By Jon Friedman

The sign of true greatness is longevity, the ability for an artist to remain relevant through generations. It is a highwire act, to defy the natural force of gravity and show the world that you can withstand trends and the aging process of your audience.

In popular music — and perhaps in modern culture as a whole — nobody has done this quite as brilliantly as The Beatles and Bob Dylan. The proof is the re-release of The Beatles’ 1966 masterpiece, Revolver, and a new by Dylan called The Philosophy of Modern Song.

Why am I grouping together these ageless wonders? To me, The Beatles and Dylan represent the best of the 1960s, the decade when both emerged, and the decades after. Many terrific songwriters, singers, performers and musicians have come along in the past 50 years, of course. But nobody has grabbed their crown.

Revolver

Revolver came along in August 1966, the third release in a year of rock and roll sophistication, following hot on the heels of The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds and Dylan’s double album, Blonde on Blonde. Brian Wilson devotees will argue forcefully that Pet Sounds is simply the greatest album of all time. Dylan’s legion of fans will enthusiastically point to his growth on Blonde on Blonde.

But Beatle people will have the last word with Revolver. It represented a giant leap from the similarly magnificent Rubber Soul and pointed to an unimaginable future, marking the emergence of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, in June 1967.

Revolver is a gas. It contains unknown bits that will warm the hearts of collectors and thrill people who love to unearth obscure gems. We have John singing Yellow Submarine, but with none of Ringo’s effervescence. George plays Love You To on his acoustic guitar, giving us a glimpse of what the clever song sounded like before George added Indian instruments to it.

It’s cool to listen in on The Beatles’ studio chatter during the making of Revolver, too. I live for this sort of thing! Hats off to producer Giles Martin for another breakthrough!

Revolver showed Paul McCartney, then, at his creative peak. The album contained songs that showed that Macca had caught up to John Lennon, who had previously written the very best Beatles songs. McCartney acted deferentially to Lennon, like the imagined big brother that John was to the younger (by a year and a half) Paul. Before, it was as if Paul refused to entertain the notion of challenging John for sophisticated songwriting. In Rubber Soul, John presented In My Life, Nowhere Man, Norwegian Wood and The Word; Paul answered with Michelle, Drive My Car, and a few others. Game set match, to Lennon.

But on Revolver, Paul delivered the goods: Eleanor Rigby, For No One, Here There and Everywhere and a few others. Lennon was no slouch, but his contributions to Revolver, save for Tomorrow Never Knows, were electric guitar bursts — terrific numbers but pretty much true to the Beatles’ established guitar-centric sound.

With Revolver, McCartney no longer merely complemented Lennon or provided a useful in-band counterpoint, serving up sweetness to Lennon’s acidic sentiments of lost love and betrayal.

Now, Paul was Lennon’s equal in penning jaundiced love songs and with Eleanor Rigby, he was setting a tone within the Beatles. Lennon suddenly had to prove himself, once again, to contend with the ascendant McCartney, not to mention the emerging George Harrison, whose songs Taxman and Love You To supplied lyrical and musical wallops. And Your Bird Can Sing and Doctor Robert, both by John, sounded more like filler than inspired messages.

The Beatles were more formidable than ever. Revolver underscored the growth and ambition of George and Paul to rival John within the band.

The Beatles were better off for it. This showed clearly on Sgt Pepper, the White Album and Abbey Road, all of which arrived after 1966. But revolver set the tone. It was at once the signpost and the template of The Beatles’ greatness.

Bob Dylan, author

Naturally, Dylan included a song by is friend and acolyte Elvis Costello in his new book on songwriting. Costello, after all, reminded listeners very much of Dylan in Costello’s brilliant 1977–79 phase.

But why, oh why, did Dylan elect to highlight Costello’s song Pump It Up, of all nominees? Pump It Up is a raw, catchy, hard-driving tune, a triumph more of the Attractions, Costello’s then back-up band, than of lyrics and melody. In truth, Costello has written thirty or forty more distinguished songs, though Pump It Up comes closest of anyone’s work to re-capturing the runaway fun of Subterranean Homesick Blues, Dylan’s first “electric” studio release.

Maybe Dylan felt nostalgic — probably not, as he once told journalist Robert Hilburn in 1991 that nostalgia was “death.” Or maybe Dylan felt a fondness for Costello’s blatant copying of style. Or maybe!! …

We will never know. That is one reason why Dylan endures. He remains just out of our reach. He invites us to think, reflect and debate what’s on his mind. But he’ll never tell, and we’ll never really know for sure.

The entries are classic Dylan: witty, perplexing and memorable. And Dylan is still capable of arousing a reaction from his audience. Chris Frantz, the distinguished drummer of Talking Heads and a noted memoirist in his own right, turned to Facebook to express his displeasure with Dylan’s Pump It Up entry.

Not to take anything away from Costello and the Attractions or Dylan himself, Frantz communicated his unhappiness that Dylan had gushed so about Costello (without mentioning Talking Heads).

I’m curious why Dylan omitted a song by Lennon/McCartney, Jagger/Richards, Ray Davies, Paul Simon or many other respected contemporaries (not to mention, of course, David Byrne). Dylan works in mysterious ways.

The book is a fun read. It reminds me of Dylan’s breezy, earnest tone during his Theme Time Radio Hour episodes.

There is no more interesting source than Dylan when it comes to songwriting. This book will stand the test of time. I wouldn’t be surprised if Dylan soon presents us with a second volume. And I’m sure he will then perplex people all over again.

By Jon Friedman

Let It Be is the most misunderstood album that The Beatles ever made. And it might just be one of their best. This point is hammered home in the new release of Let It Be, accompanied by a terrific coffee-table book commemorating the confusing period of its creation, during the first two months of 1969.

