TRACKING DYLAN’S BLOOD

TRACKING DYLAN'S BLOOD

Dylan it no lonovr look in oiHOrd to tho plooiutoi I tho country with tho nils ond kldi Self-aril* appaon lo bo o mora liholy fat*

TRACK OUT

Lill o mott o) ui. Dyon It on ouii on who oVvomi ol iho poiiibllity ol afuiion o'

TRACK TWO

Outgunned By The New Romantics

by Kit Rachlis

Blood On The Tracks is Dylan's third album in little over a year. It's his fourth if you count Dylan, the muzak-like outtakes from Self-Portrait, which Columbia presumably released in retaliation for his signing with Asylum. Though Dylan has never been more productive, this has not been a banner year for him. Planet Waves, released just prior to his tour, was his worst album since SelfPortrait (which previously had never had any rivals). Sloppily recorded, ragged and chaotic, it sounded desperately pieced together. The songs, most of which celebrated the joys of domesticity, barely skirted banality. Dylan's phrasing was non-existent, and he bludgeoned lyrics like he was wielding a billy club. Before The Flood, culled from the tour's last two dates, appeared in June. Though one of the best albums of 1974, it hardly constituted a step forward. It was an album not just rooted in the past, it was about the past. Dylan with the ferocious support of The Band ripped apart his old songs, reworking, reinterpreting, and recreating his repertoire. It was a monumental act of revision.

With Blood On The Tracks Dylan is back at full command. He sings with an authority and agility that hasn't been in evidence since Blonde On Blonde. His voice ranges from the balladeer's baritone of "Lily, Rosemary And The Jack Of Hearts" to the nasal grate of "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go." He has reclaimed understatement as a vocal tool. His phrasing is lean; there's no bluster here, no excess fat. Dylan has never made meticulously crafted, elaborately arranged albums, but Blood On The Tracks - much of it re-recorded in Minneapolis after the original New York sessions - reveals a care which doesn't sacrifice immediacy or commanding force. Backed by a band that is as cohesive as it is anonymous, Dylan has regained his knack for matching lyrics with their proper melody and setting. The instrumentation is simple, rarely exceeding an accoustic guitar, harp, bass and drums. It offers up none of the distinguished brilliance of the organ-harp duets that highlighted Dylan's electric period, nor anything resembling Robbie Robertson's whipping guitar lines, but it amply fleshes out and sustains Dylan's voice.

Dylan's work has always been selfreferential, existing in the context of his own past, and Blood On The Tracks is no exception. But for all its folkish overtones, its deliberate conjuring p of his pxe-Bringing It All Back Home days and John Wesley Harding, it avoids nostalgia and regression. What it reaffirms is Dylan's extraordinary ability to absorb and synthesize various pop idioms - what Ellen Willis has called his "formidable eclectism" - which has been at the center of his best work and noticeably absent in his recent outings. Since the days he aped Woody Guthrie, Dylan, perhaps more than any other pop performer, has been acutely attuned to his musical antecedents, incorporating everything from Jerry Lee Lewis's country crooning to Chuck Berry's rapid-fire lyric style. Dylan's dexterity, however, goes beyond mere style: it stands at the core of his mythmaking. It has provided him with the means to shed and don all his various masks. In perceiving pop's inherent ephemerality, Dylan in effect has turned Andy Warhol's notion that a pop star can only last for fifteen minutes right on its head, by becoming a different pop star every fifteen minutes.

has If Tracks On The Blood overan theme riding in it many resemways - collection unified than bles more a a individual "The survival. whole it is - thing I knew do, how only to to was keepin' bird who like keep on a on Dylan "Tangled In Up flew," in sings It's album of reflection, Blue." a rean look that relationships trospective at have exhausted themselves. Not since Nashville Skyline has Dylan devoted so much space to love, but never has he given so much attention to its demise. Love lies in ruins, but the Dylan who constantly felt betrayed or imprisoned, who launched scathing, vitriolic attacks on former lovers has all but disappeared. Even "Idiot Wind," the album's only paranoid assault, closes in mutual incrimination and disgust: "We're idiots, babe, it's a wonder we can even feed ourselves."

TURN TO PAGE 74

Triumph Of Haunted Uncertainty

by Raul Nelson

His marriage rumored troubled, his recent tour and albums treated somewhat indifferently by a less-than-worshipful press, Bob Dylan seems haunted and uncertain again, and that may be very good news. If ironical, such a statement would be both cheap and cruel, but I don't think that irony has much to do with Dylan's current marital situation, however it may turn out, or with the near-total success of Blood on the Tracks, his best LP in perhaps a decade. Ambiguousness seems a word tailor-made for this romantic rethink. When the adventurer Jay Gatsby final Iy got his Daisy alone, "He knew that when he kissed this girl and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God." What to do when ambiguity and the realization of the quest prove inseparable? Either crack up or become a wiser, sadder man. Because he is strong, Dylan has chosen the latter course.

