I Don't Believe You
When I first heard Bob Dylan's music as a child, I remember having no problem appreciating the genius of his sentiment and lyrics, but there is no question I was confused by his delivery. Blowin' in the Wind and The Times They Are A-Changin' are unquestionable American masterpieces, but his nasal, stoccato vocals are not an easy approach to understand, particularly for a child. I accepted his talent and importance because it seemed universal, but I was more interested in Paul Simon and Billy Joel, two tastes somewhat easier to acquire.In college, I became exposed to the music Dylan made shortly before his notorious motorcycle accident in 1966, a run of creativity that included the landmark albums, Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde On Blonde, three spectacular collections known primarily for Dylan's transition to a more impressionistic style of songwriting and his first use of electric instruments. He was booed visciously through out this period, primarily during a 1966 tour of England. His performances on that tour are universally brilliant and it occurs to me that invention and genius are so often greeted with similar contempt because we mock what we cannot understand.
D.A. Pennebaker's documentary of the 1965 tour, Don't Look Back, and, more recently, Martin Scorcese's informative No Direction Home, document this phenomenon in vivid detail. It is nothing short of startling to see the vitriol hurled at Dylan by his supposed fans after presenting masterworks, such as Like a Rolling Stone, Ballad Of A Thin Man, Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat and Subterranean Homesick Blues. What is most ironic about these performances is Dylan's complete and total destruction and deconstruction of these critics with the very words at which they were hissing. Dylan's voice and delivery are central to that accomplishment.
To hear so many people talk about how they can't appreciate Dylan because of his voice is disturbing. His voice is essential to his genius. The words are timeless and the melodies memorable, but the delivery is what makes them special. Hearing someone else play a Dylan song is like hearing a cover of a Thelonious Monk tune; a certain central authenticity is lacking. The power is diminished greatly.
I encourage anyone who has yet to discover Dylan to watch these two documentaries and listen to the albums he made during this time. Be patient with them. This is some of the highest art created during the last century and to miss out on it is to miss out on a fundamental pleasure and one of the minor amazements of this life. Embrace his voice and hear his words as he intended you to hear them, with an accusatory, ironic and nasal twist.


