“I have never written a political song. Songs can’t save the world.” – Bob Dylan
In 1961, Bob Dylan arrived in New York City to meet his idol. Woody Guthrie, by then dying of Huntington’s, had been the prototypical hero of early 20th-century folk music, authoring celebrated pro-labor and anti-fascist classics. Dylan settled in New York and began his career by parroting Guthrie’s style of acoustic, all-American leftism. He and folk icon Joan Baez, his musical and romantic partner, sang in advocacy of the burgeoning civil rights and peace movements. “Masters of War,” “Only a Pawn in Their Game,” and “The Times They are A-Changing,” among other works from 1962-63, are remembered as some of the best political music ever made.
“And the Negro’s name / Is used, it is plain / For the politician’s gain / As he rises to fame /And the poor white remains / On the caboose of the train” (Only a Pawn in Their Game)
Yet, by 1964, Dylan was frustrated with “protest songs.” He was metamorphosing: his fashion became cosmopolitan, he started to occasionally record songs with electric instruments, he often wittily (and rudely) retorted to interviewers when they asked him about his ‘political message.’ Generally, he revealed his spectacular ability to be a rebel — even against rebellion — and a total asshole. A rift developed between him and Baez, as he made less music that explicitly supported the civil rights movement. This metamorphosis was formalized in the 1965 all-electric, rock-and-roll single “Like a Rolling Stone.” Dylan first performed this song at the ‘65 Newport Folk Festival, in arguably the most infamous musical act of the 20th Century. It was his first-ever electric performance: traditionalist acoustic fans booed in outrage, Dylan’s mentor Pete Seeger tried to cut the speaker system’s electrical cords with an axe, and the eclipse of folk by rock music was consummated.*
As “Like a Rolling Stone” represented Dylan’s departure from acoustic music, so is it understood to represent a departure from political music. It’s certainly distinct from the proxil analysis in “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll” of the injustice of a racially prejudiced murder trial. Yet “Like a Rolling Stone” is not apolitical — it is the best political music Bob Dylan ever wrote. It is the realization of a process of songwriting maturation, and an ideal that those who wish to make persuasive political art should heed.
“Like a Rolling Stone” is Dylan at his most forceful; it is the most rock-and-roll and definitely the loudest song he had released to that point. Bruce Springsteen said of the opening snare drum, “[it] sounded like somebody’d kicked open the door to your mind.” That shot reverberates from Lexington to London — and then the song grows. Verse by verse, its volume, intensity, and passion swell and crest, but are only truly released as the harmonica fades. It is the sound of pent-up tension being released — the sound of change — of an epochal climax.
Contained in that force are dual attitudes of scrappy, rebellious ire, and empowered triumph. The former is evident in the song’s chaos, evident in execution as in concept. Even in the official recording, Dylan screws up a line, and the organ is consistently behind. Yet the sum of that chaos is the latter: a coherent, grandiose, and victorious power. The subject of the lyrics is a powerful young woman, against whom the world has turned. Dylan’s bellicose voice calls out to her:
“Once upon a time you dressed so fine / Threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn’t you? / People call say ‘beware doll, you’re bound to fall’ / You thought they were all kidding you”
Many of Dylan’s songs reference a woman whom the speaker once saw as above him. This sentiment is perhaps inspired by his relationship with Baez, but that is never definitively stated. Instead, the tragic main character of the song represents power in its abstract, institutional, and personal forms.
“Ahh princess on a steeple and all the pretty people / They’re all drinking, thinking that they’ve got it made / Exchanging all precious gifts / But you better take your diamond ring, you better pawn it babe”
These lines reference Proverbs 1:10-14, which warn against joining bands of sinners who steal and share “precious gifts.” The implication is that the main character, and the powers she represents, have in some sense done wrong, and that a comeuppance is warranted. Notably, Proverbs 26:27 reads, “Whoever digs a pit will fall into it; if someone rolls a stone, it will roll back on them.” The theme of retribution is furthered with a reference to the French Revolution:
“You used to be so amused / At Napoleon in rags, and the language that he used / Go to him now, he calls ya, ya can’t refuse”
In his youth, Napoleon’s affluent peers ridiculed him for his Corsican accent and inability to match the bourgeois standard of wealth. Yet, as the Revolution progressed and he rose through French society, the center of power inverted against those who had turned their noses up at him. Once Emperor, he made France the first European nation to institute compulsory mass conscription (he calls you, you can’t refuse). As the lyrics apply specifically to the French Revolution, they also reference the archetype of revolution. The chorus is directed at the main character, the emblem of power, as she is overthrown:
“How does it feel? / How does it feel / To be on your own / With no direction home / Like a complete unknown / Like a rolling stone?”
