Dylan vs. Pynchon

[kelber at mindspring.com]

 There's general agreement that Modern Times is reasonably good, but not Dylan's greatest work.  I personally loved the final track, Ain't Talkin', and liked Spirit on the Water the least.  Maybe you're listening to the CD over and over compulsively, but I don't know anyone who is.  My point is that, in Dylan's case, it's irrelevant.  He automatically draws raves, based on his persona alone, as the final paragraph of the Pitchfork review states (I think).  My best prediction is that I'll respond to Pynchon's new book the same way: some parts I'll love, and other parts will seem mediocre and disappointing.  But the critics will trash him.  It just bugs me, is all.

Laura
-----Original Message-----
>From: John Carvill <JCarvill at algsoftware.com>
>Sent: Aug 31, 2006 4:33 AM
>To: kelber at mindspring.com, pynchon-l at waste.org
>Subject: RE: Dylan vs. Pynchon
>
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>Here's a more balanced, informed, non-rave review from Pitchfork. I can't find the link at the moment hence the full text. Skip to the last paragraph if you want the perfect rejoinder to Petredis et all:
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>Bob Dylan
>Modern Times
>[Columbia; 2006]
>Rating: 8.3
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>The biggest disappointment here is that Modern Times is probably Dylan's least-surprising release in decades-- it's the logical continuation of its predecessor, created with the same band he's been touring with for years, fed from familiar influences, and sprinkled with all the droll, anachronistic bits now long-expected. Dylan's voice, sinking further into grit, is all wheeze and mew, rolled in salt but still instantly recognizable. And now that he's eyebrows-deep in the rock'n'roll canon, maybe the heart-stopping appeal of Bob Dylan has less to do with his output-- which, tangentially, remains outstanding-- and more to do with his cowboy boot-saunter. Maybe we all want a little bit of Dylan's superhuman restraint, and whether it's real or brutally calculated doesn't actually matter: The fuck-off detachment, the unconcerned genius, the squinty-eyed disdain, the arid, gut-punching humor, the total (if feigned) disinterest in his growing superhero status. He's the boy who doesn't love us back, the one everyone yearns for, the Holy Grail, the last American hero.
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