By Jeremy Hallock
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Mortality hits the severely blessed, severely. And so Dylan was relegated to the "Why are they now?" file.
The nasal voice once shouldered responsibility to an entire generation, but lately Dylan's stretched-out phrasing needs only speak to those who buy tickets to his frequent concerts. Bob Dylan, lionized for his pioneering meld of literature and music, has turned out to be human after all, but that's not such a bad thing as he and his overachieving bar band proved at the DMC with an urgent set that cooked the mystique right down to the groove.
These are quickly changing times for a music industry trying to redefine itself after 40 years of rock and roll mythology; that its most-exalted artist should expose the fable with such straightforward confidence was refreshing indeed. Basically, Dylan drilled it. Introduced as "Columbia recording artist Bob Dylan," as if he was merely Jeff Buckley or Eddie Money, the man who launched a million cheesy imitators (and about 29 good ones, including Bruce Springsteen), took the stage without much more fanfare than the sound of 2,700 fans with their hopes up.
The oxymoronic Dallas Music Complex--so threadbare, ugly, and dank--seemed at first like such an insult to the greatest writer of the rock era. With songwriting royalties alone, Dylan's gotta be worth $25 million, and yet here he was playing in a joint that looks like the box that the Longhorn Ballroom came in. What's more, the acoustics were fairly murky and sightlines were a luxury enjoyed only by taller Dylanites.
The show opener "Down In the Flood" sounded knee-deep in mud, and a slowed-down version of "I Want You" made the words stalk rather than bounce, as on the original. As the show wore on, though, with Dylan's remarkable return to form on cut-to-the-bone arrangements of "I Want You," "Tangled Up In Blue," and "Positively 4th Street," the place started feeling right for this new humility.
Even with decades of experience being adored, Dylan has always seemed uncomfortable as an icon, and the way he's usually dealt with the worship of so many strangers is to be almost hostile in his aloofness. Dylan was one of the first performers to dare to be an asshole in public (or privately, with cameras rolling), and indeed his persona seemed determined to keep the fawners at bay. As spelled out in the chapter of Marianne Faithfull's autobiography--in which she recounts how Dylan once held court over a group of British stars, including the Beatles and Stones--Dylan seemingly hates being the center of attention, but he always takes a seat in the middle.
During the band-crazy '60s, Dylan was an individual, a solo artist, and you got the idea it was because he was utterly awkward when it came to the give and take inherent in musical groups. That the Beatles were a band, with Lennon and McCartney sharing songwriting credits even though they rarely collaborated past the first few albums, was a big part of their appeal. They had a collective personality that made being in a band the coolest thing, but now the Beatles need technology and a passel of lawyers to get back together. Meanwhile, Dylan plays every night in a band of players doing their part to create a seamless jaunt.
Ironic, isn't it, that in the midst of the phony new Beatlemania with the Fab Four moving into the media overkill slot recently vacated by O.J., Dylan showed so much more vitality playing a glorified warehouse on Cadiz Street? Bob Dylan is still a troubadour, still doing what he left Minnesota 35 years ago to do. So what if he can't fill arenas anymore? At least he's not digging up old rejected tapes for some late-life validation.
Dylan was always a step ahead of the Beatles, with his amazingly fertile '65-'66 period (Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, and Blonde On Blonde) inspiring the lurvable lads to take their songwriting to a deeper level. "I used to write a book or stories on one hand and write songs on the other," John Lennon told Rolling Stone magazine in 1969. "I'd be completely free-form in the book, but when I went to write a song I'd be thinking, 'dee duh dee duh do dooo.' It took Dylan to say, 'Oh, come on now, they're the same thing.'"
The Beatles thought they had Dylan pegged like the legs of his black jeans, putting out Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band at the height of musical freakdom, but then Bobby D hit 'em with John Wesley Harding, an album of acoustic moral parables. That Dylan is now reaching for musical simplification and a renewed, media-free connection with his fans at a time when the music of the Beatles is about to undergo corporate castration in the form of a TV mini-series (November 19-22 on ABC) and CD set is really just par for the course. It's a new morning, and 54-year-old Dylan is still sounding the wake-up call.