major Dylan interview in LAT

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Apr 4, 2004, 11:41:45 AM4/4/04

Interview focuses on his songwriting craft. All sorts of song clips and a
multimedia flash presentation. I'll paste the text in because no doubt it
will eventually go behind the archive. But you should really look at it.
Lots of pics, too.

Rock's Enigmatic Poet Opens a Long-Private Door
He learned from the Carter Family and Edgar Allan Poe, he confides. And he
wrote 'Blowin' in the Wind' in 10 minutes.
By Robert Hilburn, Times Staff Writer

April 4 2004

First in a series of occasional stories exploring the songwriter's art. The
next installment will run in Sunday Calendar.

Amsterdam - "No, no, no," Bob Dylan says sharply when asked if aspiring
songwriters should learn their craft by studying his albums, which is
precisely what thousands have done for decades.

"It's only natural to pattern yourself after someone," he says, opening a
door on a subject that has long been off-limits to reporters: his
songwriting process. "If I wanted to be a painter, I might think about
trying to be like Van Gogh, or if I was an actor, act like Laurence Olivier.
If I was an architect, there's Frank Gehry.

"But you can't just copy somebody. If you like someone's work, the important
thing is to be exposed to everything that person has been exposed to. Anyone
who wants to be a songwriter should listen to as much folk music as they
can, study the form and structure of stuff that has been around for 100
years. I go back to Stephen Foster."

For four decades, Dylan has been a grand American paradox: an artist who
revolutionized popular songwriting with his nakedly personal yet challenging
work but who keeps us at such distance from his private life - and his
creative technique - that he didn't have to look far for the title of his
recent movie: "Masked and Anonymous."

While fans and biographers might read his hundreds of songs as a chronicle
of one man's love and loss, celebration and outrage, he doesn't revisit the
stories behind the songs, per se, when he talks about his art this evening.
What's more comfortable, and perhaps more interesting to him, is the way
craft lets him turn life, ideas, observations and strings of poetic images
into songs.

As he sits in the quiet of a grand hotel overlooking one of the city's
picturesque canals, he paints a very different picture of his evolution as a
songwriter than you might expect of an artist who seemed to arrive on the
pop scene in the '60s with his vision and skills fully intact. Dylan's
lyrics to "Blowin' In The Wind" were printed in Broadside, the folk music
magazine, in May 1962, the month he turned 21.

The story he tells is one of trial and error, false starts and hard work - a
young man in a remote stretch of Minnesota finding such freedom in the music
of folk songwriter Woody Guthrie that he felt he could spend his life just
singing Guthrie songs - until he discovered his true calling through a
simple twist of fate.

Dylan has often said that he never set out to change pop songwriting or
society, but it's clear he was filled with the high purpose of living up to
the ideals he saw in Guthrie's work. Unlike rock stars before him, his chief
goal wasn't just making the charts.

"I always admired true artists who were dedicated, so I learned from them,"
Dylan says, rocking slowly in the hotel room chair. "Popular culture usually
comes to an end very quickly. It gets thrown into the grave. I wanted to do
something that stood alongside Rembrandt's paintings."

Even after all these years, his eyes still light up at the mention of
Guthrie, the "Dust Bowl" poet, whose best songs, such as "This Land Is Your
Land," spoke so eloquently about the gulf Guthrie saw between America's
ideals and its practices.

"To me, Woody Guthrie was the be-all and end-all," says Dylan, 62, his curly
hair still framing his head majestically as it did on album covers four
decades ago. "Woody's songs were about everything at the same time. They
were about rich and poor, black and white, the highs and lows of life, the
contradictions between what they were teaching in school and what was really
happening. He was saying everything in his songs that I felt but didn't know
how to.

"But you can't just copy somebody. If you like someone's work, the
important thing is to be exposed to everything that person has been exposed

- Bob Dylan
"It wasn't only the songs, though. It was his voice - it was like a
stiletto - and his diction. I had never heard anybody sing like that. His
guitar strumming was more intricate than it sounded. All I knew was I wanted
to learn his songs."

Dylan played so much Guthrie during his early club and coffeehouse days that
he was dubbed a Woody Guthrie "jukebox." So imagine the shock when someone
told him another singer - Ramblin' Jack Elliott - was doing that too. "It's
like being a doctor who has spent all these years discovering penicillin and
suddenly [finding out] someone else had already done it," he recalls.

