In popular music, oldies are not always goodies
By Janice Kennedy
Musician Bob Dylan is well past his prime - and so are many others Sixties relics - says columnist Janice Kennedy.
'What in the world is that?' I called out over the racket. A curious cacophony had filled my home, wheezing notes from seriously damaged vocal cords. It sounded human, but like a human in distress - Louis Armstrong with advanced laryngitis.
"Oh," replied my husband, "that's the new Bob Dylan album."
Yup. There is indeed a new Dylan album, the 35th, and its name is Tempest. Only in a society still dominated by boomers could this be an event: a '60s relic releases yet another over-the-hill effort - and the world stands to attention.
Ah, boomers. Don't you just love our steel-like grip on popular culture? Don't you just love our indefatigable nostalgia?
Tempest, which has attracted mostly rapturous reviews (from mostly boomer-aged reviewers), opens with Dylan's unintended Satchmo tribute. It degenerates from there, an unlistenable voice croaking puerile lyrics in the kind of interminable repetition that makes you want to stick steak knives in your ears to make it stop.
By Track 3 and what feels like the 63rd repetition of "It's a long road, it's a long and narrow way," you're giddy with despair - but nowhere near prepared for the ninth circle of hell that is the song Tempest, nearly 14 minutes of excruciatingly childish verses about the Titanic. Sweating coldly, you worry that, in Bob's telling, the damned ship will never sink.
Dylan is, legitimately, a titan of modern culture. But the new CD is not, I think, his finest hour.
I should add that I was once an impassioned devotee, a dedicated believer in both the pre-electric free-wheelin'-times-a-changin' troubadour, and the electric guy who came afterward. I LOVED Bob Dylan.
Now, decades later, I find myself wondering: hmm, bad voice, puerile lyrics, self-indulgent repetition - and yet strangely familiar. Could it be I was too deafened by the idolatry of the day to hear any of this the first time around?
I'm shaken. That's the trouble with old singers who carry on long after they're rolling down the other side of the hill. Your heart harbours an ancient affection for them, but your head and ears tell you that they sound just dreadful. The resulting discordance makes you question the very foundations of your cultural formation.
Not to be ageist or anything, but consider Paul McCartney's caterwauling at the Olympics. (And I LOVED the Beatles.) Consider Brian Wilson's recent winceworthy reunion with the other fellas once noted for sweet harmonies. (And I LOVED the Beach Boys.) Consider the relentlessly Rolling Stones. (Do I need to point out that I LOVED the Stones?) Mick and the boys have been their own punchline for years, having long ago embraced the joke of their very existence. Their tours are merely circus acts with lashings of lucrative nostalgia.
Which is another problem. Boomers' tenacious nostalgia not only glorifies the inevitably mediocre, it also hogs the limelight - and the consumer buck. With attention focused disproportionately on the past, thanks to boomer-era producers, artists and critics, new creative juices are sometimes dammed up.
"Oh," replied my husband, "that's the new Bob Dylan album."
Yup. There is indeed a new Dylan album, the 35th, and its name is Tempest. Only in a society still dominated by boomers could this be an event: a '60s relic releases yet another over-the-hill effort - and the world stands to attention.
Ah, boomers. Don't you just love our steel-like grip on popular culture? Don't you just love our indefatigable nostalgia?
Tempest, which has attracted mostly rapturous reviews (from mostly boomer-aged reviewers), opens with Dylan's unintended Satchmo tribute. It degenerates from there, an unlistenable voice croaking puerile lyrics in the kind of interminable repetition that makes you want to stick steak knives in your ears to make it stop.
By Track 3 and what feels like the 63rd repetition of "It's a long road, it's a long and narrow way," you're giddy with despair - but nowhere near prepared for the ninth circle of hell that is the song Tempest, nearly 14 minutes of excruciatingly childish verses about the Titanic. Sweating coldly, you worry that, in Bob's telling, the damned ship will never sink.
Dylan is, legitimately, a titan of modern culture. But the new CD is not, I think, his finest hour.
