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 November 2005 Back to Table of Contents Back to Archives Main Page Section: Arts & Letters His Back Pages By Ron Ehmke I’ve been buying Bob Dylan albums off and on since the mid-seventies, but I’ve never experienced anything quite like what happened a few weeks ago when I set out to pick up his new live disc. For starters, for the next year or so it’s only available at Starbucks, which meant I had to head to the land of frappuccino in search of a copy. “Sorry, sold out,” the twentysomething barrista at the Elmwood location told me before checking to make sure there were no extras in the back somewhere. Undaunted, I settled for some sort of grande mocha whatchamacallit and made my way to the Kenmore store. This time I found the disc right away, and a fresh batch of enthusiastic cashiers were eager to find out what I was purchasing. From their reaction, you’d think I’d just dropped the name of the latest buzz band of the moment, not an icon of the Baby Boom. I’d seen younguns at Dylan’s concerts over the last several years, but the scene in the coffeeshops still took me by surprise. Did I mention that the album in question was recorded in 1962? Live at the Gaslight could easily have been a mere novelty, another way to milk hardcore fans out of more cash. Turns out it’s a fascinating document not only of the twenty-one-year-old performer’s onstage skills but of the Village folk scene of the early sixties. The sound quality is surprisingly good considering the recording equipment of the day; a few songs end abruptly, and I had to play the final track several times to convince myself the disc was not defective. The few bits of audience noise — clinking glasses, cars passing by outside — only serve to set the scene. Listening to the album, stitched together from at least two separate concerts, you feel as if you’re in a tiny club (which may or may not be the actual Gaslight, according to the liner notes) watching an up-and-coming young performer for the first time. He’s not a household name yet, but his songs are already well known. The Gaslight audience sings along with the chorus of “A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall” — gently, mournfully, as if taking up an ancient communal chant. He plays three of his own compositions, then fills out the remainder of the set with traditional tunes. It’s simple, direct, and straightforward — three words that would seldom be used to describe the man at any point thereafter. Gaslight captures a moment in time, but another new album fleshes out the story of Dylan’s rise: No Direction Home, a two-disc companion to Martin Scorsese’s new documentary of the same name (which premiered on PBS in September and is now available on DVD). This collection of alternate takes and live versions is the latest installment in Sony/Columbia Legacy’s ongoing “Bootleg Series” providing official releases of material previously available only on the black market. As with earlier editions, the new one is beautifully packaged and features detailed liner notes. No Direction Home is also available at Starbucks, although you can find it at record stores as well. On a strictly cynical level, it’s a triumph of cross-marketing, a collision of well-known brands: Dylan + Scorsese + Sony + PBS + Starbucks = $$$. As with Gaslight, however, there’s more going on here than savvy salesmanship. From its track selections to its ingenious design (heavy on outtakes of well-known album cover shots and other iconic images), the No Direction soundtrack functions like an alternate-universe history of its star. Most of the greatest hits of the era are here, albeit in slightly different form — not unlike the Beatles’ Anthology packages. Some renditions stick fairly close to the original album versions, minus an instrument or two. Others are complete reinventions. The standouts among these “unearthly unearthings” (as Al Kooper describes them) are surely a matter of personal taste. Me, I’m perversely thrilled by the hyper-distorted punk-rock version of “Ballad of a Thin Man,” charmed by the duet with Ramblin’ Jack Elliott on the first-ever performance of “Mr. Tambourine Man,” and stunned by the bluesy rendition and expanded lyrics of “Leopard-skin Pill-box Hat.” One song that was new to me — the traditional “Dink’s Song,” recorded in 1961 — has fast become a favorite. If you’re already a fan, you know most of these songs. If you don’t, head to your nearest record store (not Starbucks) and snag the originals: half a dozen of the smartest, funniest, most emotionally eloquent albums of all time. These two new packages aren’t the best place to start a Dylan collection, but they’re a fine supplement to the canon. Enjoy them with a sip of latte, and you’ll understand why all the kids are going on about the brash twenty-year-old with the acoustic guitar. n back to top back to table of contents Current Issue | About Forever Young | Where to Find | Advertise | Our Advertisers | Community Calendar | Contest | Clubs | Contact Us | Archives | Home |