by Lee Marshall
AFTER THE CRASH: DYLAN’S POST-1960s STARDOM
Dylan once sang ‘there’s no success like failure’ and Self Portrait was some kind of success. It did not erase his position as a cultural leader entirely (when Dylan moved back to New York in 1970, A. J. Weberman’s ‘Dylan Liberation Front’ protested outside his house, campaigning for him to return to political songwriting) nor his marketability (his 1974 comeback tour with The Band was the most over-subscribed in rock history). It did, however, succeed in undermining the myth of Dylan’s infallibility and the battle for the meaning of Bob Dylan during 1967–70 creates a distinct break, a rupture, in Dylan’s star-image that centres on the motorcycle accident of 1966.* The important issue here is that the focus on the motorcycle accident as the moment of change has affected the interpretation of all of Dylan’s career – not just how his later career has been interpreted but also how the pre-crash stardom has been interpreted too. Dylan’s pre-’66 output only becomes critically positioned after the fact. This is not to say that it was not popular before the crash, nor that he didn’t have a reputation as particularly gifted within the folk revival, but it is to suggest that the work has only taken on such a canonical role within rock culture after 1966. We must remember not only that Dylan’s earlier work within the folk revival was part of a minority interest but also that his post-folk work was the site of considerable contestation – a lot of people didn’t like it. It is only afterwards that the contestation itself has become part of the justification of the work’s worth.
Part of the explanation for this canonisation lies in the rock historiography already discussed, but rock’s critics drew upon wider cultural beliefs in codifying the rock ideology. In particular, a significant reason for the way that Dylan’s stardom hones in on 1966 is the ideological linkage of youth, genius and mortality. This ideological brew has a notable impact on stardom and there is an oft-repeated idea that death can be a good career move for stars. Death removes the physical body of the person from the image of the star – rather than see the physical decay of the human reality we can instead revel in the idealised star-image (something Warhol recognised in his silk screens). Think of the different ways we consider the two beauties of sixties Hollywood, Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth Taylor: the former frozen forever as an idealised beauty, the latter tainted by a descent into bloated caricature. Even when we see the perfect Taylor in Cleopatra, our image of her is always shadowed by an awareness of what she became. No such shadow is cast over Monroe – she only ever looked that good. Death also creates the tendency to both erase the human failings of a particular star (unless they are part of an image of a difficult, tortured artist) and to create a particular star teleology – a rationalisation of an entire career that creates its own logic and leads to a logical conclusion. Dylan recognised this in an interview/play written by Sam Shepard in 1986. In it, Dylan discusses a significant early influence upon him, James Dean:
You know where I just was? Paso Robles. You know, on the highway where James Dean got killed? I was there on the spot. On the spot. A windy kinda place. The curve where he had the accident. I mean, the place where he died is as powerful as the place he lived. It’s on this kind of broad expanse of land. It’s like that place made James Dean who he is. If he hadn’t’ve died there, he wouldn’t’ve been James Dean.*
Dylan is right on this – that early, dramatic death is a key part of James Dean’s stardom; it made Dean who he is, because it creates a finite structure in which his stardom can be interpreted (he’s also right to use the present tense – ‘who James Dean is’ – because the death enables the star-image to maintain itself perpetually in the now). Dean’s image was one of restlessness, dissatisfaction and – significantly – youthful good looks. You can’t imagine Dean in a satisfied, comfortable, middle-age; it was ‘inevitable’ that he would die the way he did. The crash affirms Dean’s star-image.
Death and stardom thus have an intimate relationship. There are, though, certain limitations. It has to be a particular kind of death – a ‘heroic’ death – and it has to be at an early age. Both of these emerge from Romantic ideology. The Romantics valorised youth as a time of both political and aesthetic radicalism (‘Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive’, wrote Wordsworth, ‘but to be young was very Heaven’). Youth was a time before the disenchantment of science and rationalism overtook one’s self, when the world could be seen through new eyes. It was a time for breaking the rules created by previous generations, and it was a time for excess, to indulge in all the bounteous tastes the world has to offer – drugs, drink, sex, freedom. These excesses were, of course, to achieve a higher purpose, to open up new forms of consciousness, reach ‘the palace of wisdom’ through the ‘doors of perception’ (both phrases are Blake’s, though they maintained currency in the 1960s), but they also carried a price – the possibility of burning out, and of death. The early death of many of the key figures of Romanticism (notably Keats, Byron and Shelley) all added weight to the cultural ideal that genius blossoms young and then disappears. There is the feeling that it is better for these cultural heroes to have died young because then we only have them at their peak. We only know Keats as the bright-eyed youth, and are forever enthralled by the possibilities of what he could have written had he lived beyond twenty-five, whereas we know that Wordsworth became a crusty old Tory.*
As the last mass flourishing of the Romantic ideology, many of these cultural myths are prominent in sixties rock culture. In rock there is a similar valorisation of youth and of heroic excess (‘Hope I die before I get old’ sang The Who; ‘Better to burn out than fade away’ reiterated Neil Young, subsequently quoted by Kurt Cobain in his suicide note). The rock myth is to live fast and die young, and we culturally praise those who ‘die of rock and roll’ (interestingly, death provides a significant boost to record sales, whereas there is no such effect in the publishing industry).13 We can forever speculate on what magical music Jimi Hendrix would have made had he lived beyond twenty-seven, but we know Eric Clapton became a crusty old Tory.
