Was there any better feeling this past week than knowing you’re in Bob Dylan’s will?
OK, that’s cynical. Sorry. But, really … being on his Christmas list this year has to not really suck at all, either.
Some handwringers are whining about Dylan selling out by letting his publishing catalog go to Universal for $300 million. They’re wrong. It was brilliant.
Bob Dylan already made his art for all the right reasons: for art’s sake, to express himself, to inspire people to think and even some to change their thinking. His 2020 album was among the year’s best. His career still inspires.
But to make a bundle by doing so? That’s the American dream, right there.
The list of people who make a living from creating music gets shorter every day. The pandemic kept older artists from earning touring money in 2020. Entertainment lawyers are probably lining up somewhere right now to sell old songs to the highest bidder so Toto can keep the electricity on.
By the way, I love Toto. If Toto needs gas money, I’m totally here for them.
Rock and roll has been mainstream for so long, almost no one remembers when it wasn’t acceptable everywhere. Even humorless politicians with fan bases of people who just can’t dance try appropriating it.
Will some people wince when they hear “Blowing in the Wind” used for a leaf-blower commercial? Sure. Stay away from those people. They’re dangerously un-American. Should Bob Dylan care they wince? Seriously?
Dylan also turns 80 next year. He can literally spend the rest of his life at Disneyland if he wants to. And dying of old age after the first waterfall on Pirates of the Caribbean to every young American’s dream. Or maybe just mine … but the point is Dylan is a very old person with a lot of money. Everyone will be nice to him for the rest of his life. They’ll be like kids trying to stay off the naughty list. Every day will be Christmas for Santa Dylan … even if he is Jewish. Happy Hanukah, Bob!
A FEW OTHER THOUGHTS THAT MATTER TO NO ONE: I had a couple revelations last night.
The first was that I’d never seen the movie “Warrior.” I’d known for years it was supposed to be good and – with that incredible cast – how could it not be?
Then again … Tom Hanks … “Bonfire of the Vanities” …
“Warrior” was cliché-ridden, predictable … and totally awesome. If it wasn’t about MMA and didn’t telegraph the climactic ending so badly—though it did come up with a nice way of satisfying all parties—Nick Nolte might’ve deserved an Oscar nomination.
But that wasn’t even the best part. Because I still can’t explain Tom Hardy’s traps. What a pair of trapezius muscles on that guy.
You know, the large triangular muscles extending over the back of his neck and shoulders to move the head and shoulder blades. I thought he was intimidating when he played Bane beating up Batman, but holy meat filler! It’s like the wardrobe person unzipped his shoulders and shoved small hams on either side of his face. I had nightmares last night starring Tom Hardy’s neck muscles trying to murder me.
The second revelation on a slow, rainy evening was far less constructive. I watched Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, AKA the one they had three minutes to re-write after Carrie Fisher died, AKA the one they called that even though all the Skywalkers died, AKA the one I needed 18 months to digest.
I knew it contained a kitchen sink ending, but … dear God, J.J. Abrahams! That was like having a relationship at 19—explosive, totally unhealthy, and overwhelming to the point of wondering if someone laced my Oreos.
Is it wrong to get mad now, after all this time, at what J.J. Abrams did in the last “Star Wars” movie? I just … seven million planet-killing star destroyers? Redemption, regeneration … recycling … regurgitation? C’mon … you want a weird year? I was almost let down this week when Disney announced some specifics for the next Star Wars film. Because the TV shows are so much better.
Whatever. It’ll probably all end up at Disneyland anyway.
Follow music critic Tony Hicks at Twitter.com/TonyBaloney1967.