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| Bob Dylan |
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| Bob Dylan |
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| The original artwork for The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan (1963) |
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| Bob Dylan and Suzie Rotolo in West Village, New York City, February 1963. Photograph: Don Hunstein. |
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| Bob Dylan and Suzie Rotolo in West Village, New York City, February 1963. Photograph: Don Hunstein. |
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| Bob Dylan and Suzie Rotolo in West Village, New York City, February 1963. Photograph: Don Hunstein. |
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| Bob Dylan and Suzie Rotolo in West Village, New York City, February 1963. Photograph: Don Hunstein. |
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| Bob Dylan and Suzie Rotolo in West Village, New York City, February 1963. Photograph: Don Hunstein. |
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| A still from Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven (1978) |
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| A still from Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven (1978) |
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| A still from Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven (1978) |
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| A still from Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven (1978) |
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| A still from Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven (1978) |
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| A still from Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven (1978) |
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| A still from Terrence Malick's Days of Heaven (1978) |
It was in Austin, Texas that I had the idea for Days of Heaven. I found myself alone for a summer in the town I had left when I was a high school student. There were those green, undulating hills, and the very beautiful Colorado river. The place is inspired. It is inspiring, and there the film came to me all together.
I had not liked working at harvest time, I have a very good memory of it, of wheat, and the comings and goings in the fields, and of all the people I met. They were mostly petty criminals who were on their way to Phoenix, Arizona or Las Vegas for the rest of the year.
Like those of the film, these were not people of the soil, but urban dwellers who had abandoned their city, their factories. Rather than criminals, it would be fairer to say they lived on the margins of crime, fed by elusive hopes. At the time of the film, those who worked the seasons hated their jobs and the farmers did not trust them. They could not touch the machinery: if something was breaking, they had to signal by raising their hat on a stick. To distinguish themselves, they were always putting on their best clothes. I had noticed that myself when I was a teenager. To the farmers they were bringing - and this is still true - a piece of their homeland and of new horizons. And farmers sat down to listen - charmed - to hear the story of these workers. Already the farmers were almost nothing more than businessmen and they felt nostalgia for those days of yesteryear where they were themselves caretakers of their earthly riches. Workers and farmers were embodying people whose hopes were being destroyed, some more than others, by opulence or poverty. All were full of desires, dreams, and appetites, which I hope permeates the film. For these people, happiness comes and goes, they are fleeting moments. Why? They don't know, just as they don't know how to achieve happiness. If they see before them another season, another harvest, they feel unable to build a life.
Though this is familiar to a European, it may seem puzzling for Americans. Americans feel entitled to happiness, and once they manage to find it, they feel as if they own it. If they are deprived of it, they feel cheated. If they feel it has been taken away from them, they imagine they have been done wrong. This guilt I have felt from everyone I've known. It's a bit like a Dylan song: they have held the world in their hands and let it slip through their fingers.
As for the title, it is a feeling that a place exists that is within reach and where we will be safe. It is a place where a house will not rest on the sand, where you will not become crazier by fighting again and again against the impossible. [Read More]
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| Bob Dylan. Photograph: Barry Feinstein. |
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| Bob Dylan. Photograph: Barry Feinstein. |
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| Screenshots of the new On The Road iPad app |
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| Bob Dylan. Photograph: Daniel Kramer. |
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| Douglas R. Gilbert/Redferns/Getty |
| Design: Rhys Tranter |
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| Woody Allen |
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| T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land and other poems |
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| Michael McClure, Bob Dylan and Allen Ginsberg outside City Lights Bookstore, San Francisco |
[...] My Dylan needs must remain mine alone. From the proleptic punk who snarled Highway 61 Revisited (the first of his albums that yanked me into consciousness, aged 16 in 1977) to the keel-on-shingle, warbling eschatology of Time Out of Mind (the last one of his albums I bought and played to death), I have neither felt the need to justify my Dylanism, nor to qualify it even to myself.
Yet it has been profound. At times - usually bad ones - his has been the only contemporary music I will listen to at all. If I think of my relationships, my children and even my own books, each can be associated with a Dylan album. If I were to reread my own work I'm certain I'd find many tropes I have stolen from Dylan lyrics, and not only the ones I filched with intent. And given that I was able to encounter Dylan - apart from a few sonic outcrops - in the full flower of my musical youth, and given that not belonging exactly to his generation has meant that I've felt no need to keep in step with his output, I've been liberated from any Nick Hornbyesque nerdiness. I can pick 'n' mix my Dylan, and still own probably less than two-thirds of his total output. I've seen D A Pennebaker's luminous Don't Look Back umpteen times, but skilfully dodged Renaldo and Clara. Before this book, I had never read more than liner notes on his work (the best are Greil Marcus's for The Basement Tapes), and I don't think I'll be reading anything more for a long time to come. Christopher Ricks, I do not know you.
Because not only is there a desire to protect my own private Dylan, there is also an acute consciousness that to deconstruct his words would be to open up a Pandora's box of lyrical ills. Dylan's greatness as a writer teeters constantly on the edge of righteous nonsense and awesome self-parody: "On the back of the fish truck that loads/while my conscience explodes" indeed. And yes, I have always understood - something that many of the contributors to this book felt they had to remind me of - that Dylan is a white-faced minstrel, a Jewish, middle-class Middle American who has invented multiple musical personae with which to plunder the rich storehouse of folk music. Yes, even at 17, I grasped intuitively that "Highway 61 Revisited" was a modern jeremiad against the hypocrisies of imperialist Uncle Sam; and yes, I've never felt the least requirement to place his misogyny within the context of his misanthropy. All of which is by way of remarking that Dylan, like the greatest and most universal of writers (whether poets proper, novelists, essayists or songwriters), so powerfully transmutes his idiolect into the contemporary discourse that his songs have no need of any interpretation save for themselves. [Read More]