The known Unknown

Getting over my Bob Dylan hangups

Never thought this would happen, but—thanks to A Complete Unknown—I am now one of those assholes with opinions about Bob Dylan.

WARNING: WHITE MAN OVER 50 WITH OPINIONS OF BOB DYLAN.

Of course, I’ve always been that asshole, only because anyone who’s ever written about popular culture in the last 65 years has elaborate opinions of Bob Dylan. Having elaborate opinions of Bob Dylan, in my experience, almost immediately makes you sound like a mansplaining asshole.

(This week’s live music listings are here.)

But no matter the subjective opinions, here is one objective truth: there is a clear line between songwriting before Bob Dylan and songwriting after Bob Dylan. We can resist the “great-man theory” all we want—and we should, in favour of Eno’s “scene-ius”—but every rock/pop/folk/hip-hop songwriter since 1965 is in Dylan’s shadow somehow, directly or residually. As with the Beatles, you can not like it, but you can’t deny it.

I’ve resisted Dylan mythology my whole life: partly out of a reflexively Gen X anti-Boomer-itis (which is ridiculous, as a Motown and Joni Mitchell fan), partly because I can’t get over his voice (which is ridiculous, as a fan of Tom Waits and Bjork), partly because I sense contempt in Dylan’s entire delivery and attitude (which is ridiculous, as a fan of Destroyer).

So yes, I’m ridiculous. I’m also thin and enjoy ballads. Call me Mr. Jones.

I went to see A Complete Unknown with complete skepticism, partially because of Dylanology (shudder), but also because 95% of all biopics completely suck—especially music ones. It was Gina Arnold and Caryn Rose (not men!) whose writing convinced me to go.

I loved it. Everything about it, even the obvious exaggerations and historical licences, almost all of which serve the narrative. I saw the film more than two weeks ago and I’m still thinking about it. For so many reasons, especially when it made this ’90s child realize that Pete Seeger is Fugazi.

I loved A Complete Unknown so much I went out and bought the Elijah Wald book it’s based on, Dylan Goes Electric, making it the only book about the man on my bookshelf. I’m only two chapters in, but it’s revelatory, rich with context that paints a vivid picture and alludes to metaphors for other cultural cracks in time, including current ones. And the first chapter confirms my Fugazi theory.

For paid subscribers only, below is Yet Another Hot TakeTM on the film.

For everyone else, here’s a trailer for a completely unrelated recent film I want to know a lot more about—and, frankly, it seems like it’s in Dylan’s wheelhouse. He did grow up in Minnesota, after all, a few kilometres from the Canadian border. (P.S. Read Jason Schneider’s Whispering Pines.)