For decades, Beatles fans have mistakenly lamented the strange odyssey of the Let It Be album. The band recorded the songs for Let It Be in January and February of 1969 and released the swansong album in mid-1970, eight months after Abbey Road, which was recorded in the summer of 1969. For that reason, Let It Be has always had an after-the-fact reputation. The film Let It Be, rife with squabbling and uneasiness, contributed to the melancholic image. Peter Jackson’s remake of the movie, scheduled for release by Disney around Thanksgiving should go a long way toward giving the whole Let It Be project a new storyline.

But getting back to the album: It has gotten a bum rap for a long time. What other Beatles album, aside from novelty releases such as “1,” showcases three №1 songs, Let It Be, Get Back and The Long and Winding Road. Two of Us, a hidden gem, could have been another chart topper. A Two of Us/I Me Mine single would have been hailed as one of the band’s best radio-earmarked efforts.

People have been blinded by know-it-all critics for way too long. Let It Be (Naked), the 2005 reissue of the original album, was a vast improvement over the bombastic Phil Spector production.

And now Giles Martin has done it again. Following his stellar production work on the reissues of Sgt. Pepper, The White Album and Abbey Road, Martin — the son of George Martin, The Beatles’ longtime producer in the 1960s — has managed to perform brilliant surgery on the tracks. They sound even better than before and the additions of outtakes and snippets of band talk, makes this yet another must-have for Beatles fans.

Some people have griped about the dearth of songs taken from the rooftop concert on Jan. 30, 1969. It’s a glaring omission, to be sure, but understandable. We will see that stuff in the new Let It Be movie. Everyone should be happy very soon. And besides, Apple Music can always put outanother Let It Be package.

Beatles fans will want to pick up a copy of the lovingly put-together coffee-table book, showing the guys during the creation of Let It Be.

It is spectacular. The artwork is brilliant. The photography is remarkable and it’s possible that the guys were never more photogenic than they were in early 1969.

It is a collector’s dream. As The Beatles are so solidly entrenched in modern history, anyway, the coffee table is as valuabvle as anything depicting the 1960s.

Whenever I enjoy a Beatles reissue, I find myself marveling over a song that I had somehow overlooked. This time, it is Paul McCartney piece of genius, Let It Be.

Even though this was a №1 single, it has been overshadowed by other Beatles classics. There is so much to appreciate here! McCartney’s singing is sensational. George Harrison’s guitar solo is lovely — apparently, he had gotten over being slighted on The White Album, and in the Hey Jude sessions. And the story in the song is so moving. I’ve been playing the song during classes for my nervous freshmen students.

Let It Be should be overlooked and dismissed no more. Thanks to this new collection, it won’t be.

Bob Dylan once told interviewer Robert Hilburn that “nostalgia is death.”

Dylan, who uttered those three revealing words in 1991, couldn’t then have known about the joys, rewards and little miracles associated with his Bootleg series. It consists of fabled concerts, outtakes, alternate recordings of beloved songs and previously unreleased gems.

Take, for instance, the latest miraculous offering in the collection, #15: “Travelin’ Thru.” It showcases Dylan’s visits to Nashville, from 1967–1969, to record albums and songs and appear on his pal Johnny Cash’s television show.

It is a triumph, a brilliant collection of songs. And, to think it might never have seen the light of day if not for the ingenuity of The Bootleg Series.

At the center is Dylan’s riveting singing. He has changed voices and genres frequently over the years, keeping his appeal fresh and maintaining both his and his audience’s interest.

On this album, Dylan goes beyond being a “country” singer. That description would limit him. As usual, Dylan manages to sound new and fresh. Of course, much of this collection springs from the 1967 sessions for the John Wesley Harding album. Yet, his singing doesn’t necessarily bring to mind All Along the Watchtower or The Ballad of Frankie Lee and Judas Priest or Dear Landlord. It’s a gift for someone to sound constantly original.

Somehow, Dylan has this knack — and always has.

The greatest example is on Wanted Man, a song Dylan probably knocked off between television commercials. That’s how simple and simplistic it sounds. It has an easy-rolling cadence. But it rocks!

Dylan and his sidekick Johnny Cash basically laugh their way through the song by place-naming various cities. Cash cracks up when he mentions Hibbing, the small Iron Range town where Dylan grew up.

But the partnership works phenomenally. I can’t get Wanted Man out of my head! This is noted as “take one” and, unfortunately, it doesn’t seem as if we will be treated to subsequent takes. For a throwaway, the song has had resonance. George Thorogood sang a lovely version at the 1992 concert in honor of Bob Dylan at Madison Square Garden. When Bob Fass mentioned the Dylan fanzine Wanted Man during a 1986 WBAI conversation with Dylan, Dylan flashed back to the song and noted that he had never recorded it.

These Dylan Bootlegs are wondrous. They are probably not conceived as big sellers, which makes them outliers in today’s cash culture.

But Dylan’s team puts together uniformly beautifully crafted packages for each new release. The collections burrow through Dylan’s nearly six-decade career, spanning his early folk sessions through his “electric” period and up to his more recent recordings of the last few decades.

My favorites have been his 1964 folk concert at Philharmonic Hall in New York — one of his final acoustic gigs before he launched back into rock and roll in 1965; the live 1966 concert in England with The Band in tow, and Another Self-Portrait, consisting of outtakes from that underappreciated 1970 album as well as a brilliantly revamped production of the 1969Isle of Wight concert by Dylan and The Band.

Dylan’s camp has fretted on occasion about how much worthy material might be left to release on future Bootleg packages.

I’ve suggested a complete album featuring Bob Dylan and Joan Baez. But the one I’d REALLY want to see is a re-release of Before the Flood, which captured the 1974 tour of Dylan and The Band.

