(This originally appeared in the San Diego Reader, 1975).
While most people have waited for the new Led Zeppelin album. the rock critics, with the customary furrowed brows, awaited the new Bob Dylan release. The rabble could have their noisemakers, the critics seemed to say, just leave us alone with things that matter. Dylan was an artist for Christ sakes, and when this avatar was about to speak, all ears must be perked. Panel discussions have been arranged and quizzes will be given. so take notes. That may be an exaggeration of how the journalists have fretted over Dylan the last few years, but nonetheless, their attention has been suffocating. Now, word was out that Blood On the Tracks was Dylan's return home to serious stuff, away from the Karma clichés and kitsch he indulged in for kicks. About time, I thought. Old Bob hadn't much image left to debunk. I sat back to see what the catch would be. The critics' fears have been allayed.
Blood On the Tracks is indeed his return to the style that made him wealthy-lousy harmonica, breathless breathing exercises, non-stop lyrics that conform to no cadence other than Dylan's whim. Everything the critics wanted is there, and the cheer goes up. Rolling Stone scuttled the usual reviews in its record section and dedicated the department to two long, ponderous essays by Jonathon Cott and Jon Landau, as well as brief consensus by other "top" critics and save for one pan by Dave Marsh, the verdict was affirmative. Greatness, poetry, the exaltation of genius, rewordings of worked-to- death platitudes said years ago but with more feeling. That's beside the point, however. More discomforting is the intensity of the reviews. To me, sequestered in Clairemont and light years removed from the magic, of San Francisco (where grassroots rockers embody everything the fan wants to find in himself), the record seems cheap shot cannibalizations of a dead style. Dylan just doesn't sound into it, and over and over come thoughts of making a man do something his heart no longer has fondness for. Dylan, tired of running, lies down in the snow and lets the hungry wolf pack rip off the remaining meat. It's not pretty.
I used to have respect for Dylan, awed as impressionable junior high kids tend to be, by the mystique he generated. He had power, presence, nerve, and plainly didn't care what others thought of him. The lifestyle was equally bizarre, endless road life (D. A. Pennebaker's Don't Look Back gives a peripheral view of that), drug abuse (speed primarily, some smack and acid), and alleged homosexual relationships (with Allen Ginsberg of all people, but take that as you might). Clearly. the material was there, and Dylan, all a jitter with amphetamine insight, poured the songs out prolifically. The results were striking. if off-the-wall. That period is contained on the Highway 61 Revisited, Bringing It Al Back Home, and Blonde on Blonde albums, these are the only albums by him, I play, the only ones that exhibited a genre that Dylan was ever convincing in. The early material was of a punk doing bad imitations of dead blues and hillbilly singers, and the stuff following Blonde was uninteresting by virtue of Dylan changing his habits. He's a family man now, and accolades for domestic bliss have no punch. John Wesley Harding was merely okay, a few good lines, some ingenious reworkings of Biblical parables, but, in all, disappointing. The writers, though, quite predictably found a panacea for the social malaise from all this kicked back stuff A friend, whom I don't see much anymore, once told me that Nashville Skyline taught him (taught) that "rednecks are human too, just like the rest of us." I almost cashed in my cookies.
Before appraising Blood On the Tracks, one should first appraise the history of the dedicated fan, of which I confess to have been one. The period, 1966-67, was a time of supreme awkwardness. Dylan appealed to the acned, self-conscious kid who sat in his room writing poetry and made knee-jerk solipsistic designs for the future. Life at the time was full of dread, and worse, boredom. Everything about him, the frazzled hair, the sneering nasality, the get screwed. Jack lyrics, were the stuff fantasies were made of. Who do you want to be when you grow up? "Bob Dylan." The bard was at once a surrogate hero and collective whipping boy. He weathered the psychic storms for the kids too oppressive affluence to break out of their pampered by parents over of the trap and follow Kerouac's rule of thumb. Years went by, my interest waned to almost nothing. There were better poets around beating Dylan at his own game, but I tired of poetry entirely and sunk myself in a heavy metal mire, wanting obliteration revelation (I'd rather listen to Grand Funk than The Moody Blues any day). Dylan, spurred on by the sagging sales of Planet Waves and Before the Flood, decided to give the people what they want. Interest is raised again to see if he can cut the cake. Instead, listening to Blood On the Tracks is like looking at history through a fun house mirror. The details are there, but it's just not right.
If Blood is a suspicious album, it's also a helpful one to chronic Dylan watchers. I'd finally gained insight as to why Bob chucked his old speed-freak persona for Muzak, he doesn't have it in him anymore! Which is Understandable. If Bob had yielded to demands for the old essence, he'd have died long ago. Speed freaks seldom have life spans longer than seven years of heavy usage. But trying to recapture the old time is like trying to jar a rainbow. So, spurred on by coffee and cigarettes, I watch the record suspiciously as it makes its spin on the turntable. "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome" is on. Dylan's voice is nasal and full of uncharacteristic resonance, akin to Elvis at his most mock sincere. Guitar chords chunk , a lousy harmonica break (wheeze, gasp, sputter), the ancient Gerdes Folk City style for those who missed out. Dylan goes off pitch. Arcane references Rimbaud, and Delacroix. references aimed at confounding the meaning seekers . Who is Dylan trying to impress? "Tangled Up In Blue" fares better vocally, less affectation, but that's all. "Simple Twist of Fate" misses. "Lily, Rosemary. and the Jack of Hearts" makes a stab at the Highway 61 surrealism, but there's no bite. The clichés pour forth, pile up high and take the air out of the room. My cigarette ash burns low and my wrist twitches. The… stuff is intolerable from someone you used to respect, but I hold my ire. I'd gotten my two cents' worth from Dylan a long time ago and shouldn't feel disappointment. There are new heroes to conquer (Little Feat. Roxy Music, Harvey Mandel, maybe Queen). Back to the job at hand. The band crunches on sloppily while Dylan is out in left field, sounding amused with his self impersonations. The parade meanwhile has passed. Which is just as well. The cheering hordes have lost sight of their icon. The record finished. The uplifts and the system shut down automatically. I turn on the radio. Led Zeppelin blasts out. Now we're cooking with gas.
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