Listening to the remastered version of Bob Dylan's New Morning, I am struck by how lovely the album is, and how light--it feels like it could up and float away at any second. For that reason it feels inconsequential, unsubstantial. The substance it lacks, it seems to me, is longing, be it romantic ("Boots of Spanish Leather"), philosophical ("A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall"), spiritual ("Mr. Tambourine Man"), or even vengeful ("Like a Rolling Stone"). Who wants to pay good money to hear someone else rhapsodize about their happy life? That's why "Sign on the Window" feels like such a cold gust of truth:
"Her and her boyfriend went to California
Her and her boyfriend done changed their tune
My best friend said 'Now didn't I warn ya
'Brighton girls are like the moon
'Brighton girls are like the moon...'"
The yearning in those lines refutes all the blissed-out platitudes that come before and after them. Listen close and you can hear the "Idiot Wind" howling in the distance.
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