The performances are spectacular and the songs worked well. Dylan sang like a demon, conjuring up a style that we had never heard before (or since). He has griped in subsequent years about that tour, complaining he had little control over it. But he sounds terrific on the group efforts and the solo songs alike.

The Band, meanwhile, played with full-out power. If it is possible for a rock and roll group to sound frantic and meticulous at the same time, The Band carried it off on this live album. Up to that point, The Band had never been captured on a disc playing with so much force. Maybe the musicians were responding to the gype of the moment or the pressure of a national tour or the demands of playing in 18,000-seat hockey and basketball arenas. But they played powerfully on every track.

But by now, the production quality sounds wanting. Considering how producers have modernized the sound in Beatles recordings and the Isle of Wight Concert, it would probably not be a challenge for smart engineers to work their magic on the Before the Floor master tapes. Let’s hope so!

For now, Dylan fans should thank his management for continuing the labors of love of releasing a new Bootleg package each year. The care that goes into these projects is much appreciated.

‘The Band’ Album: Rock and Roll’s Mona Lisa

The Band album is the Mona Lisa of rock and roll. It should never be imitated or covered. It should remain untouched. It is perfect.

So, when I heard that it would be re-mastered, to commemorate its 50th anniversary, I was wary, to put it mildly. Why bother?

Fortunately, my apprehension was overblown. The re-issue, the center piece of a terrific and classy package nicely takes its place along side the immaculate original. The highs of the first production remain intact and the engineers found a way to create something new. Listen to Rick Danko’s shimmering vocal on “When You Awake,” for instance. It sounds fresh without detracting from the great qualities of a song that Danko sings lead on: soulfulness, emotional depth, friendliness.

Danko didn’t emerge as a coveted vocalist right away. He only had three leads on Music From Big Pink, the first Band album. And then he had three more on The Band album (Richard Manuel, by contrast, boasted six and five, respectively).

The Band album has received praise over the years for its connection to roots music and Americana and mountain sounds and other such media drivel. It is simply a great album. Robbie Robertson, the guitarist and chief songwriter, was in the zone, man! He came up with the goods, such as “Up on Cripple Creek,” “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” “Across the Great Divide,” “Rockin’ Chair,” “Rag Mama Rag” and “Jawbone.” He created memorable characters who did funny and iconic things, such as the unrepentant thief in “Jawbone” and the bitter soldier in “Dixie.”

But for me the album is defined by “King Harvest (Has Surely Come),” an angry, snarling yet poignant story of a desperate farmer, who could have been Hollis Brown’s neighbor, referring to the great Bob Dylan song of a similar story.

Manuel sings it with all of the pain and fear that a singer could muster. His farmer is not defiant. He is resigned to having a sad life, filled with cruelty and utterly lacking irony. He is society’s fall guy.

There is no way to underestimate the sorrow of the story. Manuel sounds half-crazed even as the song begins. The way he pronounces the word “depend” sends chills up my spine every time I hear it. Same thing with “my whooooole barn” — if he were an actor, people would haol his uncanny ability as a method actor.

The Band’s musicianship was on full display on this song, too. Levon Helm’s drumming, all wood and without ornaments or flourishes, powers the song throughout, Garth Hudson’s understated organ pushes the tune along. And Robertson’s sneaky, sinewy solo, one of the greatest he or anyone else has ever recorded, slams the songs to an end.

Robertson had a habit of saving his solos for the end of the songs. This practice may have deprived him of the kinds of kudos that many of his less-qualified but flashier peers earned. But people who really listened to the Band’s records understood that it made sense. If Robertson had soloed in the middle of the tunes, he may have detracted from the songwriting and vocals. Garth Hudson filled that role beautifully, anyway, displaying his world-class skills and ingenuity while not getting in the way. Just listen to his work on Up on Cripple Creek, as he shifts from one style to another.

Happily, the appeal of the collection doesn’t end with the souped-up album or the delightful outtakes. There is also The Band’s 11-song set on the Aug. 17, 1969 from the famed Woodstock festival. My only gripe is that I wish The Band had played for twice as long.

They are in full flight, playing seven of the songs from Music From Big Pink (though none from The Band album, which came out a few months later, in October). This set shows why the Band fancied Manuel as its lead vocalist at the time. His emotional range was staggering. When he sang Bob Dylan’s brilliant ballad, “Tears of Rage,” he perfectly conveyed the sadness and betrayal of the narrator. Then, on Manuel’s own “We Can Talk,” he turns around and sings with the charisma of a gleeful rocker. Manuel could sing like no one else.

I was lucky enough to see The Band perform six times before the original lineup dissolved in 1976. It was always a thrill. Robertson was always at the center of the action. It was impossible not to marvel at Levon Helm, a singing drummer (!) who carried off both duties splendidly. Dank stood next to Robertson and moved like a cricket, all energy, as he played the bass and sang. Manuel was positioned far off to the left of the audience’s view so he didn’t get as many close-ups as he deserved. And Hudson backed everyone up, looking very serious as hair flew around wildly when he diligently played the intro to “Chest Fever.”

It’s difficult for a fan today to understand how skilled this band was. It featured three lead singers at the top of their game. The best organist and guitarist around — and that joyful, charismatic singing drummer. Nobody else like them. And The Band was, and remains, the group’s masterpiece, its Mona Lisa.

The new deluxe, new-engineered Beatles’ White Album is an unqualified success. Engineer Giles Martin, the son of the Beatles’ legendary producer, George Martin, did a remarkable job. The music sounds fresh, biting, exciting and edgy. And man, does it bring back memories.

Except for my Bar Mitzvah, eight months earlier, Dec. 6, 1968 loomed as the most exciting day of my young life.

