I have in my library a libraco several pounds with all the lyrics of Bob Dylan. Just open it at random a couple of times to warn that the Swedish Academy made no mistake in granting it, the day before yesterday, the Nobel prize of Literature. The strange thing is that Dylan takes the prize with only a part of his work, the textual. A part that has a life of its own, no doubt, but that it is difficult to cleave the melody in which we rode, of timbre, and the mean of a unmistakable hoarse voice and even the instrumental color with which it is clothed in the discs and recitals. The work of Dylan, his magic, is the conjunction of alchemy of all of that. That’s why the Academy, for the first time, gave the Nobel prize in Literature to someone who, before reading, you must listen to. The times are changing.
You have been awarded the Nobel prize for his contribution to poetry. Fall short: in addition to poet, Dylan is a storyteller, chronicler and prophet. And here is the beginning of temblarme the pulse. What can we say of him after all that has been written about his life and his work? Makes Me want to leave here to go now to listen to your music, by sending them to the same medicine. However, perhaps you can contribute something original if you story my own experience of Dylan. As well as to talk about the sea it is necessary to stop the wave, I think of a record of his, the one that I heard last week with my youngest daughter. And that got me back to my first encounter with the minstrel of Duluth.
I then had ears full of the music of Yes and Genesis, ambitious and ethereal: complex harmonic structures and long instrumental passages to reach the sublime. Until one day, at the age of 15, I bought Desire and down non-stop from the heavens to the hard and blessed Land. Three or four chords and long letters that dispensed with the chorus to tell earthly stories that however seemed to be rooted in the most ancient traditions and mythologies. The voice shamanic Dylan, the rough sound of the band and the violin naked Scarlet Rivera, in songs that ran through many of the feelings essential, I was taught that less is more. Simple, when there is art, takes you farther. With Dylan I learned that stripping is a virtue.
With him I came to the folk and Joni Mitchell, the other star of my firmament, musical teen. When I listened in the living room of my house, passing my mother and whispered that it sounded all the same. I did not bother to answer and went to put the spike at the beginning of the disk. The most I spent was Desire. In those songs he had already found the Dylan full, one that is capable of sounding all the strings, an essential attribute of the great poets.
In Desire, the Dylan narrator appears in “Romance in Durango” and “Isis”, a kind of Odyssey modern. The chronicler is shown in “Joey” and in “Hurricane”, a song about the true story of a boxer in black unjustly imprisoned. The poet appears here and there, but in particular in “Sara”, dedicated to his wife, Sara Lownds, and “Oh, Sister”, which reflects the ambivalence of human relationships and of our condition as finite. life is an ocean, but it ends at the shore/ you may not be able to see me tomorrow, warns that his “sister”, while asking that you do not give back.
Dylan has in addition to other condition of any great poet: his images and metaphors are so powerful that their lyrics (what should I say poems?) offer as many senses as readers there are. In their open-ended nature, allow each person to discover there the ghost of his own experience. As if he played with the double bottom of what is real, Dylan is able to encrypt in his verses the perceptions more clear and concrete, but knowing that appearances hide behind the surface-a secret that admits to being invoked, but never explained. Has glimpsed the secret and slips it in his verses to velarlo right away, as it should be.
Curious, my daughters have plundered my disco from pretty girls. Many of the CD of Dylan are scattered among his own, and is very good as well. Last week, my youngest daughter and I heading home in the car. From the stick began to sound Desire. Many decades later, that album returned to impactarme as the first time. Could’ve sung the lyrics from memory, from beginning to end. When he finished the album, my daughter wanted to re-listen to “Sara”. While the topic sounded I got reacquainted with the one who, in his own age, glaring with such a declaration of love. From somewhere between the words, the melody and the voice of the waterfall, returned intact the same old emotion. I looked at my daughter sidelong. What I said to her that song? Of course, I did not ask her. There was nothing to explain. Dylan, the poet, we had come to him.
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