Dylan’s Wail

You may find it surprising to consider, and may even feel completely alien to all logic and reason, but one of the surprising paradoxes in the world of art is that many of history’s greatest ‘masterpieces’, works that have stunned the public with their creativity or emotional clarity, were often produced while the artists themselves were enduing abysmal circumstances in their life. The notion of the ‘tormented artist’ is an common cliché, with Van Gogh’s example of self-mutilation being the preeminent depiction, but there have been others. Goya’s ‘Black Paintings’, for instance, signaled his encroaching mental illness, or Mark Rothko’s depression and eventual suicide that was foreshadowed in his later works as an encroaching ‘black’ (death) that seemed to overwhelm the Dionysian ‘Red’ (life) that he struggled to maintain. Even Rembrandt, who lost his wife and three young children within a few short years, saw his angelic use of light condense and shrink further into the shadows throughout his later works.

In the works of each of these artists, as with others, their established ‘style’ pivoted somewhat, which initiated a transformation in their work. But those changes developed over time, so I consider them more as career phases, consisting of periods of time that are better understood as chapters within their larger body of work. When I view their personal struggles in retrospect, as we always must, it would be surprising only if there wasn’t some dark influence bleeding into their work during those periods.

Yet as interesting as those creative threads would be to pull, they clearly developed gradually from an accumulation of existential ‘torments’ in their lives, and their causes became evident soon enough. Picasso had his ‘Blue Period’ and Goya his ‘Black’ and that is all well and fine if you’re an art historian attempting to shoehorn works of art into a forest of subcategories, but I have no such desire. What I find far more interesting are those individual pieces that stand in contrast to an artist’s established style; the one-off masterpiece that seemed to come out of nowhere, to stand alone as some redemptive totem to a devastating life event. That idea has been a fascinating subtext throughout my lifelong love of art. In fact, I believe that tragedy has often been Art’s greatest muse.

One such totem that comes to mind would be Picasso’s masterpiece, Guernica, which was inspired by his revulsion at the German bombing of that Spanish city in 1937, and the resultant civilian casualties. The images and symbolisms found on that monumental canvas are unforgettably disturbing, and easily contrasts against his more hedonistic paintings during the period.

Another example, musical this time, would be John Lennon’s untitled first solo album, which he recorded while in the midst of undergoing ‘Primal Scream’ therapy sessions as he attempted to untangle a lifetime of anger and resentment at being abandoned as a child by both of his parents. What made this form of therapy musically relevant was that it encouraged patients to purge their pain through a process of screaming as deeply and liberating as possible, which Lennon bravely recorded for all to share. The album remains the most confessional and honest record ever put to vinyl, in my opinion.

Yet as engaging as it would be to dive deeply into each of their storylines, this note has another target in mind, a masterpiece that has held me captive for the past 35 years; and that would be Bob Dylan’s poetic tour de force, ‘Blood on the Tracks’.

Like the Picasso and Lennon examples noted above, this record was also a ‘one off’, a creative lightning bolt that no one saw coming. Before its release in 1975, Dylan was a semi-recluse, raising his family in the backcountry of New York while mired in a creative lull, having released a string of depressingly mediocre albums that were far below his creative peak from a decade earlier. With each new record, critics and fans alike silently mourned the death of their poet god. With little apparent resistance, Dylan had drifted into the worst of all things; a legend gasping for air.

I will in no way attempt to critique this album, not at all. Even if I had a complaint, I don’t feel at all worthy to tread on its hallowed ground. We could talk of a few clumsy overdubs or some questionable musicianship in places, but each mention would be utterly irrelevant to the scope and depth of this confession. No, this note is solely for my own pleasure and for the love and sanctity I hold for words and the supremacy they possess to illuminate the mind–and elevate the soul.

My hope with this little excursion is to shine a much-deserved light on one of the great poetic treaties of the 20^th Century. And if you think that is being hyperbolic, then consider two things; Dylan is rightly regarded as the greatest pure poet that lyrical songwriting can ever claim, and the debate is not even close. At the time he was  rightfully considered the Shakespeare of modern music–hands down, for he had the same knack of exposing deeply psychological flaws and motivations within a single phrase.  Then realize this album is the most consistent collection of sustained poetic cohesion that he ever produced. He had dozens of exceptionally poetic songs, to be sure, but he never produced a more coherent and expressive batch of songs under one roof, as it were. “Blood in the Tracks” stands as a towering tribute to the weight that words possess when pain, poignancy and poetry converge.

Blood On The Tracks

As the title suggests (being hit by a train), this is a breakup album and confronts, somewhat obscurely, the disintegration of Dylan’s 10-year marriage to Sara (Lownds). I say obscurely because Dylan never admitted to this and there is no direct reference to her in the lyrics. In his memoir, ‘Chronicles’ he even stated that the album was based on the short stories of Russian writer Anton Chekhov, but I believe this to be patently disingenuous. The lyrical sweep of these songs, together with the palatable sense of regret they elicit, offers up a far more personal accounting than he apparently wanted to confess. The album finds Dylan disillusioned; alternating between wounded pride, scathing anger and heartrending resignation.

One item that I will present here that may not appear relevant at first glance is the word count for the four songs that I plan to cover. This is an important consideration, because the sheer volume of words that Dylan spat out here makes the album singularly unique solely on that point alone. To put this in perspective, consider the average popular song contains in the neighborhood of roughly 150 words, depending on the bridge. Then consider a few songs famous for their verbal acrobatics and imagery, for example, John Lennon’s trippy “I Am Walrus”, which clocks in at 280 words, or Don Henley’s “The End of the Innocence” with 311, or Bruce Springsteen’s epic “Born to Run” that exalts a densely packed 341 words.

Now consider that ‘Blood on the Tracks’ has several songs that double those. One song, in fact, “Lily, and the Jack of Hearts”, which I do not cover here, comes in at an astounding 892 words. And Dylan accomplished this without repeating lengthy bridges that would pad the numbers, as it were. No, with this album, Dylan was evidently in no mood to waste words, for most of the songs on offer here have bridges that are stripped down to a single phrase.

I also plan to cover just four of the ten songs represented on the record and will include the complete lyrics to each. These four were chosen not merely due to my love and admiration for them, but also due to their grip on my life. They have each remained prominent expressions through all these proceeding years and have never seen my admiration waiver. Other songs, such as ‘Meet Me in the Morning’, ‘You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go’, and of course the epic story telling of ‘Lily, and the Jack of Hearts’ are excellent songs and well worth their own ink, but these are the four that resonate the deepest.