That was the Friday afternoon when The Beatles’ brand new White Album would be released.

I had been counting the days while diligently saving up quarters and the odd dollar bills from my paper route.

Finally, the big day came. I was so excited that I couldn’t wait to walk from school to Floyd Bennett’s, where they had the albums. I didn’t want to wait for the bus. It was, if my memory serves me well, an unseasonably warm. It didn’t matter, though. It could have been 45 below. I was walking to Floyd’s. I walked fast. Real fast.

The Beatles, my favorite rock and roll band by far, had not put out an album for a year, since Magical Mystery Tour — which consisted of a handful of new songs and a lot of singles and B sides — and that cool booklet. It had been eighteen, endless months since the debut of the game-changing Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the greatest rock and roll album ever, then and now. Don’t even try to disagree with me.

The Beatles had been hiding in plain sight. In early 1968, they put out Lady Madonna, a rocking single that I didn’t fully appreciate for many years. It was followed in the late summer by Hey Jude, backed by Revolution, probably the greatest 45 rpm of all time.

It was thrilling to see The Beatles perform those two songs on The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour. The boys looked so cool! It had been an interesting four-plus years since their scintillating debut in America on The Ed Sullivan Show, all right.

Seeing was believing. It had to be. This was before Rolling Stone asserted itself and the rock and roll press was formed. There was scant news about the music or the musicians in the newspapers and virtually none on television. Mostly, we learned about our favorite bands by word of mouth. I bet that there was someone plugged into the music scene in every city and suburb in America and the true believers, like Roger in the ABC Record Shop in Mid Island Plaza — it was almost always a guy — passed the word.

There they were at Floyd’s: stacks and stacks of White Albums. I promptly grabbed one and shrewdly scooped up a copy of Revolver, their 1966 masterpiece: $5.99 for The White Album and $2.39 or Revolver. Brilliant. I didn’t get around to putting Revolver on my parents’ turntable for a long time, though, which accounts for why I don’t have the same reverence for it that a lot of my pals have. My loss.

Back in the USSR kicked off the White Album. It was The Beatles meet The Beach Boys. It sounded incredible, rocking, funny and loud. It was my new favorite song, replacing the previous one, naturally, Hey Jude. I think I played it five times in a row before moving on to the next track.

And so it went. I had no idea who Sadie, Julie, Martha and Prudence were. Or what a Savoy Truffle was or who the King of Marigold might have been. The album sounded spectacular.

That my Sinatra-loving parents shouted, “Turn it down,” sealed the deal. Then when “Honey Pie” came on, my father called out, “I like that one!” That was OK, too.

I’m not an audio-phile or a musician. I’m a fan and a chronicler, in that order. Or the reverse order on a good day. It’s incredible what Giles Martin and his team accomplish. They make the most familiar and cherished music in my world — and probably yours — sound like it was recorded last month.

I’ve met Giles a few times. He is confident, practical and unassuming, good traits for an engineer/producer. His task is magnified when you remember that he is tinkering with some of the most beloved music ever made, which was produced by his dad! Talk about a string of daunting undertakings.

With his re-mastering of Sgt. Pepper, the biggest beneficiary was Ringo. His drums crackled and snarled. He had ben somewhat buried in the original mix, but in the remake, he sounded transformed, especially on Good Morning Good Morning.

Here, I especially admire the sound he gets on the acoustic guitars. On Prudence, Blackbird, Julia (especially), Mother Nature’s Son and other cuts. This album has so much sound and data to absorb that it’s hard to compartmentalize it. And why should we? We should simply enjoy the listening experience.

I now get the feeling that, with this laudatory album, The Beatles had one foot in the throwback swing territory of John Wesley Harding and the other one in Jimi Hendrix’ sonic turf, all the while appreciating the precision of Music from Big Pink. But the boys are no copying anyone. It’s all them.

It’s all them.

And Giles.

Bob Dylan occupies a unique place in the annals of rock and roll icons. No other individual has stirred up so much melodrama at every turn of his life and career. Whatever time period you want to isolate, Dylan contended, in public view, with personal or professional demons, intrusions, challenges, rewards and pitfalls. And his fans ate it all up.

Perhaps only Dylan could attract as much attention and publicity for his life as for the contents of his music. Yes, The Beatles could, too, but, remember: a) There were four of them and b) That band lasted in public view from 1962 to 1970 (1964–1970 if you happened to live in the colonies).

So, when Dylan released Blood on the Tracksin January 1975, the critics pronounced it as the Bard’s most “personal” set of songs yet. Fans approached the new album as if it contained clues to a great, ancient mystery. Was he singing about his disintegrating marriage, in fact? If so, why? And why now?

The new re-released More Blood, More Tracks, fills in the blanks. It should satisfy the curiosity of Dylan fanatics by featuring hundreds of takes of the 10 known songs on the original album as well as a few that were left off for space and other considerations.

It should also send those usually insatiable followers into a state of euphoria because it is so exhaustive and well assembled.

Dylan’s management team, primarily Jeff Rosen in New York, work very hard every year to come up with a new idea to release to the panting public. But at no point does The Bootleg Series– this is №14! — cross the line to becoming a gimmick. Each Bootleg adds a chapter to Dylan’s ongoing and seemingly endless saga and gives the fans more information to use to discuss obsessively their favorite artist.

What matters most about this package is that we get to have an audio ringside seat for the creation of this album, which routinely tops critics Favorite Dylan lists. The performances run from interesting to spectacular. We catch Dylan scrambling to get a sound, to match the engrossing lyrics. (For the record, Dylan has never confirmed the confessional rumors; he, in his inscrutable way, has suggested that the origin was Chekhov, not his marital breakup).

More Bloodis really more than merely an entertaining album. It gives listeners what they also crave: information.

