Get Busy Livin'

The moans on Dylanís latest arenít exactly of the morbid death-rattle variety.

Consider "Day After Tomorrow," off Tom's last record, 2004's Real Gone. It's hiding amid perhaps a few too many corny carnival barker nightmares (i.e., song titles such as "Don't Go into the Barn") with a shockingly vivid soldier's plea for survival — a whole other world of "Holy shit, I'm dying" that's painted in quiet tones that are gorgeous and mournful and beyond belief. I wish Bob Dylan still wrote songs like that. He undoubtedly can. If he'd written that particular one, it would've triggered laudatory press orders of magnitude greater than any half-assed paean to Alicia Keys. It's ridiculous to expect him to play along with my bizarre deathbed-lament fetish, but for a guy who ascended to greatness by violently accosting the gllllrrrrrhhhhhof the world, we sure could use his opinion on it now. He's our link with history.

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