A less ambitious young man might have figured no big deal - there's plenty
of room for two singers who admire Guthrie. But Dylan was too independent.
"I knew I had something that Jack didn't have," he says, "though it took a
while before I figured out what it was."

Songwriting, he finally realized, was what could set him apart. Dylan had
toyed with the idea earlier, but he felt he didn't have enough vocabulary or
life experience.

Scrambling to distinguish himself on the New York club scene in 1961,
though, he tried again. The first song of his own that drew attention to him
was "Song to Woody," which included the lines, "Hey, hey, Woody Guthrie ...
I know that you know / All the things that I'm a-sayin' an' a-many times

Within two years, he had written and recorded songs, including "Girl of the
North Country" and "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall," that helped lift the heart
of pop music from sheer entertainment to art.

'Songs Are the Star'

Dylan, whose work and personal life have been dissected in enough books to
fill a library wall, seems to welcome the chance to talk about his craft,
not his persona or history. It's as if he wants to demystify himself.

WORD CRAFT:"I don't spend a lot of time going over songs. I'll
sometimes make changes, but the early songs, for instance, were mostly all
first drafts."

"To me, the performer is here and gone," he once said. "The songs are the
star of the show, not me."

He also hates focusing on the past. "I'm always trying to stay right square
in the moment. I don't want to get nostalgic or narcissistic as a writer or
a person. I think successful people don't dwell in the past. I think only
losers do."

Yet his sense of tradition is strong. He likes to think of himself as part
of a brotherhood of writers whose roots are in the raw country, blues and
folk strains of Guthrie, the Carter family, Robert Johnson and scores of
Scottish and English balladeers.

Over the course of the evening, he offers glimpses into how his ear and eye
put pieces of songs together using everything from Beat poetry and the daily
news to lessons picked up from contemporaries.

He is so committed to talking about his craft that he has a guitar at his
side in case he wants to demonstrate a point. When his road manager knocks
on the door after 90 minutes to see if everything is OK, Dylan waves him
off. After three hours, he volunteers to get together again after the next
night's concert.

"There are so many ways you can go at something in a song," he says. "One
thing is to give life to inanimate objects. Johnny Cash is good at that.
He's got the line that goes, 'A freighter said, "She's been here, but she's
gone, boy, she's gone." ' That's great. 'A freighter says ' "She's been
here." ' That's high art. If you do that once in a song, you usually turn it
on its head right then and there."

The process he describes is more workaday than capturing lightning in a
bottle. In working on "Like A Rolling Stone," he says, "I'm not thinking
about what I want to say, I'm just thinking 'Is this OK for the meter?' "

But there's an undeniable element of mystery too. "It's like a ghost is
writing a song like that. It gives you the song and it goes away, it goes
away. You don't know what it means. Except the ghost picked me to write the

Some listeners over the years have complained that Dylan's songs are too
ambiguous - that they seem to be simply an exercise in narcissistic
wordplay. But most critics say Dylan's sometimes competing images are his
greatest strength.

Few in American pop have consistently written lines as hauntingly beautiful
and richly challenging as his "Just Like a Woman," a song from the mid-'60s:

She takes just like a woman, yes, she does

She makes love just like a woman, yes, she does

And she aches just like a woman

But she breaks

just like a little girl.

Dylan stares impassively at a lyric sheet for "Just Like a Woman" when it is
handed to him. As is true of so many of his works, the song seems to be
about many things at once.

"I'm not good at defining things," he says. "Even if I could tell you what
the song was about I wouldn't. It's up to the listener to figure out what it
means to him."

As he stares at the page in the quiet of the room, however, he budges a
little. "This is a very broad song. A line like, 'Breaks just like a little
girl' is a metaphor. It's like a lot of blues-based songs. Someone may be
talking about a woman, but they're not really talking about a woman at all.
You can say a lot if you use metaphors."

Nobody feels any pain

Tonight as I stand inside

the rain

Ev'rybody knows

That Baby's got new clothes

But lately I see her ribbons and her bows

Have fallen from her curls.

After another pause, he adds: "It's a city song. It's like looking at
something extremely powerful, say the shadow of a church or something like
that. I don't think in lateral [sic] terms as a writer. That's a fault of a
lot of the old Broadway writers. ... They are so lateral. There's no
circular thing, nothing to be learned from the song, nothing to inspire you.
I always try to turn a song on its head. Otherwise, I figure I'm wasting the
listener's time."

