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dollarbin · 8 months

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Dollar Bin #10:

Bob Dylan at Budokan

My famous brother went out on one of his classic limbs this past week and told his approximately 64 million followers that it was time to get excited about Dylan's latest Archive reclamation project.

The Archives series has already saved Self Portrait and saved the Saved era; now Dylan and my brother want to convince us that Dylan at Budokan, Bob's cheese favored concert album from 78 is a misunderstood classic.

Without having listened to the entirety of this Dollar Bin mainstay in a few decades I'm going out on a much narrower limb than my brother right now and saying he's wrong. Wrong! I first picked this record up at my local library in about 90, back when you could still check vinyl records out of libraries. It sucked then, and I say it still sucks now.

Problem is, my famous brother is famous in part because he's never wrong about stuff like this. I told him Saved was unsaveable a few years back and he patted me on the head, chuckling. Then Dylan put out Trouble No More and proved my brother right. I also told him in about 1983 that I would always be taller and more handsome than him. And look what the hell happened.

Point is, my brother knows what he's talking about. He's famous for a reason. And yet! Lately he's been telling me I should listen to Manassas records, claiming that Stephen Stills' other 70's "supergroup" doesn't suck. Well, that sounds like a load of horse crap. Stephen Stills sucks, bro, and so does Dylan at Budokan.

So let's drop the needle and take a listen. I'll write this entry in real time, beer in hand. May the best brother win.

Side 1

Mr. Tambourine Man opens the album. Every time I try to listen to this record I start here, obviously. I can already see why I don't get much further. The song's arrangement is incredibly complex, and everyone is clearly talented. The opening guitar riff is lovely and returns toward the end to ramble and shine. But why does the flute never, ever stop? If I wanted someone on stage with a magic flute, I'd ask for it, Bob. I'm not asking for a magic flute, Bob. Ever.

Next we've got Shelter from the Storm performed by a strident Greek dramatic chorus. Sounds pretty good, I guess. The song makes sense for ancient masked tragedy. It describes a world of steel eyed death and men fighting to stay warm; they sell the guy's clothes; doom alone counts. But in-between verses tragedy falls away and Steve Douglas, the man formerly fingering his endless flute, is staggering around like the guy in a fat suit in a Satyr play, his sax beating everyone on the head like it's a giant pigskin phallus. His name, of course, is Steve; he and Stills outta go and compare their mammoth ding dongs in private: we don't want to see them.

Love Minus Zero follows. Dylan is suddenly fronting Van the Man's Caledonia Soul Orchestra, one of the best live bands of all time, but Bob has them juggling pineapples and riding unicycles. Rob Stoner, who possesses the best name for a bass player in the history of white people, ignores them all, rocking out underneath. The track is better than I remember, but everyone is still playing hopscotch gleefully during one of my favorite songs of all time, so the album still sucks - so far.

At this point, my famous brother is beginning to tremble with fright because he knows what comes next. Ballad of a Thin Man gives Steve "Must Be Related To Stills" Douglas another chance to slather his sax sized wienerschnitzel with all kinds of mustard and wave it in everyone's face. That thing was meant for procreation, Steve, not for playing with in front of the poor Japanese audience. Jesus Christ, the album is even worse than I remember.

And now it gets even more terrible! It Ain't Me Babe has a rumbling your way to the crapper vibe; something Bob ate is not sitting right inside him and the stage swirls while his drummer's bass drum drops a smoking load all over the floor.

Okay, bro, sure, the guitar solo mid-song is kinda awesome; but by that point everyone in my house, hell, everyone on my block, has their heads in their hands and is begging for it to stop. Bob's satin jumpsuit needs to be thrown away; no detergent will ever get these stains out. But even so he wants us to know it's alright, it's alright, it's alright!

Time to flip the record, and get another beer. We've got a long way to go.

Side two opens with Maggie's Farm. Never my favorite song, frankly. The wild thing about this album is how intricate the arrangements continue to be. Do I like this James-Belushi-running-up-a-series-of-down-escalators-at-full-speed take on the song? No. But everyone in the band charges on earnestly, working through reams of intricate lead sheets; even the drumming is perfectly notated so as to induce maximum seasickness.