Dylan struggled when he started the sessions. Either he couldn’t communicate what he wanted to hear to Eric Weissberg and his band Deliverance or he didn’t know himself or the players just weren’t in synch with Dylan.

It’s possible that Dylan had been spoiled by his previous foray into the recording studio, the year before. Dylan had breezed through his previous studio attempt, Planet Waves, 10 months earlier, in Los Angeles. Of course, he had The Band, his favorite back-up players since 1965, playing with him and the six of them personified musical and creative simpatico. Dylan had no such luck with Weissberg.

He was desperate to achieve a stripped down similar to what he attained at The Concert for Bangladesh, widely considered a masterful Dylan performance, flanked by George Harrison, Leon Russell and Ringo Starr. Frustrated by Weissberg & Co.’s unsympathetic accompaniment. he retained the bass player and sent everyone else packing.

The result was a breathtaking, raw, wholly unexpected sound, raw, unadorned, revealing, a sort of continuation of “Wedding Song,” the concluding song on Planet Waves. But not too musical.

As Dylan fans know by heart, he chose to re-cut five tracks three months later, over Christmas week, with musicians assembled in Minneapolis by his brother David Zimmerman. The result is five ”electric” performances and five stripped-down ones.

Which performance is better? Hard to say. I like the Blood on the Tracks that I bought in 1975. “Idiot Wind” pulsates and “Tangled Up in Blue” has a richer sound, which complements the story Dylan is singing about. The arrangement of “If You See Her, Say Hello” is exquisite, as is the one for You’re a Big Girl Now.

Still, it’s impossible not to think of the confused state of Dylan’s private life in 1974–75.

Perhaps the best way to examine what Dylan was going through is to look at the big picture. When I wrote Forget About Today: Bob Dylan’s Genius for (Re)Invention, Shunning the Naysayers, and Creating a Personal Revolution in 2012, I examined every year and phase by dividing Dylan into three categories: a) what he was going through in his personal life b) what was happening in the industry he inhabited, the music world and c) what was taking place in the real world.

Think about it. This method makes sense and it helps us to UNDERSTAND the great sphinx of popular music.

When you consider what was going on in Dylan’s life, his music and the world around him, it’s no wonder thatBlood on the Tracksbecame such a compelling work.

* * *

By September 16, 1974, when Dylan entered Studio A at 799 7thAve. on the West Side of Manhattan, he had a lot to live up to — and to live down. As usual, controversy swirled around the 33-year-old Dylan.

The year 1974 had commenced with a big bang. Dylan hit the road from Jan. 3 to Feb. 14 — doing 40 shows in 42 days in 21 cities, a frenetic pace for anybody but even more strenuous and ambitious for a man who had never before embarked on a coast to coast US tour and hadn’t hadn’t toured for 7–1/2 years, in all. (Plus, his backing group, The Band, themselves, had not been on tour since 1971 though they played some shows in the summer of 1973, including the historic concert at Watkins Glen before an estimated 500,000 to 600,000 people.)

Many of the Tour ’74 performances occurred in professional hockey and basketball arenas that housed some 18,000 to 20,000 fans. The combination of Dylan having to acclimate himself to heavy-duty touring and feature songs from his new album, Ceremonies of the Horsemen, which he renamed Planet Waves.

On the road, Dylan had a lot of time to contemplate the swirl of his life. As Dylan historians have often documented, his marriage was troubled. He had embarked on a new career path by leaving his long-time professional home of Columbia Records in favor of upstart David Geffen, who had already wooed and impressed Robbie Robertson, The Band’s de facto leader and one of Dylan’s musical consiglieres. If Tour 74 jump-started Dylan as a performer, the world also wanted to know if he still had the power to move it with is lyrics, as he had done a decade earlier so brilliantly.

And, outside of Dylan’s orbit, the world was going through an upheaval. Richard Nixon’s presidency was crumbling under the heavy weight of the Watergate investigation. In fact, Nixon would be forced from the White House only a month before Dylan commenced work on

Blood on the Tracksin New York. The times sure were changing.

Music From Big Pink, The Band’s debut album, came out 50 years ago, in the summer of 1968, and sparked a musical revolution. Its success hinged on its mysticism, mysteriousness and power. It remains relevant today for the same factors, too.

Thankfully, Capitol has released a remarkable package befitting rock and royalty, under the watchful eye of Robbie Robertson of The Band. It is complete with far enhanced recored sound, liner notes and the original single of The Weight/I Shall Be Released.

The extraordinary album now sounds even better. It has a modern production quality. Richard Manuel’s vocal on Tears of Rage, Levon Helm’s booming bass drum on The Weight and Garth Hudson’s organ solo at the front of Chest Fever are only three of the great new delights and pleasures of the improved sound quality.

Big Pink, as Robbie Robertson, The Band’s guitarist, principal songwriter and de facto spokesman, has said, was noteworthy for rebelling against the rebellion. In 1968, the Vietnam War was raging. The civil rights movement was gathering strength and the feminism movement was gaining momentum.

And in rock and roll, distorted guitars, extended drum solos, psychedelia, mindbending names for bands was the norm. Expressing open hatred of parents and distrusting college professors was all the rage among baby boomers. It could be said — as Amy Madigan’s character Annie expressed in Field of Dreams, a Hollywood love letter to the Sixties, as much as anything else, “a time of great madness.”

Against this troublesome background The Band released Music From Big Pink. First, who had ever heard of a band called The Band and not The Strawberry Alarm Clock. Pink Floyd and the Electric Prunes?

Even before you put the album on your turntable, it reeked of mystery. The cover consisted of an abstract paintings of musicians. That Bob Dylan, then a reclusive music genius, had painted it only added to the mystery.

