Bob Dylan, a name synonymous with lyrical depth and musical innovation for many, remains an enigma for others. For some, his work is the pinnacle of songwriting, while for others, like myself initially, it can be… challenging. My early encounters with Dylan were less than inspiring, leaving me questioning the acclaim surrounding his name. Years drifted by with Dylan existing on the periphery of my musical radar, much like a techno legend might for a classic rock aficionado. It wasn’t until a casual conversation that I even questioned his continued presence in the music world.
However, my appreciation for music is deeply rooted in lyrics. The power of storytelling, the evocative phrase, the sheer love of language woven into melody – these are the elements that truly resonate. So, when presented with Dylan’s 35th studio album, Tempest, the challenge was clear: could someone with a lyric-centric perspective, but without deep-seated Dylan devotion, finally understand the celebrated status of “rock’s greatest and most revered lyricist”?
My first foray into Tempest was, to put it mildly, arduous. This wasn’t a casual listening experience; it felt like a prolonged endurance test. Dylan’s approach to melody and song structure is unique, to say the least. He crafts verses from seemingly simple musical phrases, repeats them relentlessly, and somewhere along the way, a tune might begin to solidify in the listener’s memory. The lyrics are delivered with rigid adherence to the meter, offering little in the way of improvisation or dynamic variation. Consequently, even the shorter tracks feel disproportionately long. And then there’s the infamous 14-minute title track, the “Titanic Song,” which attempts to recount the sinking of the Titanic in exhaustive, almost painstaking detail. The result is less a poignant narrative and more an exercise in musical tedium, ironically making one almost yearn for the dramatic conclusion offered by the ill-fated voyage itself.
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This issue of detached description over immersive engagement permeates much of the album. Dylan often opts for a wide-angle lens, providing historical or scenic context without delving into the emotional core of his characters or narratives. Tracks like “Early Roman Kings” are constructed like grand historical epics, yet the focus on elaborate settings and costumes overshadows the internal motivations and feelings of the figures within these stories, leaving the listener emotionally distant. Character development is often sacrificed for archetype, with figures remaining as little more than stock representations. The women in “Soon After Midnight,” for instance, are reduced to simplistic, almost childish rhymes (“Charlotte’s a harlot/ Dresses in scarlet”), intended as superficial foils but ultimately as thinly drawn as the protagonist they are meant to contrast. Similarly, the love triangle in “Tin Angel” – husband, wife, lover – never transcends its clichéd premise. Dylan’s detached stance prevents any sense of catharsis or urgency from emerging, leaving the listener equally unmoved.
But the fundamental issue lies in the lyrical delivery itself. Dylan’s voice, famously polarizing, is not just a matter of timbre; it’s about its expressive limitations. He seems to deliberately avoid spontaneity or surprise in his vocal performance, opting instead for a constrained, almost performative delivery. Songs like “Pay in Blood” and “Early Roman Kings,” which on paper suggest potent political anger, in practice become cyclical and monotonous, ending precisely where they began.
It’s understandable why Dylan resonates with the academic “lyrics-as-poetry” camp. Even with his reliance on well-worn blues tropes, simplistic contrasts, and moments of questionable lyrical choices (like the Cranberries-esque Lennon tribute, “Roll on John”), his words can hold up better on the page than in performance. However, song lyrics in genres like pop, rock, and rap are not simply poetry; they are performance pieces. The best lyrics are intrinsically linked to vocal nuances, melodic surges, and rhythmic shifts. A line that might appear ordinary in text can become profoundly impactful when delivered by a skilled vocalist. Words that seem nonsensical can carry deep meaning when imbued with conviction. Music can even revitalize clichés. Interestingly, the track on Tempest that hints at Dylan’s potential is ironically the most conventional on the album. “Scarlet Town” paints a picture of a small community with overtly sentimental verses, yet the mournful violin and gentle melody create an atmosphere that is genuinely evocative rather than trite.