Now One More Cup of Coffee is a song I always enjoy. It's creepy and seductive, a prequel to Senior, which Dylan must have been working on at this point. But this take replaces the sinister, elusive vibe of every other version with misplaced, chest-pounding bravado. What's Dylan need another cup of coffee for if the valley below is a place where everyone will gather and cheer while he does clap-as-you-rise push-ups? It sounds like Dylan is surrounded by Bukokan's finest break dancers. My brother stands to one side, cowering in shame.

However, Like A Rolling Stone is actually good here. This take lays the sonic foundation for much of Street Legal, the well-above-average album of new songs Dylan recorded with this band in the middle of this tour. Here, Douglas channels All Things Must Pass rather than Elvis's laced up leather pants. Sure, he flashes his midsection monster yet again at the end to interrupt a pretty solid guitar solo, but we're thinking about Dylan's great phrasing of the timeless lyrics, not Steve's Johnson.

The verse work on I Shall Be Released gives my brother's cause for further hope, but the chorus turns the song into This Little Light of Mine complete with hand gestures. The song is about dreaming of freedom, Bob. It should not sound like an upbeat prison torture soundtrack.

Speaking of Street Legal, Is Your Love in Vain is as great on this album as you'd expect, maybe better than the studio version at moments, especially when the mandolin elbows in. The song comes from a particular genre in the Bobosphere: the "Bob Shares Insights into Why He Never Stays Married" genre. The songs are often pretty good in this genre; but the lyrics are by turns offensive, hilarious and (hopefully) ironic. What Was It You Wanted? is a fun member of the club; Something's Burning Baby, is a particularly terrible entry, not because it features tender husband bon mots like, "Something is the matter baby, there's smoke in your hair," but because it's unlistenable. Bob, buy a clue: if your ladyfriend is on fire, don't write a song about it. Rather, go get a hose.

Just in case Bob's not sure, let's tell it to him straight, right here and now: no one wants to be asked if they can cook and sew and make flowers grow for you, Bob. Therefore, no one wants to understand your pain. But we still like your song!

Okay, we are almost 1/2 way through this record and the score is me 4000, my brother 2. But Going, Going, Gone sounds alright! We've got a pretty full rewrite going on, and the guitar noodles along nicely. I'd love to hear Bob Uecker sing this version of the chorus as a ball leaves the yard.

But then mid-track something wicked and gross this way comes. In what I guess we'll call the bridge, the band veers off Gordon Lightfoot's Carefree Highway and is suddenly going, going, gone into the River Acheron (you know, the one that welcomes all souls to hell). Moments later, the band regains form, and we are no longer trembling alongside Dante. But then the whole reckless thing restarts and I'd rather get in Charon's boat and compliment his flaming wheel eyes than listen a moment longer.

It's time for side three!

Finally we hear Alan Pasqua front and center on Blowing in the Wind; here he tinkles mysteriously along, going somewhere exciting. His intricate, conversational and utterly original playing on Murder on Most Foul led me down a lovely internet rabbit hole a few years back. Somewhere on the net (look yourself, you lazy reader, and bring me another beer while you are at it. I'm busy surviving this experience.) there's a huge and exciting interview with Pasqua all about this tour and his occasional work with Dylan during the past 45 years. Someone, somewhere in all that reading compared Murder Most Foul to A Love Supreme. The comparison is ridiculous, yes, but it's also interesting. All kidding aside, Dylan has made some of the last century's weirdest and best art. Just not here.

Anyway, this arrangement of Blowing gets increasingly intolerable as the rest of the band comes in; I'd be far more excited to have Dylan work the whole song through alone with Pasqua.

Just Like a Woman sounds nice here; it's another entry in the "I recommend you divorce me" Bobfiles, but if he wanted to play this at my $1000 Wedding I'd be fine with it. Dylan busts out his harpoon for some classic warbling at the end, setting the stage for the best harmonica playing of his whole career three or four years later on Every Grain of Sand. Blow Bob, blow! Your catching my brother up!