Discovering Folk Music

Dylan's pop sensibilities were shaped long before he made his journey east
in the winter of 1960-61.

"I'm always trying to stay right square in the moment. . . . I think
successful people don't dwell in the past. I think only losers do. "

- Bob Dylan
Growing up in the icy isolation of Hibbing, Minn., Dylan, who was still
Robert Allen Zimmerman then, found comfort in the country, blues and early
rock 'n' roll that he heard at night on a Louisiana radio station whose
signal came in strong and clear. It was worlds away from the local Hibbing
station, which leaned toward mainstream pop like Perry Como, Frankie Laine
and Doris Day.

Dylan has respect for many of the pre-rock songwriters, citing Cole Porter,
whom he describes as a "fearless" rhymer, and Porter's "Don't Fence Me In"
as a favorite. But he didn't feel most of the pre-rock writers were speaking
to him.

"When you listened to [Porter's] songs and the Gershwins' and Rodgers and
Hammerstein, who wrote some great songs, they were writing for their
generation and it just didn't feel like mine," he says. "I realized at some
point that the important thing isn't just how you write songs, but your
subject matter, your point of view."

The music that did speak to him as a teenager in the '50s was rock 'n'
roll - especially Elvis Presley. "When I got into rock 'n' roll, I didn't
even think I had any other option or alternative," he says. "It showed me
where my future was, just like some people know they are going to be doctors
or lawyers or shortstop for the New York Yankees."

He became a student of what he heard.

"Chuck Berry wrote amazing songs that spun words together in a remarkably
complex way," he says. "Buddy Holly's songs were much more simplified, but
what I got out of Buddy was that you can take influences from anywhere. Like
his 'That'll Be the Day.' I read somewhere that it was a line he heard in a
movie, and I started realizing you can take things from everyday life that
you hear people say.

PLUGGED IN:After plugging in at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965,
Dylan thrilled audiences around the world, including fans at this 1966 Paris
show, with his new, harder sound.

"That I still find true. You can go anywhere in daily life and have your
ears open and hear something, either something someone says to you or
something you hear across the room. If it has resonance, you can use it in a

After rock took on a blander tone in the late '50s, Dylan looked for new
inspiration. He began listening to the Kingston Trio, who helped popularize
folk music with polished versions of "Tom Dooley" and "A Worried Man." Most
folk purists felt the group was more "pop" than authentic, but Dylan, new to
folk, responded to the messages in the songs.

He worked his way through such other folk heroes as Odetta and Leadbelly
before fixating on Guthrie. Trading his electric guitar for an acoustic one,
he spent months in Minneapolis, performing in clubs, preparing himself for
the trip east.

Going to New York rather than rival music center Los Angeles was a given, he
says, "because everything I knew came out of New York. I listened to the
Yankees games on the radio, and the Giants and the Dodgers. All the radio
programs, like 'The Fat Man,' the NBC chimes - would be from New York. So
were all the record companies. It seemed like New York was the capital of
the world."

Devouring Poetry

Dylan pursued his muse in New York with an appetite for anything he felt
would help him improve his craft, whether it was learning old blues and folk
songs or soaking up literature.

"I had read a lot of poetry by the time I wrote a lot of those early songs,"
he volunteers. "I was into the hard-core poets. I read them the way some
people read Stephen King. I had also seen a lot of it growing up. Poe's
stuff knocked me out in more ways than I could name. Byron and Keats and all
those guys. John Donne.

"Byron's stuff goes on and on and on and you don't know half the things he's
talking about or half the people he's addressing. But you could appreciate
the language."

He found himself side by side with the Beat poets. "The idea that poetry was
spoken in the streets and spoken publicly, you couldn't help but be excited
by that," he says. "There would always be a poet in the clubs and you'd hear
the rhymes, and [Allen] Ginsberg and [Gregory] Corso - those guys were
highly influential."

Dylan once said he wrote songs so fast in the '60s that he didn't want to go
to sleep at night because he was afraid he might miss one. Similarly, he
soaked up influences so rapidly that it was hard to turn off the light at
night. Why not read more?

"Someone gave me a book of Francois Villon poems and he was writing about
hard-core street stuff and making it rhyme," Dylan says, still conveying the
excitement of tapping into inspiration from 15th century France. "It was
pretty staggering, and it made you wonder why you couldn't do the same thing
in a song.

