Bob Dylan
Modern Times

THE REVIEW

MODERN TIMES
Dylan and Us

It's nice to know that some artists never stop. That they don't want to live off their past successes, even though inspiration has its ups and downs. Dylan is one of these artists. For many, he is the Artist, the Poet, the Minstrel, always something with a capital letter. Once again, here he is with his crushed hat on his head and his guitar, standing before some stage, in his endless tour, ready to sing us old anthems and new ideas. His voice croaks, rough and dark. As always, he stands a little distant from the microphone, takes two steps forward, pronounces a phrase, then steps back. Or he hides behind the piano, perched on the stool.

Sometimes he even tries to sing. Like in this highly anticipated “Modern Times”, with its black and white cover and colored texts. The voice tries to smooth itself, the music is always the same, rock, blues, jazzed folk that smells of ancient wood like grandfather's cupboard. And amidst all this, very professional craftsmanship (“Rollin’ And Tumblin’”, “Beyond The Horizon” to name two), we might get to hear something captivating (the opening “Thunder On The Mountain”), lyrically moving (the vibrant “Workingman’s Blues #2”, “Spirit On The Water”, “Nettie Moore”), and unfortunately also slightly boring (“When The Deal Goes Down”, “Ain't Talkin’”) or even avoidable (“The Levee’s Gonna Break”).
Anyway, we will be there waiting, rushing to the record store, anxiously unwrapping the CD’s plastic, always too difficult to open, we will be ready to dive into the imagination of the Minstrel with a capital M, to listen to his stories and poems, to imagine pages quickly written, half-erased verses, words replaced with others... we will always be there to love Dylan because he is Dylan, and that's enough for us.
He is Dylan, and he speaks of thunder on the mountain and spirit on the water, of mist and night rain, of the moon, of the horizon, of the sun, of the rainbow; he does the job every poet should do, that is, look around and write about what he sees, and how it leaves a trace in the eyes, sometimes even in the bones. It doesn't matter if the record is good or not, if the songs are memorable, fiery, or a bit dull: what matters is that Dylan speaks, or sings, because his voice is like a mud formed in the tradition, it slipped through the decades, has smeared a bit of everything, and we like to know that it still stains, certainly less than before.

“Thunder on the mountain, fires on the moon
There's a ruckus in the alley and the sun will be here soon
Today's the day, gonna grab my trombone and blow
Well, there's hot stuff here and it's everywhere I go

(...)

Feel like my soul is beginning to expand
Look into my heart and you will sort of understand
You brought me here, now you're trying to run me away
The writing's on the wall, come read it, come see what it say