But uh oh, broheim, Oh Sister is moody and unrecognizable. Where is this going? This song has always been one of Bob's most terror inducing. Is he singing about lying in the arms of his actual sister? Is Oedipus joining them afterwards for light drinks and conversation? By the time Steve Douglas fingers his giant, one eyed, Achaean blood sausage yet again everything sounds like the fourth, thankfully edited out, hour of Boogie Nights. During the final instrumental section things are actually pretty exciting, but I'm glad Bob didn't introduce this one the way he introduces the next ("Here's a simple love story, happened to me...") because if this song and this version are non-fiction there are three headed people in Minnesota descended from Dylan's coupling with some poor sibling. Yikes. Next track, please.

Simple Twist of Fate is good! I'd prefer it if Dylan's hotel wasn't "renovated" and I'd be fine without the bridge, but David Mansfield's violin soars nicely towards the end, swimming in a lovely current with Billy Cross's lead guitar and Pasqua's surging organ. Score another one for the famous brother.

What can I say about All Along the Watchtower? Stoner's bass is bigger here than his bong. Mansfield's violin is awesome; the background vocals are great. Does this compete with Jimi Hendricks, or the Dylan and the Band version from 74, or the original? Hell no. But this is probably my favorite track so far: Dylan gives one of Dylan's most cinematic songs a great reboot.

Wow. I Want You! Maybe my brother is famous for a good reason after all. This take is soulful, unrecognizable and tender. It nearly wins my brother the whole bet. One of his big claims is that Bob really sings on this record, rather than the shouting he'd done on the previous tours. I concede that point, at least for the moment.

I'm at the bridge now (Remember? All this is being written while I sit here suffering! But this song is amazing so far.) and I'm praying Bob sent his sax player and his unsheathed whispermaphone straight to Tokyo jail. Ooooh - it's even better than that: Bob's making the guy play recorder instead. Forget you ever saw the long term tenant in the sax guy's trousers because we're swooning here. Wow! If Bob's reissue sounds like this my famous brother is going to be right yet again and I'll be left with Bob's own backyard brood of chickens' eggs all over my face. Curses!

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Side 4

Are there really only four sides so far? How many beers have I had? Do I really have to listen to All I Really Want To Do? It doesn't even crack my top 400 Dylan songs; Handy Dandy holds down number 400 and cannot be budged. Handy Dandy: he's got an all girl orchestra and when he says strike up the band, they hit it. Love that song....

It doesn't matter if it's Dylan giggling through All I Really Want to Do himself or if World Party are playing hommage to it, I've just never wanted to be friends with anyone while listening to this song. And this version isn't making me social; a few more minutes of this and I'm gonna go out and punch a neighbor. Any neighbor. All I really want to do is get to the end of this damn song.

Knocking on Heaven's Door explores whole new realms of terrible. Here's Bob, hawking bananas and other ripe fruits. He'll show you a yo-yo trick; he'll squeeze your baby's cheeks with affection and scare the hell out of them in the process. This might be the worst thing on the whole album. I'm winning, people! My famous brother: infamous. A plethora!

The next track lands like a jiggling jello dropped from a great height. It's Alright Ma combines with Gates of Eden to form the least tolerable moments of Bob's first golden era of solo folk; sandwiched between two stone cold classics on the acoustic side of his fifth record, they make clear that Bob going electric is a good idea. But then in 74 Bob sailed It's Alright Ma into his rushing flood of hollered greatness. Even the president of the United States has to love that version. But here at Budokan, Bob karate chops his way through each verse, surrounded by a flash mob of belly dancers. I don't want a sensie, Bob. I want this record to end.

Thankfully, we're winding down. My family is no longer begging me to turn this crap off. Forever Young and The Times They Are a-Changing end the album and both sound reasonable here, like leftovers from The Last Waltz's studio sessions, where the fabulously nuts Richard Danko and Richard Manuel were chained down to their desks and ordered to not freak out. Stoner takes one very intentional bass step at a time throughout each track, like he's completing a connect the dots page with fierce concentration. Slowly an image is revealed: a giant, white guy afro in profile: Dylan in 78.

Okay, it's over. Did I win? Of course not! No doubt my brother is right and the reissue will feature more outtakes like this one, leaving him the victor, yet again.

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