Ramblings

A Complete Unknown had been recommended to me many times before I finally caught up with it. And it’s very convincing. Timothée Chalamet plays Bob Dylan brilliantly – as ruthless, selfish, calculating, and manipulative. The film shows Dylan’s efforts to cultivate an air of mystery, hiding any feelings behind sunglasses: his girlfriend, played by Elle Fanning, complains that he never opens up to her. Unfortunately the film leads us to the same brick wall, the same stony heart. Besides the revelation that he is driven to write and sing songs, we get no further insight into the man. Perhaps the songs are the extent of him: if so, that is still a lot, but looking further to understand him will be fruitless.

There are some sympathetic characters, like the saintly Pete Seeger, portrayed by Edward Norton. Monica Barbaro’s Joan Baez is charming and much more worldly wise than her singing voice would suggest. But I have difficulty warming to films with a disagreeable protagonist.

I made the mistake of seeing it at our local film club, and initially regretted the absence of subtitles, as Chalamet’s fine impersonation of Dylan’s grunts made many of his lines indecipherable. But as the two hours and twenty minutes wore on, it became apparent that I hadn’t missed more than a few monosyllabic and snarky responses. Although they were no doubt touched by genius.

Dylan definitively signed up to become a rock star with his performance at Newport Festival in July 1965. Please don’t misunderstand, rock stars behaving like assholes is nothing new: in fact it’s the norm. But we can forgive Lennon because of his passion and his honesty. Jagger and Bowie, for example, always projected a sly, endearing awareness of how crazy it all is. But Dylan…where is the joy, where is the fun? Is it a coincidence that some of his most successful songs come across as bitter, vitriolic attacks on former friends? Like a Rolling Stone, Positively 4th Street, It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue…so much safer to be, say, an arms dealer, and have him throw rocks from a distance, than to have actually known Dylan. For a hero of the peace and love generation, he sure harboured a lot of hate.

In 1969, music specialist Nik Cohn wrote “In my own life, the Monotones have meant more in one line of Book of Love than Dylan did in the whole of Blonde on Blonde.” Harsh, but I get it.

Dylan is – or was – undoubtedly a prolific and brilliant songwriter. So too are, or were, Carole King, Smokey Robinson, Lennon, McCartney, Paul Simon, Ray Davies, Stevie Wonder, Elton John, David Bowie …although none of those has bagged a Nobel Prize for, hem, Literature. But as a singer and performer, he is a taste which many struggle to acquire. His wish to repeatedly confound expectations is no doubt artistically laudable, but can make for a frustrating experience for listeners or concertgoers.

It is not surprising that his early chart successes often came from more palatable covers of his songs by artists like Peter, Paul and Mary and the Byrds. Or that his songs sound better to many (or most?) when sung by Joan Baez, Van Morrison, Cher, Manfred Mann, Judy Collins, George Harrison, Adele…in fact almost anyone but the Hollies and William Shatner. And don’t forget how the Animals obliterated Dylan’s version with their sublime House of the Rising Sun, as did Jimi Hendrix with All Along the Watchtower. You can’t deny it, Dylan made some great demos.

Of course, he deserves huge respect for his songwriting achievements. But this strays into unquestioning reverence. How many people can name a Dylan song (apart from his contributions to the Traveling Wilburys) from any time after, say, 1980? And yet look at the fawning reception the critics gave his 2020 album Rough and Rowdy Ways:

• Neil McCormick in The Daily Telegraph: “one long, magnificent ride for his most loyal fans. The wise old poet has stirred up a cryptic cauldron of truths and clues, philosophy, myths and magic”.
• Anne Margaret Daniel in Hot Press: “Rough and Rowdy Ways is a record we need right now, and it will endure.”
• Pat Carty, also in Hot Press: “Academics who can’t dance will fill unread books dissecting the library of historical reference, and the cast of characters engrained in these grooves. The rest of us can just be thankful that the greatest song and dance man of them all is still rolling.”
• Mikael Wood, in the Los Angeles Times: the album “rolls out one marvel after another”.

There are caveats there: McCormick suggests that the ride is for his most loyal fans, while Carty shows impatience with the academic attention Dylan attracts. But “the greatest song and dance man of them all”? Really?

I tried to open my ears to Rough and Rowdy Ways but I’m afraid it only confirmed my suspicion that the Emperor (or the Jester?) has not been wearing any clothes for a long time. I can only guess that the critics were overwhelmed with joy at hearing that sand-and-glue voice doing anything, just one more time. It is absurd, frankly, to suggest that this album will endure as long as his 1960’s classics.

And what about that Nobel Prize for Literature? It was awarded “for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition”. If it was an attempt to be down with the kids, it came about 50 years too late. It was bizarre to suggest that anything Dylan did close to 2016 deserved a prize, let alone such a prestigious one. And Literature? It felt like baby boomers bending the rules to honour the heroes of their youth.

Leonard Cohen’s commented that “no prizes were necessary to recognize the greatness of the man who transformed pop music with records like Highway 61 Revisited. To me, it’s like pinning a medal on Mount Everest for being the highest mountain.” Scottish novelist Irvine Welsh of Trainspotting fame put it more colourfully: “I’m a Dylan fan, but this is an ill conceived nostalgia award wrenched from the rancid prostates of senile, gibbering hippies.”

Reverence is something rock stars should never be afforded. In the end, it’s only rock’n’roll, and we shouldn’t forget that: when they have overstayed their welcome we must be free to boo them off stage. Respectfully, of course.