Because this cover of My Back Pages isn't just there for the purposes of providing a catchy introductory number, although it does that too. It's not just there for quirk-value, although it has plenty.
It's a signal, motherfucker. It's an act what is representative of the levels of interpretation Dylan's work has been subjected to, about how Dylan has thrown this into the world and it's been picked up, reassessed, and has underwent some kind of metamorphism so that it no longer resembles that stunning acoustic lament from Another Side Of…, and in fact bears little relation to Dylan in anything but name.
It's fitting too, that it's My Back Pages, a song about how the narrator is totally lost in the mythos he has built around himself. A plea for us, and for him, to move on.
"I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now."
Masked And Anonymous is first and foremost concerned with interpretation, and more so, interpretation of who in the hell this Dylan cat really is. Where has cocky young Robert Zimmerman gone, the fella who waltzed into a recording studio armed only with his battered acoustic, as his partner watched in awe outside, and tore into See That My Grave Is Kept Clean or Freight Train Blues? Where did he go?
Fuck knows, is the answer.
Thing is, maybe it was us lot who shooed that young fella out of the way, in order to create this deity by the name of Bob Dylan.
Well, not me, man. I wasn't even born. Don't blame Self Portrait on me, motherfucker.
It was you lot. You folks who poured over the lyrics and debated his obviously fabricated life-stories. Who perched him on some pedestal that shy, backward Robert Zimmerman couldn't cope with, and rather than go the Kurt Cobain route, he underwent a fundamental transformation. Compare the giggling, playful Dylan of the recently issued 1964 Philharmonic Hall concert to the unknowable, enigmatic, sarcastic creature of the night slinking through Eat The Document a couple years later.
It happens to em all, man. Folks hear so much nonsense about being the voice of some generation or other, or how fantastic they are, and how transcendent and full of truth their work is, that they start to become just as obsessed with themselves as all those fans are, the folks what hide outside hotel rooms, or pick through garbage to find clues to the inner soul of the idol in question.
Those discarded boxes of Corn Flakes. They tell you all you need to now about a man's narcissism and / or prophetic abilities, apparently.
Article comments
1 - Chris Kent
Excellent work El Sunor Duke on a film shreaded by the critics. Some fascinating observations on the Dylan mystique. When reading the reviews of this film, was reminded of an old Alex Cox flick Straight To Hell, which was equally loved by film connoisseurs. I believe Joe Strummer and even The Pogues made appearances in the one long hip in-joke. I actually loved it, and perhaps the folks just didn't get it?
2 - Aaron, Duke De Mondo
Chris, im sorry for the delay in my reply. Something odd happened when Blogcritics shifted, and AOL was sending all my comment notifications into the SPAM folder for some reason!
Glad to hear someone else yack with praise regarding Straight To Hell. Being a somewhat obsessive fan of Shane MacGowan, frontman with The Pogues, i had to see it, of course, and was really pleasantly suprised. Even if Shane and the boys hadn't been it, i think i would still have loved it. And yes, i too was reminded on it throughout M&A.
Thank you for the kind words, friend, and again, sorry for the delay.