Morning, Skyline, If New Nashville Waves essentially and Planet awere the stable family, of bout marriage, joys happy home rich, bluegrass and in a much Tracks of Blood the country, on from the rented in emanates room a bohemian of where dark, section town can listen night. It the to is trains at one Dylan's that he credit great to conneither like demns circumstance; most he who of dreams of is an outcast us, possibility fusion of the of the two exa He his began questiontremes. a career loner the intangibles and reveling in ing of life, dropbut then his uncertainties of the and ped contact context into out opulence rural Woodstock of sheltered begin back but nothing sending to anwhich considwere surprising, as swers the simplistic they ering as were source, unbelievable: need, all "Love and is we makes round." nadir The world the it go reached Plaof this in movement was Waves, the litwherein artist net seems himself inside erally turn out in to an effort and futile agonizing convince to himself and how incredibly both conus he effect far unintended is. The is tent pleasant. there single from Yet is a here, "Going GoIn preview. warning a Gone," desperation, Dylan sings in ing reached place where the "I've just a bend ." and willow don't goes to on .. the chronicle upcoming events.

subterranean If wins tension out over overwrought tenderness in Planet an the curiously holds Waves, true reverse Blood the railroad Tracks. the In in on cafe, there separate for tables are everyand reflective body, ambiguousness is the One joke might that main course. a the bush of bird worth in is two memory the of only hand and be in matrimony mostly There of deal is a great wrong. personal here, and second pain abound ("I change, I thoughts can but everything deliberswear"), seems ately by myth, distanced by cushioned artful meditative and rumination an of lifetimes the ritual of overview stayleaving, told which being ing, to go or of inevitably all experience and us reThis for the is it is experience. me way Dylan be appears saying in to now, (specific), and this these songs is new has been and will for be the it again way of (universal): lost, something both us gained. "Tangled Up something in phrase for this Blue" an apt seems cyclical the parted lovers forever myth, by thought, while of them, joined one the road, headed for different "still a on joint," remember always did "We can from diffeel the just it same, saw a we of tangled up," ferent view, point we as and shall always be, "in blue." both are "Simple Fate," lover of Twist In one of believe she still the "I other, was says twin, lost the ring," confesafter but I my this "She looked ambivalence: at sing and he felt tingle his spark, him to a 'twas then felt Similar alone." he bones, combined and-or diswith ambiguities, playful innuendos, sexual guised can as be found in the album's two indescribably lovely blues songs, "Meet Me in the Morning" (not unlike "It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry") and "Buckets of Rain" (reminiscent of Elizabeth Cotten). Consider the singer's idiosyncratic reading of "Try imagining a place that's always safe and warm" from "Shelter from the Storm," a song which closes with these lines:

TURN TO PAGE 76

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 55

Dylan s attitude toward women has been highly schizophrenic. His vindictive streak goes as far back as "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" ("You could have done better but-Tdon't mind, you just kinda of wasted my precious time"), and climaxed in the hatred that spilled over Blonde On Blonde ("And she worked on my face until breaking my eyes, then said, 'What else you got left?' "). Running equally deep is a romantic streak which reached its apogee in such songs as "I Threw It All Away" ("Love is all there is, it makes the world go around"). Dylan's misogyny and romanticism are not the products of machismo, but the functions of his paranoid sense of self-preservation, which either lashes out at or idealizes people. In either case, distance is maintained.

In rejecting both extremes Blood On The Tracks expresses a stance that is, at once, more accepting but more anguished and resigned. "If You See Her Say Hello" is the most sentimental song of the album, but it's also the most explicit, and in that sense the most crucial. An update of "Girl Of The North Country," it speaks in almost fatalistic terms about a relationship's dissolution ("We had a falling out like lovers often will"); but Dylan in recognizing his lover's independence acknowledges that her concern for her own life is not a negation of his ("I always have respected her for doin' what she did and gettin' free"). It is an admission that Dylan would not have made years ago, and one that he still is not comfortable with ("And I never have gotten used to it, I've just learned to turn it off, either I'm too sensitive or else I'm gettin' soft"). It's not so much that Dylan has accepted feminism as he has come to terms with his own isolation.

To endure has become victory. Dylan is no longer looking forward to the pleasures of the country with the wife and kids. Self-exile appears to be a more likely fate. "Tangled Up In Blue," the opening cut, depicts nightmarish cross-country treks in search of a love that is constantly out of reach. "Simple Twist Of Fate" and "Shelter From The Storm" recall relationships which provided temporary solace and pleasure but by their nature inevitably destroy themselves. Dylan's vision, however, is not purely grim. "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go" mocks himself as well as the "hate-to-see-yougo" genre. "Lily, Rosemary And The Jack Of Hearts" adds another mysteriously elusive figure to Dylan's gallery of western heroes; like John Wesley Harding, the Jack Of Hearts offers an idealized reflection of Dylan himself ("There was no actor better than the Jack Of Hearts"). "Meet Me In The Morning" is the only insubstantial song of the album, coming off as a pale remake of "It Takes A Lot To Laugh, It Take A Train To Cry." The album closes on a wistful note with "Buckets Of Rain," a child-like blues in the tradition of Mance Lipscomb.

