A version of this was published in The Santa Fe New Mexican
Oct. 5, 2012
Every few years
Bob Dylan comes
out with a new album like a medicine-show huckster returning to fleece a
sleepy town.
Maybe the snake oil he sold you the last few times didn’t
really cure what was ailing you. Maybe the euphoric effects didn’t last
very long. But the show is usually fun; the music is nearly always
great. And the joy juice the sly old crook is peddling does have a weird
kick — whatever it is.
And such is the case with
Tempest,
the latest Dylan album, released last month. Some critics immediately
declared that it’s one of the old master’s best, ranking it up there
with
Highway 61 Revisited,
Blonde on Blonde,
Blood on the Tracks, and
Empire Burlesque.
(Just checking if you’re paying attention there with that last one.)
I
wouldn’t go that far, but I’m inclined to agree with one review that
proclaimed
Tempest to be Dylan’s best album since the turn of
the century. Of course, there’s not much competition for that
distinction. Not counting his 2009 Christmas album, it’s only his fourth
record since the end of the ’90s.
For the past 10 or 15 years,
Dylan’s voice has evolved into a wizened rasp, a world-weary hobo growl.
But somehow he makes his ravaged vocal cords work in his favor. The
gravel in his gut and the phlegm in his throat give his voice a
fascinating aura.
Call it the croak of authority.
We don’t even
hear Dylan’s voice for almost a minute into the album, but that’s OK.
The guitar and steel-guitar instrumental intro to “Duquesne Whistle”
can’t help but make a listener grin. It sounds like some strange old 78,
evoking images of both Jimmie Rodgers and Laurel and Hardy before it settles into a railroad shuffle.
“Listen to that Dusquesne whistle
blowin’, blowin’ like it’s gonna sweep my world away,” Dylan sings. The
words — written by Grateful Dead lyricist Robert Hunter — may sound
foreboding. Later Dylan sings that the whistle is “blowin’ like the
sky’s gonna blow apart.” But any apprehension is overshadowed by the
joyfulness of the melody.
The next tune, “Soon After Midnight,” is
a slow love song, one of the prettiest Dylan has done in a long time.
The melody and the arrangement are reminiscent of sweet, melancholic
instrumentals from about 50 years ago like Floyd Cramer’s “Last Date”
and “Sleep Walk” by Santo & Johnny.
This leads into “Narrow Way,” a
rocking blues like many of the better tunes on Dylan’s previous two
albums,
Together Through Life and
Modern Times. In the
song, Dylan warns, “I’m armed to the hilt, and I’m struggling hard/You
won’t get out of here unscarred.”
He’s darn tootin’. This one contains
an unusual historical lesson: “Ever since the British burned the White
House down/There’s been a bleeding wound in the heart of town.” I can’t
help but think this is a disguised reference to the 2001 attack on
American soil and the effect it’s had on the American psyche during the
past 11 years.
Speaking of bleeding wounds, the body count on
Tempest
is much higher than on your usual Dylan album.”Pay in Blood” is the
title of one song. “I pay in blood, but not my own,” goes the refrain.
In one verse he snarls, “I got something in my pocket make your eyeballs
swim I got dogs could tear you limb from limb.” Yikes! And by the final
verse he’s threatening, “Come here I’ll break your lousy head.”
The
record is full of several epic story songs, lengthy tracks that deal
with violence and/or death. “Roll On John” is a seven-minute ode to his
friend John Lennon. He was murdered more than 30 years ago, but Dylan
makes the pain of his death seem fresh. The title song is a
near-14-minute sea chantey about the 1912 sinking of the Titanic. Dylan
turns this oft-told tale into an apocalyptic metaphor set to an upbeat
melody with echoes of “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”
The most
impressive of these songs is “Tin Angel,” a violent minor-key dirge that
probably has roots in a dozen or so folk and gunfighter ballads. I hear
a lot of “Black Jack Davy” in it, though it also has elements of “Matty
Groves.” It’s an age-old story of a cuckold, his unfaithful wife, and
her lover. In this story there are no sympathetic characters, which
probably is good. No one survives the final encounter.
 |
| My secrets are safe (Photo by Associated Press) |
In a dirge
called “Long and Wasted Years” — one in which the only tragic victim may
be the soul of the singer — Dylan croaks, “I wear dark glasses to cover
my eyes/There are secrets in them I can’t disguise.”
(Dylan fans might
recall cool Bob raising some eyebrows this year by
wearing his shades at the White House when accepting his Medal of Freedom from the president.)
With
Tempest, once again, he’s lifted those glasses a little and let a few more secrets out. Dylan’s never-ending medicine show rolls on.
Also recommended:
*
Greenwood by
Stevie Tombstone.
No, I’m not declaring Tombstone “the new Dylan.” But I bet a lot of
Dylan fans would appreciate his music.
In fact. you might argue he’s like a reverse
Dylan. The sainted Bob started out as a folkie and then went electric.
The Georgia-born Tombstone started out electric, with a powerful if
unsung “swamp rockabilly” (as he calls it) band called
The Tombstones,
and then went acoustic.
I’ve heard several Tombstone solo albums,
and this one’s my favorite. It may be his most personal as far as lyrics
go, but he never sounds self indulgent. He grabs you from the very
first line in the opening track, “Lucky”:
“I’m lucky that I’m still
alive/Well, I thought I’d used nine, but I must have been high/Forgotten
and shot at, delivered denied, I’m lucky that I’m still alive.”
The
title song is not about the awful singer who wrote and recorded “God
Bless the U.S.A.” It’s the story of a young Tombstone who in 1991 bought
a tombstone for blues god Robert Johnson.
Accompanied by Johnson
contemporary Johnny Shines, Tombstone went to the purported Johnson
grave in Greenwood, Mississippi, to place
the headstone. Apparently that
evoked some criticism by some blues fans who blasted Tombstone for what
the singer thought was an act of respect.
“I won’t go back to
Greenwood, I’m not welcome there,” he sings.
While these are
strong tunes, my favorite is the jaunty country song “I Wish I Was Back
in Las Vegas.” Maybe it’s just because it’s the only song I know of that
starts out talking about huevos rancheros.
Blog Bonus:
Here's Mr. Tombstone telling the story behind the title song.
A couple of years ago, Russ Gordon, who produces all those great free shows in Los Alamos, told me that he was bringing in a performer to Los Alamos he knew I'd love -- Nick Curran.