If Dylan had died in 1966, he would have received the same kind of beatification as Hendrix later did, probably even more intensely. He would have been held up as the ideal rock star, following in Rimbaud’s footsteps in his ‘rational disordering of the senses’; the drug-fuelled performances of 1966 held up as the greatest that could be achieved within the genre. Having the feeling that he ‘might die after the show’ is merely evidence of his ultimate genius, of his willingness to follow his visions.
Now, of course, Dylan didn’t die in 1966. My argument, however, is that there is such a dramatic rupture at this moment – a time when rock culture is writing its own history and defining its own canon – that the effect is very similar to if he had died. There is such a dramatic change between the Dylan of 1966 and the Dylan of 1967–70 that there is a kind of pseudo-mortality going on here, almost as if one particular Bob Dylan died in 1966 only for a new one to emerge. We have the process of idealisation, of airbrushing, of the image taking over from reality that normally occurs posthumously. The fact that he had a motorcycle accident is extremely significant because of its glamorous potential (and its resonance with Dean’s car crash). Even today, the story of the ‘motorcycle accident that nearly cost him his life’ is a key part of Dylan’s myth (for example, it was repeated in many reviews of the 2005 No Direction Home documentary).* To paraphrase Dylan’s quote about James Dean, it’s almost like, without the crash, he wouldn’t have been Bob Dylan.
Although the crash is the mythical moment of transformation, it is only the period of silence and the battle over meaning after the crash that defines it as such. The period 1967–70 is one in which ‘Bob Dylan’ is both idealised and rationalised within rock discourse. Across this period, there does seem to be the creation of two Bob Dylan star images. The first is the ‘dead’ Dylan, who existed up until the motorcycle crash. This Dylan is the model of perfection, but it is an idealisation, a model that never existed in reality. Dyla
n is presented as an untouchable genius whose instincts are always spot on and who never made a wrong decision:
After I was knocked off, knocked out [in 1966], I guess people thought that I was gone, y’know, wasn’t about to come back, so they started elevating me to a level [from] which no one could come back. (Craig McGregor interview, 1978)
I said earlier that looking back at the 1960s Elizabeth Taylor, the image is shadowed by knowledge of what she became. I don’t think the same is true of 1960s Dylan, however. There is such a dramatic rupture caused by this pseudo-mortality that we don’t see a future Dylan in that sixties image just as we don’t see a future Hendrix. There is, however, an interesting reversal because, from the 1970s onwards, the present Bob Dylan is continually shadowed by that sixties image. This is a visual thing – the way that, every now and then, his image seems to just give us a glimpse of the boyish grin or icy cool that we visualise from old photos, as his face seemingly refracts time rather than light – but, more importantly for Dylan’s later career, it is an ‘artistic’ thing too. Dylan’s post-sixties star-image is of someone who never quite lives up to his reputation, never fulfils his potential. Artists’ work is often compared to their previous work, so Dylan is not entirely unique in this regard, but with Dylan it does have a slightly different edge. Dylan’s idealised star-image represented more than just an individual musician. It represented a whole era. Dylan came to represent rock culture, the sixties, and the promises that both offered but ultimately never quite realised. The subsequent ‘failure’ of both the sixties and rock culture reflected badly on Dylan’s later stardom. There seems to be a transformation of star-meaning, in which we have a new Dylan star-image that is always measured against an old one. Dylan spent the next thirty years of his career being compared to this idealised earlier self:
Comparing me to myself is really like . . . I mean, you’re talking to a person that feels like he’s walking around in the ruins of Pompeii all the time. (Mikal Gilmore interview, 2001)
From 1966 onwards, at least until 1997, the abstract notion of Dylan is of someone still capable of producing better work than anyone else in the history of popular music, but never quite managing it. Dylan’s reputation among critics is generally more honoured in the breach than the observance. For example, in 1978, when his last three albums had been Blood On The Tracks, Desire and Street Legal, one English critic claimed that ‘his talent has been judged by many to be in sharp decline. . . . There has been an alarming dearth of good material in recent years.’ For someone as revered as Dylan, he has never received particularly enthusiastic reviews (taking account of the fact that there were hardly any rock reviews before his crash). I would venture that only two Dylan albums between 1966 and 1996 received a broad range of enthusiastic reviews (Blood On The Tracks in 1975 and Oh Mercy in 1989). Albums of the quality of Desire, Street Legal, Slow Train Coming, Infidels and World Gone Wrong have not been critically ravaged but have been treated with indifference. As one journalist noted, ‘he seems to be held up to a higher standard because of his own bigger-than-life image’. It’s not a wilful dismissal of Dylan, as though arguing he’s overrated, more a sense of disappointment that he never lives up to the ideal. It’s as though Jesus has returned to Earth to act as a first-aider: the general response is ‘Well, this is all okay but, frankly, if you’re not going to perform any miracles then why are you bothering?’ If the post-’66 Dylan does not match the heights of the pre-’66 one (and no matter what he produces, he can never reach those heights because they are idealised) then even if the work is good, it is never good enough.*
Snapshot:The rock legend
Dylan embarked on a world tour during 1978, easily the biggest touring commitment of his career thus far. The shows were generally well received outside of the USA (Dylan had not toured outside of North America for twelve years) but were criticised at home; it was dubbed ‘The Alimony Tour’ and Dylan was criticised for turning into a ‘Vegas act’.Towards the end of this year, he experienced a personal epiphany and became a born-again Christian. For the first part of 1979, he spent four days a week attending lessons at the Vineyard Fellowship in Santa Monica. Dylan released two albums – Slow Train Coming in 1979 and Saved in 1980 – that contained nothing but Christian songs. During live shows in these years, he played only religious material and between songs he preached to his audience. For the second time in his career, Dylan found himself being booed by his audiences.
