Get Busy Livin'

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

Bob's makin' googly eyes at Alicia Keys.
Bob's makin' googly eyes at Alicia Keys.

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 gllllrrrrrhhhhh of the world, we sure could use his opinion on it now. He's our link with history.

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