"I'd see Villon talking about visiting a prostitute and I would turn it
around. I won't visit a prostitute, I'll talk about rescuing a prostitute.
Again, it's turning stuff on its head, like 'vice is salvation and virtue
will lead to ruin.' "

When you hear Dylan still marveling at lines such as the one above from
Machiavelli or Shakespeare's "fair is foul and foul is fair," you can see
why he would pepper his own songs with phrases that forever ask us to
question our assumptions - classic lines such as "There's no success like
failure and failure's no success at all," from 1965's "Love Minus Zero/No

As always, he's quick to give credit to the tradition.

"I didn't invent this, you know," he stresses. "Robert Johnson would sing
some song and out of nowhere there would be some kind of Confucius saying
that would make you go, 'Wow, where did that come from?' It's important to
always turn things around in some fashion."

Exploring His Themes

Some writers sit down every day for two or three hours, at least, to write,
whether they are in the mood or not. Others wait for inspiration. Dylan
scoffs at the discipline of daily writing.

"Oh, I'm not that serious a songwriter," he says, a smile on his lips.
"Songs don't just come to me. They'll usually brew for a while, and you'll
learn that it's important to keep the pieces until they are completely
formed and glued together."

CONCERT FOR BANGLADESH: The 1971 benefit in New York City, with
George Harrison, left, featured a surprise performance by Dylan, rare for
him during that era.

He sometimes writes on a typewriter but usually picks up a pen because he
says he can write faster than he can type. "I don't spend a lot of time
going over songs," Dylan says. "I'll sometimes make changes, but the early
songs, for instance, were mostly all first drafts."

He doesn't insist that his rhymes be perfect. "What I do that a lot of other
writers don't do is take a concept and line I really want to get into a song
and if I can't figure out for the life of me how to simplify it, I'll just
take it all - lock, stock and barrel - and figure out how to sing it so it
fits the rhyming scheme. I would prefer to do that rather than bust it down
or lose it because I can't rhyme it."

Themes, he says, have never been a problem. When he started out, the Korean
War had just ended. "That was a heavy cloud over everyone's head," he says.
"The communist thing was still big, and the civil rights movement was coming
on. So there was lots to write about.

"But I never set out to write politics. I didn't want to be a political
moralist. There were people who just did that. Phil Ochs focused on
political things, but there are many sides to us, and I wanted to follow
them all. We can feel very generous one day and very selfish the next hour."

Dylan found subject matter in newspapers. He points to 1964's "The Lonesome
Death of Hattie Carroll," the story of a wealthy Baltimore man who was given
only a six-month sentence for killing a maid with a cane. "I just let the
story tell itself in that song," he says. "Who wouldn't be offended by some
guy beating an old woman to death and just getting a slap on the wrist?"

Other times, he was reacting to his own anxieties.

"A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" helped define his place in pop with an
apocalyptic tale of a society being torn apart on many levels.

I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin'

Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world.

Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin'

Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin' ...

And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

The song has captured the imagination of listeners for generations, and like
most of Dylan's songs, it has lyrics rich and poetic enough to defy age.
Dylan scholars have often said the song was inspired by the Cuban missile

"All I remember about the missile crisis is there were bulletins coming
across on the radio, people listening in bars and cafes, and the scariest
thing was that cities, like Houston and Atlanta, would have to be evacuated.
That was pretty heavy.

"Someone pointed out it was written before the missile crisis, but it
doesn't really matter where a song comes from. It just matters where it
takes you."

His Constant Changes

Dylan's career path hasn't been smooth. During an unprecedented creative
spree that resulted in three landmark albums ("Bringing It All Back Home,"
"Highway 61 Revisited" and "Blonde on Blonde") being released in 15 months,
Dylan reconnected with the rock 'n' roll of his youth. Impressed by the
energy he felt in the Beatles and desiring to speak in the musical language
of his generation, he declared his independence from folk by going electric
at the Newport Folk Festival in 1965.

His music soon became a new standard of rock achievement, influencing not
only his contemporaries, including the Beatles, but almost everyone to

GRAMMY AWARDS: Dylan performs during the 2002 ceremony at Staples
Center, where his "Love and Theft" was nominated for best album. His
songwriting energy dwindled in the early '90s but reemerged later in the

The pressure on him was soon so intense that he went underground for a while
in 1966, not fully resuming his career until the mid-'70s when he did a
celebrated tour with the Band and then recorded one of his most hailed
albums, "Blood on the Tracks." By the end of the decade, he confused some
old fans by turning to brimstone gospel music.

