I'm pretty proud to be graduating from Tufts University this spring, and I feel like I've accomplished quite a bit in my first 21 years of life. But then I go ahead and listen to Bob Dylan's self-titled first album, released in 1961, and usually somewhere around the second track - somewhere in the middle of "Talkin' New York" - I realize that he was 20 years old when he recorded this oft-forgotten morsel of historical and musical sweetness. "I've got to get moving," I say, "if I plan to follow Mr. Dylan's path to become the world's greatest musical artist for the next 40 years. I've already fallen behind."
Think about Bob Dylan. Everyone knows his music. Even non-fans can recall his classics, pieces that have entered the cultural canon as priceless works of song, poetry, and social commentary: "Blowin' In the Wind," "The Times They are A-Changin'," and "Like A Rolling Stone."
Then you have most rock fans, folk aficionados, and students of the '60s, who are probably down with his near-perfect albums like Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde, and Blood on the Tracks, picking out tunes like "Desolation Row" or "Tangled Up In Blue." But where did it all stem from?
Picture the man. You probably imagine the big head of hair, that scowl of a man in his late 20s; or you see the guy as he is today, a 60-year old, gruff and wrinkled character, silent, tired eyes, and a string tie. But believe it or not, before he was Bob Dylan the man, myth, and artist, he was Bob Dylan (born Robert Zimmerman), a young kid from Minnesota giving the big city a shot. In a New York Times article published in September of 1961, music journalist Robert Shelton writes, "a cross between a choir boy and a beatnik, Mr. Dylan has a cherubic look...." This is not a Bob Dylan most people know, but is certainly one worth introducing yourself to.
The album is a surprisingly complex, satisfyingly rounded compilation of blues, country, and folk music. Raw and unpolished, the album's 13 tunes offer Dylan fans the opportunity to listen and catch the roots of various Dylan-specific quirks to be drawn out, developed, and even caricatured by the man later in his career. The perspective of hindsight allows us to look back and notice those special-little-somethings that make us laugh or nod knowingly. You feel like the parent of a grown child looking back on a fourth-grade book report, a mixture of pride, familiarity, and embarrassment. This is not Dylan's greatest work, but it is worth listening to, and it's a nice addition to your Dylan collection once you've already purchased the essentials; say, after you've picked up Nashville Skyline but before you buy Street Legal.
Only three of the tunes were written by Dylan: the light monologue "Talkin' New York," the grave meditation "In My Time of Dyin'," and the Guthrie tribute, "Song To Woody." That leaves ten tracks to fill with traditional down-home tunes, country classics, and bluesy guitar grinding riffs. It's a tour of our American musical roots, filtered through the talented guitar strummings of a precocious fast-fingered 20-year-old.
Dylan's voice rises and falls, it is light and soft, then deliberate, then rough and random. As if he suddenly grabbed hold of a new instrument, Dylan plays around with his voice, experimenting, testing it, bringing it to its limits. Listeners will share in the pleasure he takes in his vocal exploration. Look into the eyes of the figure pictured on the album cover and you'll see a carefree boy who might be thinking, "Hey, what the heck, I like this stuff, I've got nothing to lose, I might as well give it a try." Thank god he did.
Long before Eminem was chanting lyrics about Christina Aguilera and STDs, musicians alluded to each other with subtlety and respect. Dylan covers tunes from old timers like Bukka White and Blind Lemon Jefferson. He acknowledges his contemporaries like Boston's Ric Von Schmidt and even the Everly Brothers. With his own impressions of traditional songs, like the classic spiritual "Gospel Plow" and the Scottish "Pretty Peggy-O," Dylan presents his admiration of the old masters while offering creative arrangements and interpretations that allow him to sing in his own voice without stepping on his predecessors' well-worn boot heels.
Listen to "House of the Risin' Sun" and note his wary young voice grow deeper and grainier with every refrain. Hear "Baby, Let Me Follow You Down" and share in his abandon. Let go and enjoy. Throw in this disc and soak in the aura of potential and hope, confidence and cool, as it floats softly across the room from your stereo's speakers. Look back and witness a young man looking forward.
