successful rock tour to date. Then, Dylan recorded what many critics still view as his single finest work,
Blood on the Tracks.
All the singer-songwriter’s old wit and fire were back in fine form—but there was also a new, more aching depth, which many observers attributed to rumors that Dylan’s marriage with Sara Lowndes was beginning to pull apart. In 1976, another fine album,
Desire.
Then, another major tour: Dylan barnstorming across America with the Rolling Thunder Revue, putting on some of the most fanciful and tantalizing shows of the decade, singing and writing like a man newly possessed.
Perhaps, then, it should have come as no surprise that, after this extraordinary season of renewed popularity, Dylan would make his boldest bid at disengaging himself from pop concerns. This time out, he turned his perspective to making “born again” Christian moralist music that had little lasting favor among most rock critics and pop faddists. The cut-and-dried piety and matter-of-fact singing in Dylan’s Christian music caused many of us to wonder whether his early greatness had simply been a fluke, or something that had now evaporated. Indeed, some of that music
was
pretty trying—just about all of
Slow Train Coming—
but parts of
Saved
and
Shot of Love
were plain bracing, especially the former’s “Solid Rock,” which sounded like the Sex Pistols proclaiming the might and wrath of early Christianity’s world-shattering vision (which, come to think of it, really isn’t that much different than punk’s early world-shattering vision).
After the Christian venture (which, in some ways, I think never really ended for Dylan), it seemed to many fans that Dylan had now lost not just a certain vital sense of commitment, but also much of his relevance. Though Dylan would go on to make much resourceful music, he would never again produce work that would change or redefine America and its music or culture (“Like a Rolling Stone,” as much as in any work in pop’s history,
made
the times—in fact, the song didn’t attract an audience so much as simply ran it over with the impact of the inevitable). Dylan’s surpassing moment—among the brightest and most influential moments in modern American culture—had come and then, more quickly than any admirers ever expected, it had passed, and with much of his subsequent music he simply tried to outdistance the claims of his own past. Consequently, Bob Dylan found himself in a dilemma shared by no other rock figure of his era: He had been sidestepped by the pop world he helped transform. For the last thirty years or so, he has had to cope with that knowledge—and he has also had to cope with the knowledge that an increasingly capricious pop world has never really forgiven him for having lost the momentum of his frenzied, world-breaking vision.
BACK AGAIN to 1986—when I speak with Dylan during his recording sessions for what would become, in part, his
Knocked Out Loaded
and
Down in the Groove
albums. At that time, Dylan is in the midst of a period of high activity. For one thing, there’s been his participation in the pop world’s increased spate of political and social activism, including his involvement in the USA for Africa and Artists United Against Apartheid projects and his appearance at the Live Aid and Farm Aid programs (the latter, an event inspired by an off-the-cuff remark Dylan had made at Live Aid). More important, there were intriguing indications in 1983’s
Infidels
and 1985’s
Empire Burlesque
that the singer seemed interested in working his way back into the concerns of the real-life modern world. The latter album, in particular, plays as an artful attempt at adapting his music to recent advancements in pop sound, style, and technology. Yet the album’s most affecting song, “Dark Eyes,” is also Dylan’s simplest, most ancient-sounding track in years. “Dark Eyes” is a statement of conscience, emotional distance, and moral divergence, and
Blood on the Tracks.
All the singer-songwriter’s old wit and fire were back in fine form—but there was also a new, more aching depth, which many observers attributed to rumors that Dylan’s marriage with Sara Lowndes was beginning to pull apart. In 1976, another fine album,
Desire.
Then, another major tour: Dylan barnstorming across America with the Rolling Thunder Revue, putting on some of the most fanciful and tantalizing shows of the decade, singing and writing like a man newly possessed.
Perhaps, then, it should have come as no surprise that, after this extraordinary season of renewed popularity, Dylan would make his boldest bid at disengaging himself from pop concerns. This time out, he turned his perspective to making “born again” Christian moralist music that had little lasting favor among most rock critics and pop faddists. The cut-and-dried piety and matter-of-fact singing in Dylan’s Christian music caused many of us to wonder whether his early greatness had simply been a fluke, or something that had now evaporated. Indeed, some of that music
was
pretty trying—just about all of
Slow Train Coming—
but parts of
Saved
and
Shot of Love
were plain bracing, especially the former’s “Solid Rock,” which sounded like the Sex Pistols proclaiming the might and wrath of early Christianity’s world-shattering vision (which, come to think of it, really isn’t that much different than punk’s early world-shattering vision).
After the Christian venture (which, in some ways, I think never really ended for Dylan), it seemed to many fans that Dylan had now lost not just a certain vital sense of commitment, but also much of his relevance. Though Dylan would go on to make much resourceful music, he would never again produce work that would change or redefine America and its music or culture (“Like a Rolling Stone,” as much as in any work in pop’s history,
made
the times—in fact, the song didn’t attract an audience so much as simply ran it over with the impact of the inevitable). Dylan’s surpassing moment—among the brightest and most influential moments in modern American culture—had come and then, more quickly than any admirers ever expected, it had passed, and with much of his subsequent music he simply tried to outdistance the claims of his own past. Consequently, Bob Dylan found himself in a dilemma shared by no other rock figure of his era: He had been sidestepped by the pop world he helped transform. For the last thirty years or so, he has had to cope with that knowledge—and he has also had to cope with the knowledge that an increasingly capricious pop world has never really forgiven him for having lost the momentum of his frenzied, world-breaking vision.
BACK AGAIN to 1986—when I speak with Dylan during his recording sessions for what would become, in part, his
Knocked Out Loaded
and
Down in the Groove
albums. At that time, Dylan is in the midst of a period of high activity. For one thing, there’s been his participation in the pop world’s increased spate of political and social activism, including his involvement in the USA for Africa and Artists United Against Apartheid projects and his appearance at the Live Aid and Farm Aid programs (the latter, an event inspired by an off-the-cuff remark Dylan had made at Live Aid). More important, there were intriguing indications in 1983’s
Infidels
and 1985’s
Empire Burlesque
that the singer seemed interested in working his way back into the concerns of the real-life modern world. The latter album, in particular, plays as an artful attempt at adapting his music to recent advancements in pop sound, style, and technology. Yet the album’s most affecting song, “Dark Eyes,” is also Dylan’s simplest, most ancient-sounding track in years. “Dark Eyes” is a statement of conscience, emotional distance, and moral divergence, and
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