Twist & Shout continues its support of the great monthly series,
On the Cover, taking place the last Wednesday of every month at the
Hi-Dive. For On the Cover, local musicians tackle classic albums
that have been an influence on them, performing them in their
entirety live and on stage. Check out this month's series in which
Adam Goldstein takes on Dylan's Blood on the Tracks and
offers some insight as to why he's chosen to perform this
masterpiece.Bob Dylan always distanced himself from the drama, heartbreak and loss that mark every single song on Blood on the Tracks.
In interviews
following the release of the record in 1975, Dylan claimed its ten tracks were
based on the short stories of Anton Chekhov. Years later, when a radio
interviewer asked him about the fact that the album had become one his most
beloved among fans, Dylan demurred, insisting, “It's hard for me to relate to
that. I mean, it, you know, people enjoying that type of pain, you know?” He
added that the tunes weren’t pulled from his personal life, saying he didn’t
write “confessional” songs.
For anyone who
knows and loves this record, those claims are hard to believe.
Blood on the Tracks stands apart in Dylan’s oeuvre for its
immediacy, for its rare glimpse into the heart of an artist who made enigma,
distance and mystery such a big part of his creative persona. Beneath the
convoluted lyrical twists on “Idiot Wind,” beyond the third-person narrative
approach of “Tangled Up and Blue” and “Simple Twist of Fate,” under the
fatalistic bravado on “Bucket of Rain,” this album offers a portrait of Dylan
coming to grips with a gaping emotional wound. And that makes sense,
considering that this album came out shortly after his divorce from his wife
and the mother of his children, Sara Dylan.
That pain makes
for a compelling work of art, one that offers lessons to anyone who’s ever
known heartache. Since I started listening to Blood on the Tracks in earnest at the tender age of 14, it’s
offered comfort for every failed crush, every derailed relationship and every
brutal rejection.
That’s not to
say this album is about self-pity. Lyrically and musically, Dylan avoids
self-indulgence here in a way he fails to do on any other album. He tracks
every stage of a doomed relationship across the record, from the first glimmer
of obsession to the final acceptance of letting go. But he does it with
lyricism, integrity and insight.
It’s quite a
feat, considering the material here came from a messy creative process. Indeed,
on hearing the bare-bones songs for the first time, Stephen Stills was not
impressed. “He's a good songwriter ... but he's no musician,” Stills observed
to Graham Nash.
That’s hardly
apparent from this brilliant record.
On the album’s
opener, “Tangled Up in Blue,” the tale of a drifter looking to reconnect with
an old flame becomes an allegory for much larger truths. Singing over bright
major chords and tasteful folk-rock rhythm accompaniment, Dylan ends up
purposeful: “Now I’m going back again, I got to get to her somehow,” he
promises, before adding, “We always did feel the same, we just saw it from a
different point of view.”
Those nuggets of
wisdom only get more profound. “People tell me it’s a sin to know and feel too
much within/I still believe she was my twin, but I lost the ring/She was born
in spring, but I was born too late,” he bemoans on “Simple Twist of Fate.” On
“You’re a Big Girl Now,” he cries, “I’m going out of my mind with a pain that
stops and starts / Like a corkscrew to my heart.”
The accusations
fly on “Idiot Wind,” before Dylan turns tender on “You’re Gonna Make Me
Lonesome When You Go,” one of the poet’s most haunting and aching romantic
tributes. Even the standard blues number “Meet Me in the Morning” includes
nuggets of profound wisdom, as does the epic, 15-verse “Lily, Rosemary and the
Jack of Hearts.”
The end of the
record stands as a career high point for Dylan. The imagery in “Shelter from
the Storm” stands among Dylan’s most profound; lines like, “Beauty walks a
razor’s edge, someday I’ll make it mine” resonate for those who’ve been caught
up in the bleak hopelessness of a rejection. “Buckets of Rain” turns
philosophical, with lines like “Life is sad, life is a bust, all you can do is
do what you must. You do what you must do and you do it well / I do it for you,
honey baby can’t you tell.”
Dylan’s
songwriting matches his insights. The song structures are subtle and moving.
The guitar work, mostly performed in open E, is crisp; his harmonica playing
never veers into overindulgence. Haunting organ lines on “Idiot Wind,”
high-register bass on “Shelter from the Storm” and a funky blues band on “Meet
Me in the Morning” round out the artist’s voice, strings and harp.
But perhaps more
than any other album, Blood on the Tracks
is all about Dylan. In peeling back layers and exposing what he usually
keeps hidden behind brilliant verse and folk tradition, Dylan offered listeners
a peek into the universal.
That’s the reason this record still feels poignant after every spin.
That’s the reason why, nearly 20 years after I first played it through, I find
new insights and deeper pathos in the tunes. That’s the reason why, after I can
play this entire record through, I’m ready to listen to it again.
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