejected his conversion to born-again Christianity and a subsequent trilogy of gospel albums which, at their worst, sounded uncomfortably like a man in the throes of a total nervous breakdown. Dylan was also struggling with the recording process itself; his albums throughout the 1980s suffer from over-production, and you get the feeling that Bob had far too much time in which to second-guess himself in terms of arrangements and song selection.*

To some at the time it must have seemed that Dylan had lost his spark, but a closer examination of this period reveals that the old magic was still there. Bob’s Christian albums might have not been to everyone's taste, but the performances he gave in support of these records were incendiary; one need only listen to a recording of his performance in Toronto in 1980, for example, to dispel any suspicions about the sincerity of his conversion. In another flash of brilliance, Bob showed up for a 1984 appearance on Late Night with David Letterman with punk band The Plugz in tow. The group proceeded to tear the house down with barnstorming performances of ‘Don’t Start Me Talking’, ‘License to Kill’, and ‘Jokerman’ (during which Bob wandered off-stage to retrieve a misplaced harmonica, leaving the band and the audience to wonder where he had gone and if he was coming back).

With his record sales falling and his star in decline, Bob Dylan made two crucial decisions in 1988. The first was to join The Traveling Wilburys, a supergroup consisting of George Harrison, Roy Orbison, Tom Petty and Jeff Lynne. Working with friends in an informal environment seemed to revitalise Dylan, who turned in some terrific songs including the wonderful ‘Tweeter and the Monkey Man’, another story song that I hope is one day made into a film. The second big decision was to go on tour with a tight three-piece band, playing dozens of shows throughout the remainder of the year with a fire and energy that many had probably presumed lost forever. A big reason for the success of these shows was, in my opinion, Dylan’s hiring of GE Smith as lead guitarist and bandleader. Dylan is by many accounts an eccentric man who is at times hard to work with, but Smith genuinely seemed to like and ‘get’ Bob, and the two appear to have enjoyed playing together tremendously.

No one could have predicted it at the time, but the tour that began on 7^th June 1988 is still going today, twenty-eight years later. Countless band members have come and gone, but the whole process seems to have allowed Dylan to rediscover his mojo. He still releases albums, but I get the sense that Bob thinks of himself primarily as a live performer as opposed to a recording artist. Bob uses his shows as a chance to reimagine his back catalogue; sometimes the results are poor (his diabolical 1991 tour remains infamous), but often he succeeds in successfully reinventing his songs and sometimes even eclipses the studio versions. Personally, I think something gets lost in translation when Dylan performs in the studio; from the late-70s onwards, many of Bob's songs have only really come to life when being played live on stage. A lot of his performances can be found on YouTube, and are well worth investigating.

As I hope this piece of writing shows, I have a lot of love for Bob Dylan’s songs and for the man himself, although I have never met him and have yet to see him in concert. If I did meet him, I wouldn’t ask him to sign anything or pose for a selfie; all I would really want to do is give him my sincere thanks for his music. Thanks Bob! 

* I now completely disagree with the opinions expressed in this paragraph - 12/5/2018

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (1982)

It is difficult to fully appreciate the impact that Star Wars had upon the film industry when it was released in 1977, or the flurry of frantic activity it triggered in Hollywood as studios rushed to capitalise on its massive success. Without Star Wars we might not have witnessed the unbearable tension of Alien (1979), the twists and turns of The Empire Strikes Back (1980), or the surreal sight of James Bond engaging in an outer-space laser battle in Moonraker (1979). But perhaps the most intriguing sci-fi film to follow Star Wars was one that banked on audience nostalgia as well as the new space-craze:  Star Trek: The Motion Picture.

Unfortunately, the transition from small screen to large screen was not a smooth one for the Starship Enterprise. The Motion Picture is not without merit - the special effects and sense of epic scale remain impressive to this day – but the script was painfully low on action and often left the highly capable cast with nothing to do except literally stare into space. While the film did sufficiently well at the box office to guarantee a sequel, it was clear that drastic changes were in order. Enter director and screenwriter Nicolas Meyer.

Meyer’s philosophy for Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan seems to have been to strip everything back to the barest essentials, and that is reflected in the streamlined plot. Khan Noonien-Singh (Ricardo Montalban), an insane, genetically engineered superman from the 20^th Century who was exiled by Captain Kirk (William Shatner) to a planet named City Alpha 5 in an episode of the original series, has escaped, and wants revenge on Kirk for banishing him to a planet that subsequently became uninhabitable. He has also stolen a Starfleet ship and a potentially dangerous piece of technology called Genesis, which can create life on even the most barren of planets – or destroy life on planets that are already populated. Kirk, who is leading a crew chiefly comprised of trainees on a simple training cruise, is lured into a deadly game of cat and mouse with the unhinged yet brilliant Khan.

Star Trek II’s intention to distance itself from its ponderously-paced predecessor is made abundantly clear right from the opening scene, which is worth describing in detail. The Enterprise is under attack, and the camera pans across the bridge, which is bathed in a sinister red light. All of the familiar faces are there, all except Kirk; in the captain’s chair is Kirstie Alley’s Lieutenant Saavik. The attack on the ship intensifies and a series of explosions rock the ship, and one by one all of our favourite characters fall to the ground, apparently dead. What is happening? Where is Captain Kirk? Just then the alarms die down, the front of the bridge opens up, and there stands Kirk, visible only in silhouette. It was all just a training exercise. This one action-packed scene immediately communicates to the audience that this is going to be a very different film from The Motion Picture, and establishes a tense, claustrophobic atmosphere that remains throughout the rest of the movie. It’s flawless.

Fortunately, the rest of The Wrath of Khan lives up to this superb opening, as we are swiftly introduced to the evil villain of the title. Khan is clearly a brilliant man, but has been so consumed by his hatred for Kirk that he has gone completely mad; you really get the sense that he has spent every moment of his exile festering and stewing over what he perceives as Kirk’s betrayal of him. Ricardo Montalban gives a layered performance in what could easily have been a totally one-dimensional role, and he plays Khan with an evil relish and perverse charm that makes him a joy to watch. As good as Benedict Cumberbatch was as Khan in 2013’s Star Trek Into Darkness, you just can’t beat the original model.

But despite Montalban playing the title character, this is really William Shatner’s movie. Often unfairly written off as a shameless ham, here he gives a wonderfully understated performance that perfectly contrasts with Montalban’s more theatrical turn. A running theme of the film is Kirk coming to terms with middle-age, and this results in some great subtle moments, like the scene in which Kirk self-consciously puts on a pair of reading glasses while straining to read a computer monitor on the bridge. His final scene with Leonard Nimoy’s Spock at the film’s climax is just wonderful, and remains incredibly moving no matter how many times you see it. All of the regular cast give top-notch performances as usual, but Shatner is the heart and soul of this movie.

If the original Star Wars was a space-western, then Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan is a space pirate movie, with the Enterprise as a naval vessel and Khan and his crew as a band of villainous rogues. Indeed, the film is replete with nautical terms and allusions, and you can even see a dog-eared copy of Moby Dick perched on Khan’s straining bookshelf. Some may prefer the films that feature more exploration and a less militaristic tone, but Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan firmly cemented Star Trek as a big screen force to be reckoned with, and set the template that the series continues to follow to this day.