The main character of the song is not necessarily the antagonist of the listener — the inverse could also be true. The song’s primary audience would have been young adults in 1965, the demographic behind dramatic cultural and political upheaval. These flower children left their often-affluent upbringings for a new life in rejection of the old order — they would have seen themselves as rolling stones. The main character could even be Bob Dylan himself: the golden boy of folk and counterculture, now fallen from grace and expelled from his community, but in possession of a newfound freedom.
“When ya ain’t got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose / You’re invisible now, ya got no secrets to conceal”
The political thesis of “Like a Rolling Stone” is a response to the chorus’s question, “How does it feel?” What does revolution feel like? The song answers for both the revolter and revoltee. For the former, it can be frenzied and sadistic, but also righteous and glorious. For those on the receiving side of a revolution, it can be terrifying and chaotic, but also beautiful and liberating. It is a reckoning with, and ultimately a defense — even an anthem — of revolution.
The focal success of “Like a Rolling Stone”’s ability to convey this sentiment is its utilization of the unique power of original art. The political argument is not a rational appeal, but an emotional evocation. For an artwork intended to be politically persuasive, the former is inherently degrading. If a piece of art’s thesis could be argued by a pamphlet, an essay, or a nonfiction book, then what is the point of expressing it artistically?
The reason for doing so will inevitably boil down to at least one of four motives. First, the artist may intend to manipulate their audience, meaning they persuade by cheating, sidestepping the rigor of rational argument (possibly because their position would be visibly weak otherwise). Perhaps the artist is engaging in low-brow appeal, wherein they try to speak to those who are unable or cannot be bothered to engage with a rational, non-entertainment argument. The artist’s aim might be dissemination; they might simply be trying to persuade as many people as possible by making a political argument entertaining (and inherently less rational). Finally, the author may simply be unoriginal; they cannot come up with a novel idea to express with their art, so they need to express an existing, non-artistic idea.
To be driven by any of these motivations should be humiliating to an artist. Manipulation is blatantly foul play in persuasion. Low-brow appeal is a cheapening of one’s art and artistry, as it is an admission of an unworthy and shallow intended audience (it is also belittling to engage with as an audience member). Dissemination is tantamount to propaganda or advertising (one should hope that an artist has higher ambitions than being a salesman for an idea). Unoriginality is a fundamental failure of artistry, insofar as we consider creativity fundamental to the job of an artist.
“So I’m gonna tell you people, if Hitler’s gonna be beat / The common working people have got to take the seat / In Washington, Washington” (Woody Guthrie, “Lingbergh”)
“Like a Rolling Stone” is not a vector for a pre-existing idea: it is an original message. It is creative in a way that Dylan and Baez’s effort to spread the good word of civil rights through folk music never could be. It does not merely append ‘art’ to ‘politics,’ because its politics and its artistry are inseparable. This is why Bob Dylan rejected “political songs”: he just wanted to write songs.**
In the current era of dramatic political tension, many will gravitate towards art as a means to express their political beliefs. In doing so, they should not sacrifice artistic grace in order to expediently make an argument. Truly great political art refuses to stoop to indignity or counterfeit the ideas of others, especially those ideas which should have been non-artistically expressed. Great political art can only be art.
*It is actually contested whether or not the fans booed because they were mad at Dylan’s transition to electric music, and whether Seeger actually tried to sabotage the performance. Although only dubiously founded in fact, the account of events I give is truly the one settled in popular memory (and Dylan’s). Truth was never very important in the world of Bob Dylan, anyway.
**One must take a grain of salt when interpreting Dylan’s words. The effort to understand him is something like Biblical hermeneutics, if God were a dick and a liar.
Featured Image Source: Wall Street Journal
