Steely Dan, Bob Dylan, and The Album That Will Change Your Life

We were driving up to Buffalo that day, trying our darndest to get there in time to be able to sleep the night away and be bright and cheerful for Phish's one-stop Canadian tour last summer. It was the middle of tour, for all intents and purposes. We were to greet the midwest shortly, putting our Southern surprises behind us and our familiar Northeast trails to rest. We were passing right through the exit to my old apartment in Tarrytown when this familiar whine made its way out of the Volvo's old speakers.

"OK, after this song can we turn it off?" I grimaced.
"Uhhh," my tour buddy started, "no."
I echoed a whine. "Whyyyyyyyyyy-eeeeeeeee-uhhhhh?"
"Dude. Stop. This is, like, my favorite album."

Now would be the most opportune time for me to then state that we listened to the rest of the Backstreet Boys' release and that I dealt with it by sleeping or something. But that would be accepted.

I was talking about Bob Dylan. The album: "Highway 61 Revisited". My friend was about to ring my neck.

And it is all because I loathe his voice.

I am all for giving respect to where it's due. And some of it can go to Mr. Zimmerman, who has penned a song or two hundred that has moved a nation. I've just sat still, unable to get past a certain timbre that I tend to liken to nails on a blackboard. And my feelings seem to be simply unheard of by any respectable music friend and/or critic that I know of.

After somebody hears that I am not fond of Dylan, in most cases the next thing they do is search for a Dylan album that will change my mind. It's actually kind of amusing; I tend to think that my friends are all in on some sort of Dylan conspiracy project... they wait for me to utter my discontent and then they pull out The Magic Album and it's going to Change My Life and Outlook On All Music Forever and Ever.

Never does work, though we must give my friends the props for at least trying.

Suffice it to say that I was not surprised when, while on the way home from a recent Galactic/Les Claypool show in New York City, my friend thought it would great to chill out to "Time Out of Mind". I raised my hand to object, and he turned to me with wide eyes and asked me how I could possibly enjoy the vocal workings of Donald Fagen and not even crack a hint of a smile while listening to Trying to Get to Heaven. At first, I was pretty stunned. I could not imagine even comparing the two in that regard - I respected Fagen's work in Steely Dan tremendously; digging the harmonies above all, and finding his voice almost sexy in its delivery.

I relayed this sort of information to my friend and he laughed at me. Later on I listened quite carefully to some tracks off of the Steely Dan "Citizen" box set, and realized the err of my ways. Sure, I still loved Donald Fagen's voice. But it was weird, man. He's one strange dude. His phrasing is raunchy. Raw, distinctive, and beautiful.

A phrase I've heard describing Dylan my entire life.

I still don't like Dylan. But I do understand the lure. It's something I see in an artist like Fagen, perhaps a Dylan fan himself. And as long as that respect is there, I won't be crossing the line to Dylan fandom but hopefully I can sit in a car for a few hours and take in some "Blonde on Blonde" without reading a riot act.

My friend seemed to accept my tales of woe that night on the way home. I lay back in my seat semi-peacefully with hopes of dozing off into dreamland, when suddenly...

"Hey!" he cried out.
"Whaaaa?"
"I have a Dylan album that will change your mind about Dylan forever!"

It was going to be a long ride home...

spaga007: david, i put up my column!
zzyzxpi: how can you not like blood on the tracks?
spaga007: :P