The back was equally confusing. Instead of a photo of the smiling band members, the album featured a picture of that ugly pink house. And what the heck did “Music From Big Pink,” mean, anyway?

In 1968, there was, of course, no Google, YouTube, Wikipedia or Internet of any kind. You had to be incredbly hip to know that The Band had backed Dylan on his worldwide excursions in 1965 and 1966. The Band gave virtually no interviews. Dylan didn’t talk about them. All you had to go on was the quality of the music.

The album opened with “Tears of Rage,” which Dylan had written the previous year, off the road. He recorded it with the backing of The Band inside Big Pink but up to that point almost nobody had heard it.

The Band shrewdly featured this Dylan gem as the opening song. Slow, stately and beautiful — thanks largely to Richard Manuel’s haunting, painful vocal — Tears of Rage set a distinct tone. Where was the drum solo? No screaming guitar? No 14-minute-long songs that announced, We’re egomaniacs!

The next few songs continued the rustic, easy-flowing, sentimental feel of Tears of Rage.

Then came “The Weight” — and everything changed at once. A very “nice” and “interesting” album became an instant and enduring classic.

The Weight had a sneaky charm, releasing guitarist Robertson to strum a few naked chords before a wooden sound, coming largely from Levon Helm’s muffled drums. Helm had a featured vocal of his own for the first time so far on the album. Manuel and Rick Danko sounded like Canadians in a band that reflected what seemed like the norms of Canada — informality, modesty and friendliness.

But Helm’s vocal was unmistakable American South. No other vocalist anywhere could have carried this off like the masterful vocalist that Helm was on this song and would continue to be for as long as The Band made music together — and beyond.

“I pulled into Nazareth/Was feelin’ bout half past dead.” Those were the song’s evocative opening lyrics. Was the song supposed to have Biblical overtones? (Songwriter Robertson later puckishly revealed that Nanreth was actually a town in Pennsylvania where the Martin guitar factory stood).

As The Weight rolled along, the audience met a series of people straight out of a colorful southern circus or carnival: Mister, Carmen and The Devil, Crazy Chester, Anna Lee and, of course, Miss Fanny herself.

Garth Hudson intoxicating keyboard mastery carried the song along. The song sounded like nothing we had heard to that point, though after the release of The Basement Tapes, first in 1975, we could better understand how Dylan had mentored Robertson in the art of Americana songwriting and inventing memorable characters in songs.

Side two was equally memorable, with Manuel’s carnival-like, church-like “We Can Talk,” the mountain ballad “Long Black Veil” (sung in an otherworldly voice by Danko), the rollicking “Chest Fever,” the heartbreaking “Lonesome Suzie” and the two Dylan songs that close the album, “This Wheels on Fire” and “I Shall Be Released.”

Looking back, it is too simplistic to attribute the elegance and majesty of Big Pink solely to Dylan — and he doesn’t exactly need the credit. Since Robertson went on to write almost all of the memorable songs in The Band’s catalogue, it’s fair to say he was its leader and visionary.

Robertson must have sensed that the revolutionary musical excesses of Jimi Hendrix did not apply to what he had in mind. Robertson wanted to be in a group of five excellent musicians and three singers, signs of prodigious talent slmost unheard of in a rock and roll band, then or now. He didn’t need to play a 15-minute solo in the middle of Who Do You Love? He didn’t want to, either.

The best explanation of The Band’s style and success cane be found in critic Greil Marcus’ book, “Mystery Train.” He writes well about cozy, inspiring sense of community that the five musicians found when they made music in Big Pink and elsewhere during this period. You can hear the friendship in the supportive harmonies.

That’s why Big Pink’s power has lasted and not diminshed like so many period pieces in rock and roll. Yes, the musicians were top notch. Yes, the vocals were soulful. Yes, John Simon tied it all together with skill production work. And yes, this album sounded like nothing else. What helped create this sensation was the obvious brotherhood that the five guys had forged.

Sadly, the good feeling melted over the years, thanks to the usual star-maker machinery: drugs, money, egos, insecurities, paranoia, restlessness.

But for a debut album, Big Pink reflected happier times. The album holds up today as a 50-year classic. Not bad.

No period in Bob Dylan’s six-decade career has produced more controversy than his so-called Born Again conversion from 1979 to 1981. People talked a lot about religion and God and Jesus — but not so much about what really matters the most when the subject is Bob Dylan: his music.

“Trouble No More,” the new Legacy extravaganza set covers the least appreciated part of Dylan’s transformation.

As this Bootleg Vol. 13 confirms, Dylan music was often brilliant during this period that so troubled many of his admirers. Dylan here is fully engaged and passionate about communicating the words and sounds he felt. And as an aside, some bad news for the naysayers: Psst, I suspect that Dylan has never stopped feeling close to his beliefs from this period. Dylan lives in the real world, and I reckon he has realized it’s better for his business if he stopped yakking about it.

When Columbia Records released “Slow Train Coming,” in 1979, Dylan’s fans panicked. Jews feared that he had turned his back on his — and their — heritage, values and faith. Liberals fretted that he was embracing the rowing tide of conservative politics and right-wing thinking. How could their generation’s spokesman do this to them?

The songwriter who had warned his fans, “Don’t follow leaders,” and cried, “I got nothing, Ma, to live up to,” had abandoned his flock. They didn’t listen. They seldom do.

(An ironic sidelight to all of this: Throughout his career, Dylan had tried valiantly to reinvent himself, primarily to get away from the fans’ image of him as their savior. He spends a good chunk of his memoir, “Chronicles,” musing about it. Well, with this one album he had done it, and brilliantly. He may have even wondered why he hadn’t thought of this earlier.)