What is clear from Blood On The Tracks is not only that it expresses an emotional need, but that Dylan has regained his competitive edge. Dylan watching and Dylan analysing ajre popular games that anybody can play. The most obvious game is of how and how much his separation from his wife has affected this album, but that won't be determined until years from now, when the connections between his life and art emerge and gain perspective. Less obvious though perhaps of equal importance is Dylan's recognition of his diminishing position in pop music - in the last few years his role has been based more on his past work than on his recent output; one senses that Dylan hasn't liked being outgunned by the new romantics (Jackson Browne et al) or anybody else for that matter. The result is this album. After three years of silence (broken only by the soundtrack for Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid), and a year's frenetic activity which produced the travesty of Planet Waves and the anti climax of Before The Flood, Dylan couldn't afford to make a mediocre album. He hasn't.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 55

Well, I'm living in a foreign country, but I'm bound to cross the line

Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine

If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born

Come in, she said, I'll give you shelter from the storm.

Unquestionably, much of Blood on the Tracks reflects Dylan's feelings about his wife Sarah arvd their possible separation (especially "You're a Big Girl Now" and "Idiot Wind," I would guess), but much of it doesn?t, too. "Tangled Up in Blue," "Simple Twist of Fate," the good-humored "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go," "Meet Me in the Morning," "Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts" (a rollicking, nine-minute, Western-caper movie), and "Buckets of Rain," while undoubtedly containing some Sarah-lore, seem more magnanimously metaphorical in their graceful anonymity than maliciously matter-offact. The artist's remembrance of things past - surely a theme throughout the LP: "Sun down, yellow moon, I replay the past, I know every scene by heart, they all went by so fast" - can hardly fail to rekindle other romances, and I would bet my life that "If You See Her, Say Hello" is about one of them, Suze Rotolo, the heroine of many an early love song, including "Ballad in Plain D" and "Boots of Spanish Leather." Dylan's singing here is heartbreaking, unforgettable:

I see a lot of people as 1 make the rounds

And I hear her name here and there as 1 go from town to town

And I've never gotten used to it, I've just learned to turn it off

Either I'm too sensitive or else I'm getting soft.

It would be difficult, if not impossible, to separate Bob and Sarah Dylan's recent marital problems from "You're a Big Girl Now" and "Idiot Wind," although the latter certainly encompasses the larger scope of a strong antimedia, anti-Watergate ("Idiot wind, blowing like a circle around my skull, from the Grand Coulee Dam to the Capitol") stance as well. In "You're a Big Girl Now," the singer hears the bad news ("Our conversation was short and sweet, it nearly swept me off of my feet, and I'm back in the ring ...") and wants a reconciliation: "I can change, I swear." In "Idiot Wind," which follows immediately, Dylan strikes out in 'cumulative anger at everything connected with an intolerable situation, making some telling observations along the way: "It was gravity which pulled us down, and destiny which broke us apart, you tamed the lion in my cage, but it just wasn't enough to change my heart." This song, an unquestionable masterpiece set in the Highway 61 Revisited -Blonde on Blonde mode, seems a combination of "Ballad in Plain D," "Like a Rolling Stone," "Positively 4th Street," "Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands," and "One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)." Although not entirely free from paranoia, childishness, and self-pity, "Idiot Wind" works, as Stephen Holden has pointed out, because of and not in spite of these qualities, and achieves an anthem-like power that is overwhelming. In the end, it becomes apparent that the artist has assigned at least a part of the blame to himself as well as to outside forces:

You'll never know the hurt I suffered

Nor the pain I rise above

And Ill never know the same about you

Your holiness or your kind of love

And it makes me feel so sorry

Idiot wind, blowing through the buttons of our coats

Blowing through the letters that we wrote

Idiot wind, blowing through the dust upon our shelves

We are idiots, babe, it's a wonder we can even feed ourselves.

Although Blood on the Tracks is aptly named and surely shoulders a fair share of pain, it is hardly the bleak, desolate wasteland of pessimism and selfhatred which some critics, notably Paul Cowan in The Village Voice, have claimed. Far from it, Dylan's subtlety,

. intelligence, depth of feeling, and overall artistry have created a flexible and complex ambiguousness which somehow fuses an elegiac tone with the most muscular, confident style. The imagery and singing, which combine the archetypal quality of folk music with the mythic shouting of rock 'n' roll, have never been stronger or more expressive. Even the near-anonymous, ordinary Minneapolis musicians do better than the more gifted but sanctimonious, overrated Band from pseudo-utopian Planet Waves days. Pace Cowan, this album is vital and alive, its despair tempered throughout with the joy of being a survivor, all senses intact. Bob Dylan's dreams are still made of iron and steel, and now is not the time for our tears.

Bob Dylan: Blood on the Tracks (Columbia PC 33235)

Reprinted from Stereo Review, with permission.