ONE
Which God he? Answer now. Is our victorious figure Vulcan or thrice-great Hermes Trismegistus? Surely this Bob Dylan is exalted, surely his is on-high. He must be taken seriously, I know that. Heaven fucking help you if you flare your nostrils at Bob Dylan. Not at the poet. Praise Be Unto Zim.
TWO
I don’t know enough about Bob Dylan to do Thoughts on Bob Dylan; this is solely Thoughts on the Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story by Martin Scorsese. I have listened to the proper albums, shows, collections, but I was never diligent about it. Vast tracts of ignorance pock the topsoil of my knowledge. For example, “Bob Dylan” is not his real name. It’s “Robert Dylan.” Bob is short for Robert. I just learned that maybe a week ago. I’m not qualified to judge.
THREE
White.
Person.
Bullshit.
Every second of this film is White Person Bullshit. There’s so much WPB that Joni Mitchell shows up. She appears when called, like Beetlejuice or the Candyman, and heard the Bullshit echo through Laurel Canyon. SHMAMP! There she is now in an attic with Roger McGuinn. Roger plays it cool, man. He’s used to chicks just popping in.
FOUR
Optima Cigars. Gotta pass by one if your movie’s set in 1970’s New York. If it’s set in 1950’s New York, then you need to pass a Chock Full O’Nuts.
FIVE
Everything that isn’t performance is a vicious waste of time. Go away, Sharon Stone, and take Bette Midler’s husband with you. You darken my door, half-baked improv sessions! Were you attempting to make a point about…something? Fame, show biz, golf course design, something?
Was it satire? Because it was not satire.
Was it meta? As surely the creators would realize that their lies would be caught out before the film’s premiere, and therefore a discussion of said lies would become part of the overarching narrative surrounding the film–by now a “film” more than a film–so all sorts of intention games could be played. So: was it meta? I do not care: it sucked. It sucked so hard.
SIX
Everyone wanted to fuck him. These were the last years of Dylan’s fuckability, and he was burning bright with fuckableness. Jewish men wanted to fuck him, and goyische women, too, and whatever the fuck Spooky Violin Lady was.
SEVEN
No one ever dropped the g’s off the end of words quite so conscientiously as Patti Smith did. She was a city girl; she had a city voice. Jesus grew up in the suburbs for somebody else’s sins, not hers.
EIGHT
Fuck you for not introducing the band, Marty. They’re important. They deserved it, not your tacky little make-believes. That band was so good that one of ’em was Mick Ronson. You know how good your band has to be before Mick Ronson will join it? His presence is quality’s guarantor.
Check out how bitchin’ Mick Ronson looked:
That’s bitchin’. And he didn’t need a giant hat, or a mustache and shiny jacket.
NINE
He named it after the bombing. He thought it was funny. I have no evidence to back up my statement, but I believe it to be true. A man wearing a hat that size has a morbid sense of humor.
TEN
Ginsberg was as pathetic as always. The man was a delicatessen bathroom.
ELEVEN
There’s only one non-music scene worth keeping: the bit with Bob trying to grin his way back into Joan Baez’ pants. She’s still hurt. He knows, gets off on it. When he compliments her, she says ‘Thank you.’ When she compliments him, he nods and accepts the praise without remark.
TEN
This didn’t make the film, but Sharon Stone pretending she was a teenaged groupie did.
Not a great decision.
TWELVE
“I thought we were both wearing big hats, Bob.”
“Ah, shaddup.”
Patti Smith is in it? That puts 50% of my own personal HARD NOPE list of rock superstars whose over-ratedness makes my heart burn with gnarling, grinding NOPE. If there is something out there with Bob, Patti, Van Morrisson and Bruce Springsteen all in one thing at one time, please do not have Thoughts on it, because if I became aware of it, I would likely implode from the critical mass of NOPE.
Well, I thought it was great while I was watching it. Of course, Scorsese making and engaging rock doc with that much quality footage is like me making a decent peanut butter sandwich, assuming I’ve got some good bread around. I did find it odd, bordering on infuriating, that I had to puzzle through Mick Ronson’s presence on my own. They didn’t do that to him in the Spiders From Mars doc/concert film,and Bowie circa 72 was at least in Dylan’s self-absorption ballpark.
We can all make it up to Mick by watching the Moonage Daydream clip (again).
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LaqMwE5NKaM
1.The bassist fucking kills it. His name is Rob Stoner, but it should have been Rob Cokehead. In fact, the whole thing should have been called the Rolling Cocaine Review.
2.Mick Ronson was raised Mormon and his funeral was in a Mormon church (thanks Wikipedia!). Is he still so cool? I didn’t think so.
3.I personally draw the line at 2 guitars on a stage (unless there’s a guest). Dylan was rolling 4 to 7 guitars deep on this thing. Maybe someone should learn keys?
4. Honestly, this is in the top 2 live Dylan tours, the other being with the pre-Band in 1966. He’s on fire in these performances.
Thoughts on Scarlet Rivera’s Blues for Allah sticker?
That White shit all over their faces? Pure fuckin Gak.