I should add that I was once an impassioned devotee, a dedicated believer in both the pre-electric free-wheelin'-times-a-changin' troubadour, and the electric guy who came afterward. I LOVED Bob Dylan.
Now, decades later, I find myself wondering: hmm, bad voice, puerile lyrics, self-indulgent repetition - and yet strangely familiar. Could it be I was too deafened by the idolatry of the day to hear any of this the first time around?
I'm shaken. That's the trouble with old singers who carry on long after they're rolling down the other side of the hill. Your heart harbours an ancient affection for them, but your head and ears tell you that they sound just dreadful. The resulting discordance makes you question the very foundations of your cultural formation.
Not to be ageist or anything, but consider Paul McCartney's caterwauling at the Olympics. (And I LOVED the Beatles.) Consider Brian Wilson's recent winceworthy reunion with the other fellas once noted for sweet harmonies. (And I LOVED the Beach Boys.) Consider the relentlessly Rolling Stones. (Do I need to point out that I LOVED the Stones?) Mick and the boys have been their own punchline for years, having long ago embraced the joke of their very existence. Their tours are merely circus acts with lashings of lucrative nostalgia.
Which is another problem. Boomers' tenacious nostalgia not only glorifies the inevitably mediocre, it also hogs the limelight - and the consumer buck. With attention focused disproportionately on the past, thanks to boomer-era producers, artists and critics, new creative juices are sometimes dammed up.
Endless (and endlessly embarrassing) reunion tours; golden oldies stations and tribute concerts; remastered releases and reimaginings of anything ever sung, whispered or done by the Beatles - all this takes up room on a limited stage. The current list of Important Artistic Events, for example, features 50th anniversary celebrations of the Beatles' first record, a scrubbed-up video version of their psychedelic Magical Mystery Tour, and the release of a new book of old John Lennon letters. And that's just this month.
Nostalgia per se - and I say this defensively - is not an evil. At a certain stage in life, it provides comfort, refuge, a memory of elusive joy. But to burnish the past and let it displace the present and future is to commit a cultural mortal sin.
Sure, there was brilliance, beauty, innovation and rebellion in the music of the '60s and '70s. Between drug-induced fantasies, and even in the middle of them, Lennon showed flashes of genius. Dylan roused the conscience of a generation.
But let's maintain some perspective. Just because they were revered by the largest demographic in human history doesn't necessarily make them history's greatest artists.
It's not that I want the idols of my youth consigned to the ignominious dust heap. I just wish they'd start looking in the mirror, recognize the inevitable limitations of time, reorient their formidable artistry accordingly. (Bob, Paul, Brian? Stop singing.) And I just wish the gurus of pop culture, many of them age-denying oldies themselves, would stop fawning over faded output like the vibrant creativity it once was.
Since The Tempest was also the title of Shakespeare's final play, someone recently asked Dylan if this meant the new CD would be his last. But no, said the Bard of Dissonance. Tempest is not meant to be his swan song.
We have been warned.
Nostalgia per se - and I say this defensively - is not an evil. At a certain stage in life, it provides comfort, refuge, a memory of elusive joy. But to burnish the past and let it displace the present and future is to commit a cultural mortal sin.
Sure, there was brilliance, beauty, innovation and rebellion in the music of the '60s and '70s. Between drug-induced fantasies, and even in the middle of them, Lennon showed flashes of genius. Dylan roused the conscience of a generation.
But let's maintain some perspective. Just because they were revered by the largest demographic in human history doesn't necessarily make them history's greatest artists.
It's not that I want the idols of my youth consigned to the ignominious dust heap. I just wish they'd start looking in the mirror, recognize the inevitable limitations of time, reorient their formidable artistry accordingly. (Bob, Paul, Brian? Stop singing.) And I just wish the gurus of pop culture, many of them age-denying oldies themselves, would stop fawning over faded output like the vibrant creativity it once was.
Since The Tempest was also the title of Shakespeare's final play, someone recently asked Dylan if this meant the new CD would be his last. But no, said the Bard of Dissonance. Tempest is not meant to be his swan song.
We have been warned.
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