In 1981, he released the less overtly evangelical Shot Of Love and embarked on European and North American tours in which he included some of his old songs. Reviews were less kind than for the 1978 tour, however. Dylan produced no public work in 1982, and his next album, Infidels, his first post-evangelical work, received average reviews. A short European tour took place in 1984 and 1985 included the album Empire Burlesque. The year was most notable, however, for Dylan’s notorious performance closing Live Aid. Accompanied by a drunk Ron Wood and Keith Richards, Dylan badly performed three songs and offended many people by suggesting that some of the money raised could be used to pay the mortgages of American farmers.
Dylan’s comments acted as a spur to a ‘Farm Aid’ event, and Dylan regained some credibility with a strong performance backed by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Dylan took the same band on tour with him in 1986, playing Japan, New Zealand, Australia and the US. With a highly competent rock and roll band behind him, the shows were generally well received. Dylan played virtually no songs from his new album, Knocked Out Loaded,however, perhaps an indication that he was beginning to struggle to write songs. The remainder of the year was spent filming an awful movie, Hearts Of Fire.
Albums and major events
Apr–Dec 1978 World tour (documented on At Budokan)
June 1978 Street Legal
January–March 1979 Attends School of Discipleship in California
August 1979 Slow Train Coming
Nov–May 1979–80 North American tour
June 1980 Saved
Nov–Dec 1980 US tour
June–July 1981 European tour
August 1981 Shot Of Love
Oct–Nov 1981 North American tour
November 1983 Infidels
May–July 1984 European tour (documented on Real Live)
June 1985 Empire Burlesque
July 1985 Live Aid
October 1985 Biograph
Feb–Mar 1986 Pacific tour
June–Aug 1986 North American tour
August 1986 Knocked Out Loaded
*I am deliberately understating the role that particular media industries play in ‘creating’ stars here. This would be important for considering stardom systemically (how the music industry produces a range of stars for us to choose from, for example) but can be less important when considering individual stars. All the money and publicity in the world cannot rejuvenate the public’s interest in a star if the public doesn’t want to be interested. In Dylan’s case, as will be outlined, the complementary industries (particularly the newly emerging rock press) have more of an impact on Dylan’s stardom than those directly associated with him, such as his record label.
* I have a theory, which I’m not developing here in much detail, that the gap between stardom and biography is inhabited by fans. They are the ones who find out the actual biographical detail and who analyse songs/films for ‘the real’ meaning. This ‘superior’ knowledge and claims of misrepresentation are key ways in which ‘committed’ fans distinguish themselves from ‘casual’ fans. I would also venture that the idea of a star being misrepresented is a key aspect of many stars’ stardom. It certainly is in Dylan’s case.
*In this instance, however, he protested too much: the 1974 tour was a greatest hits package dominated by crowd-pleasers. Dylan later commented bitterly that he ‘had to step into Bob Dylan’s shoes for that tour’ (Toby Cresswell interview, 1986).
* Fortunately for them, as a mainstream cultural form, the aesthetically successful were the commercially successfu
l – an issue demonstrated by Rolling Stone’s coverage of rock superstars.
* This may be a surprise given that Sergeant Pepper, released in 1967, is now regularly held up as the pinnacle of rock. Gendron’s historical account, however, shows that while highbrow critics received the album favourably and lauded the group’s avant-garde pretensions, rock critics were generally dismissive, arguing that The Beatles had lost the spirit of rock music. When Dylan released John Wesley Harding at the end of 1967, it was highly praised by rock critics because its stripped down sound was more in keeping with rock authenticity (2002:208–15).