“Trouble No More” contains many brilliant performances of excellent songs. To hear Dylan perform “Slow Train” in concert is a treat. He is much more artist than craftsman. You get the feeling that he believes every word and wants his audience to get he message. This is similar to his mentality during the tumultuous 1965–66 worldwide “electric’ tour. Back then, he also wanted to drill the music into his fans, from Sydney to San Francisco.

Dylan got booed mercilessly during that tour. The fans hated the notion that he had moved on from them more than they detested the music (How could they? This was some of the greatest music in the history of rock and roll — and Dylan and The Hawks played it brilliantly every night.People are just stubborn and stupid sometimes).

Meanwhile, the Christian movement also contained lots of wonderful Dylan music. Try and find a bad track on “Slow Train Coming.” You can’t. “Saved,” however, blunt where “Slow Train Coming” had been artful,” was not well received. “Shot of Love,” the third and final piece in the trilogy of thematic albums, again featured its fair share of terrific cuts. (And if Dylan had found it in his heart to add the excellent “Caribbean Wind,” then the album would have garnered better reviews, more air play and a higher sales chart number than a disappointing (by Dylan’s standards) 21.

Rumor is that Dylan recorded a two-record set of “Christian” music that has never been released in full. “You Changed My Life,” a song contained on an earlier Bootleg collection, is a catchy recording and shows Dylan at his best, in songwriting and singing. He sounds happy and spirited and, once again, engaged. Dylan, throughout his career, has always been at his finest when he feels fully engaged.

Which brings us back to Trouble No More.

Dylan certainly sounds like he is in the moment. It’s hard to know, for sure, what was motivating him to put forth this level of commitment during the three years. Of course, the novelty of 1979 and “Slow Train Coming” pushed him, just as the advent of every musical movement drove him to special heights. But in 1981, the “Shot of Love” period, Dylan continued to sing like he was on fire. He didn’t sound bored or complacent at all. He believes in what he was doing. If you don’t believe me, listen to these songs.

The ultimate put-on artist in the Sixties, Dylan played mind games on his audience during this period in one respect. Beginning with 1978’s occasional masterpiece, “Street-Legal,” and running through “Shot of Love,” “Saved” and, finally, 1981’s” Shot of Love,” Dylan’s albums all began with the letter “S.” So sly! It’s similar to how Dylan wore the same brown jacket on the covers of the Nashville-lilted albums, “Blonde on Blonde,” “John Wesley Harding” and “Nashville Skyline.”

What’s so much fun about the ongoing Bootleg Series is that it allows Dylan-philes to revisit a special period in his career. (Every Dylan period stands out in its own way.). This was his most misunderstood and, arguably, under-appreciated time. As he complained bitterly in the Biograph liner notes, fans disrespected him and treated Shot of Love “like a Methodist record.”

Maybe Dylan wasn’t totally kidding around in 1965 when he said he sees himself as a song and dance man. He sees himself as a musician, not an evangelist or a politician or, a political scientist or especially, a spokesman.

His songwriting was as powerful as ever. His singing as fiery as it was at any time. He has never been more definitively a musician than he was in this period, from 1979 to 1981. And that makes all of the difference.

Review: Move Fast and Break Things

Roger McGuinn‏ @RogerMcGuinn Jun 10

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Pandora played “Eight Miles High” 228086 time in the second quarter of 2016 and paid me $9.15

With Move Fast and Break Things: How Facebook, Google, and Amazon Cornered Culture and Undermined Democracy, Jonathan Taplin has written a revolutionary book for the early 21st century.

Just as Future Shock and The Greening of America nearly a half-century ago forced America to think hard about the “progress” we had made, now Move Fast and Break Things does that, too, at a time when we questioning technology’s influence on our waking hours and making us worry that we are losing every shred of privacy that we ever coveted.

This book smartly lays out the peril of a time when we are controlled by the forces of Amazon, Facebook, Google and Apple and the libertarian entrepreneurs who make billions while we mindlessly follow their script of” liking” posts, clicking a few keys to buy a book while local stores go belly up, and passing the time by checking videos on Google. Etc.

This is not a dry historical text. Taplin writes eloquently and passionately about the human toll of the Internet age. His old cohort Levon Helm, The Band’s much-admired singing drummer, experienced the kind of financial hardships as the main character in The Band’s brilliant song “King Harvest (Has Surely Come).” Helm,like so many others, made his career as a working musician. Once Napster and related free-music sites came along, musicians sat in the caboose of the train and were criminallyshortchanged in the new economy (just ask Roger McGuinn, the founder of The Byrds, whose revealing quote appears above).

Taplin draws upon his rich experience as The Band’s road manager to relate the unfairness of Helm’s twilight. It is moving writing. While his book is thoroughly researched, he could write the chapter about Helm from his memory.

This is a book about people. Crucially, Taplin relates the sagas of the visionaries who, for better or worse, drove the movement and prospered from it, beyond their wildest imaginations. This is truly a cautionary tale for our times, as we contemplate, for example, how hackers upended the 2016 presidential election.

Let’s think about that. This is not a “technology book” because that term would be far too limiting. By reading Move Fast, we can understand much of the acceptance of Donald Trump in 2016. From this book, I better recognized that it was too pat and simplistic to shrug off his astonishing victory to disenfranchised and uneducated voters in flyover states.

Trump, early on, managed to capture his fair share of the little-discussed libertarian vote, along with the heavily publicized white nationalists, evangelicals and gun lovers that the U.S. media obsessed over. Yes, the mistimed proclamation by then-FBI chief James Comey and the intrusion of Russian hackers crippled Hillary Clinton’s campaign.

But the ascent of Peter Thiel — the most dominant figure in Move Fast — and his ilk proved to be quite interesting as well.

Thiel had a unique vision, in which Ayn Rand was the patron saint and “who will stop me?”was the mantra. He saw where society and technology were headed, before the world before the rest of us.