There were gems throughout the '70s and '80s, but Dylan seemed for much of
the '90s to be tired of songwriting, or, maybe, just tired of always being
measured against the standards he set in the '60s.

In the early '90s he seemed to find comfort only in the rhythm of the road,
losing himself in the troubadour tradition, not even wanting to talk about
songwriting or his future. "Maybe I've written enough songs," he said then.
"Maybe it's someone else's turn."

Somehow, however, all those shows reignited the songwriting spark - as
demonstrated in his Grammy-winning "Time Out of Mind" album in 1997; the
bittersweet song from the movie "Wonder Boys," "Things Have Changed," that
won an Oscar in 2001 for best original song; and his heralded 2001 album,
"Love and Theft." He spent much of last year working on a series of
autobiographical chronicles. The first installment is due this fall from
Simon & Schuster.

But nowhere, perhaps, is Dylan's regained passion more evident than in his
live show, where he has switched primarily from guitar to electric keyboard
and now leads his four-piece band with the intensity of a young punk auteur.

Dylan - who has lived in Southern California since he and ex-wife Sara
Lowndes moved to Malibu in the mid-'70s with their five children - was in
Amsterdam to headline two sold-out concerts at a 6,000-seat hall. He does
more than 100 shows a year.

The audience on the chilly winter night after our first conversation is
divided among people Dylan's age who have been following his career since
the '60s and young people drawn to him by his classic body of work, and they
call out for new songs, not just the classics.

Refiguring the Melodies

Back at the hotel afterward, Dylan looks about as satisfied as a man with
his restless creative spirit can be.

It's nearly 2 a.m. by now and another pot of coffee cools. He rubs his hand
through his curly hair. After all these hours, I realize I haven't asked the
most obvious question: Which comes first, the words or the music?

Dylan leans over and picks up the acoustic guitar.

"Well, you have to understand that I'm not a melodist," he says. "My songs
are either based on old Protestant hymns or Carter family songs or
variations of the blues form.

"What happens is, I'll take a song I know and simply start playing it in my
head. That's the way I meditate. A lot of people will look at a crack on the
wall and meditate, or count sheep or angels or money or something, and it's
a proven fact that it'll help them relax. I don't meditate on any of that
stuff. I meditate on a song.

"I'll be playing Bob Nolan's 'Tumbling Tumbleweeds,' for instance, in my
head constantly - while I'm driving a car or talking to a person or sitting
around or whatever. People will think they are talking to me and I'm talking
back, but I'm not. I'm listening to the song in my head. At a certain point,
some of the words will change and I'll start writing a song."

He's slowly strumming the guitar, but it's hard to pick out the tune.

"I wrote 'Blowin' in the Wind' in 10 minutes, just put words to an old
spiritual, probably something I learned from Carter Family records. That's
the folk music tradition. You use what's been handed down. 'The Times They
Are A-Changin' is probably from an old Scottish folk song."

As he keeps playing, the song starts sounding vaguely familiar.

I want to know about "Subterranean Homesick Blues," one of his most radical
songs. The 1965 number fused folk and blues in a way that made everyone who
heard it listen to it over and over. John Lennon once said the song was so
captivating on every level that it made him wonder how he could ever compete
with it.

The lyrics, again, were about a society in revolution, a tale of drugs and
misuse of authority and trying to figure out everything when little seemed
to make sense:

Johnny's in the basement

Mixing up the medicine

I'm on the pavement

Thinking about the government

The music too reflected the paranoia of the time - roaring out of the
speakers at the time with a cannonball force.

Where did that come from?

Without pause, Dylan says, almost with a wink, that the inspiration dates to
his teens. "It's from Chuck Berry, a bit of "Too Much Monkey Business" and
some of the scat songs of the '40s."

As the music from the guitar gets louder, you realize Dylan is playing one
of the most famous songs of the 20th century, Irving Berlin's "Blue Skies."

You look into his eyes for a sign.

Is he writing a new song as we speak?

"No," he says with a smile. "I'm just showing you what I do."


Apr 5, 2004, 11:59:11 AM4/5/04
Thanks a lot for this item! Nice to see a serious scholarly approach
to Dylan as an artist--a delightful contrast with the usual way
journalist approach him--as if he is some kind of deity, which would
make just about everyone feel uneasy.

Elvis never could stand being called the King.

"Delia" <> wrote in message news:<Z0Wbc.45986$>...

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