How many roads must an old protest singer walk down? RESUME: BOB

Sunday Herald, The, Jul 24, 2005 by Rachelle Money

Hey, Mr Tambourine Man!

Yeah, all right. The grandfather, or should that be great- grandfather, of the protest song has pottered into our midst again.

In his peacenik, folky, civil-rightspromoting days of 1962-1964, when having a social conscience was cool, hip and groovy, Bob was the original, scruffier, smarter version of Irish worldsaver Bob Geldof. Always having something to protest about, and in Dylan's case occasionally singing a song about it, strumming a guitar and wheezing down a harmonica. That's what everyone remembers him for, anyway: in fact, he more or less lost interest in saving the world from 1964 on.

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands?

Some might indeed be unhappy, for Dylan has chosen to sell an album of previously unreleased tracks through the coffee chain Starbucks. Not what you'd expect from a guy who belonged to a generation that hated global corporations, or would probably have hated them if there had been any around at the time. But you've got to admire any 64-year-old who can still be bothered to make music.

So he's not knockin' on heaven's door?

Far from it. The way Dylan's going he'll be forever young. Following last year's first part of his memoirs, Chronicle Number 1, ol' snakehips is about to break new ground by appearing in a new documentary, filmed by his manager Jeff Rosen and edited by Martin Scorsese. The film, to be shown in two parts on BBC2 in September, is significant not only because Dylan has given only one TV interview in the past 20 years but also because it will show the "Judas!" moment.

Hurricane?

No, just an idiot wind. The famous incident occurred in 1966 when a heckler screamed "Judas!" during a concert at Manchester's Free Trade Hall. After a first half that was at least acoustic, if notably free of references to the threat of nuclear war or social conditions in the Deep South, Dylan had brought on The Hawks and dived head-first into a raging musical maelstrom of electricity. The audience participation came just in time for Dylan to riposte with a vitriolic finale of Like A Rolling Stone. The footage has lain undiscovered for 39 years, making it older than many of his fans.

Don't think twice, it's alright.

Indeed. Doing what felt right worked for Bob in the end, although the new sound remained controversial. British underground cartoonist Edward summed it up in a scabrous cartoon strip from 1970, in which a wasted, shades-wearing Dylan hunches over his electric guitar, rambling: "Ramalama fafa-fa-fa-fa-fa- . . ." while his earnest poet buddy Allen Ginsberg plucks his sleeve and wheedles: "Hey, sing us another song about Negroes, Bobby . . ."

Well, you know what they say, the times they are a-changin'.

Indeed. Robert Zimmerman's come a long way from the mean streets of Duluth, Minnesota. He started off in a high-school rock'n'roll band but graduated to folk, playing coffee-houses as Bob Dylan, the name supposedly a homage to Dylan Thomas. Eventually he worked his way to New York.

Did he get the subterranean homesick blues?

Not at all. Gigging around New York got him his big break in 1961 when he was signed to Columbia, leading to albums such as The Freewheeling Bob Dylan, The Times They Are A-Changin' and Blood On The Tracks. He also changed the face of rock, pop and country music, proving you don't need to have a good voice to be a singer (though that doesn't make him responsible for the Spice Girls).