Thiel, as Taplin presents him, comes across as as something of a Silicon Valley Wizard of Oz, befriending and assisting Sean Parker of Napster and Mark Zuckerberg of Facebook, among others.

Thiel seems like a bigger-than-life figure lurking behind the curtain but who seldom steps well out of his comfort zone in northern California (except, for instance, when Thiel, in support of presidential candidate Trump spoke at the 2016 Republican National Convention in Cleveland (ironically, Taplin’s hometown).

Taplin’s book has garnered much well deserved praise from reviewers and pundits alike. I’m not surprised. I have listened to him talk for the past decade about the themes in this book in such different settings as a symposium in Charlotte, North Carolina, the National Arts Club in Manhattan and on his home turf at the University of Southern California, as the leader of the Innovation Lab at the Annenberg School.

I’ve been waiting for a long time to see this book.

I first met Taplin in the bar of the Regency Hotel in May 2007. As the resident media columnist of MarketWatch.com, I had great latitude in picking my story subjects. A few months earlier, at home on a dreary, rainy March day in Manhattan, I had the inspiration to request an interview so Jon could tell me newsworthy stuff about his work at USC.

That was my pitch sanyway. Taplin, indeed, would have plenty to say about the State of the Media — and he came through by predicting with absolute certainty that this bright, forceful man with the curious name — Barack Obama — would definitely be our next president.

The future of the world was all well and good. But I was (and still am) a Sixties rock and roll geek and I wanted him to tell me his war stories about working with The Band and Bob Dylan, two of the all-time great rock and roll performers and icons that I had been unabashedly obsessed with since I was a kid.

Sure enough, Taplin —The Band’s road manager and the producer of “The Last Waltz” (and “Mean Streets,” among other engrossing films) did not disappoint me. (His recollection of Eric Clapton’s woes during the Concert for Bangladesh (which Jon also produced back in 1971) was enough to sustain me at cocktail parties for many years (and, oh yes, it did).

What struck me, right away, was Taplin’s high intellect. In my life as a journalist, I have become accustomed to assuming the role of listener and happily serving as a spectator so I can witness the brilliance of other folks. The greatest compliment I can pay people is to say that I feel smarter after talking with them.

Jon Taplin personified this principle, in abundance. Read his book and you’ll know what I mean.

Full Disclosure: Taplin was kind enough to agree to write a blurb on my 2012 book, Forget About Today: Bob Dylan’s Genius for (Re)Invention, Shunning the Naysayers and Creating a Personal Revolution.

Jon Friedman teaches at the Stony Brook University School of Journalism

Listen to those vocals, particularly by Paul McCartney and John Lennon. The Beatles’ singing has never sounded more soulful, deep or wise. The harmonies, on songs like “She’s Leaving Home” and “Lovely Rita,” are nothing short of remarkable.

Lennon and McCartney never came up with such well written songs on any album before or after. And Ringo Starr’s drumming jumped ahead here by light years.

Couple those qualities with the band’s determination to prod Producer George Martin into helping them concoct sounds never heard before on a rock and roll album (yes, I’m talking to you, fans of The Beach Boys’ breakthrough, 1966’s “Pet Sounds”).

You come up with an album of historic musical and cultural significance, a touchstone for pop music.

So, when I heard that The Beatles’ label would seek to remix the tracks, I was not happy. Why tamper with perfection?

Giles Martin, George Martin’s son and and an anccomplished music maven in his own right, showed me why. He had the mammothtask of bringing Pepper into the 21st century. It’s a job so daunting that I half-expect to hear the ominous catch phrase of the TV series “Mission Impossible” — “Should you decide to accept this mission…”

The new, remixed Sgt Pepper is a standalone masterpiece. It sounds so different, in spots, from the original that it deserves to be mentioned in a breath all by itself.

Plus, the extra cuts, “Strawberry Fields Freever” and “Penny Lane,” recorded during these sessions but not included on the album, sound incredible. The Beatles intended to sound different. They intended to revolutionize rock and roll music. They wanted to turn us on!

It’s fascinating to note how the songs evolved, from take to take. It’s like unearthing a new culture.

The most interesting track here is Lennon’s witty “Good Morning, Good Morning,” his view of a deadend marriage (his) from the suburbs. I have always thought of it as a words-first song, with a lively dancehall arrangement to send it home.

But now! Giles Martin has unearthed a new kind of sound for this gem. It rocks! The song sounds just this side of raucous, with the recharged instruments now battling Lennon’s sardonic voice for control of the tune.

Another master work is “She’s Leaving Home,” the most underapprecated track on the album in 1967. McCartney reaches far, with his classical music leanings, and succeeds in creating a song for the ages. His unadorned vocal tells a heartbreaking story of a restless, miserable teenage girl leaving her well-meaning but clueless parents’ home to embark on an adventurous life.

Mum and Dad are left baffled and devastated by her decision. McCartney takes the care to tell the very Sixties tale from the parents’ point of view — as radical a gesture for the times as Bob Dylan going electric two years earlier.

Giles again makes a Beatles’ song even more vivid here. He has “cleaned up” the track to a point where the instruments — led by the swirling harp — give a listener a rich experience of hearing something quite familiar as if for the first time.

Of course, many Beatle lovers will say — big deal. Do I really need to plunk down the money to hear an album I’ve revered for FIFTY years in a new light? That was my question. The answer is a resounding yes.

The Beatles and George Martin (and the engineers at Abbey Road, led by Geoff Emerick) did their best to invent a radical sound in 1967. And they succeeded wildly. Sgt. Pepper has no peer as an original piece of work.

But to appreciate fully the technical and technological progress that musicians and producers have made in these five decades, you owe it to yourself to listen to the new version.