The title of Bob Dylan’s new book, the first published since he received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 2016, is a lie. It is called the philosophy of modern song. In truth, this collection of 66 short essays on a broad range of musical pieces contains surprisingly little philosophy, and even less about contemporary songs: only two of the 66 selections come from this century. Rich and majestic images—portraits of artists, advertising posters, stills from films, landscapes, comics, and iconic photographs—accompany the analyses in ways that often feel detached from the songs discussed. Still, the book offers value. It presents sharp observations, hallucinatory cutaways, historical notes, extravagant similes, and aphorisms as sharp as a trapper’s knife. Philosophy of… becomes a strange, compelling doorway into Dylan’s world, a landscape of shadowy moments briefly brightened by flashes of insight. After more than a decade spent on the project, Dylan does not feel the need to justify the book or lay out the criteria used to select the songs beyond what appears to be personal whim.
Neither the Beatles nor the Rolling Stones
With some exceptions, the selections lean heavily North American. Robert Zimmerman, seen here as a musician, favors genres that were already popular when he began his rhythmic journey: blues, country, primitive folk, rockabilly, bluegrass. The book also includes pre‑war standards and Bing Crosby, while giving considerable space to figures such as Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and twice Bobby Darin, whom Dylan regards as the most versatile singer of his era. “The man, if he was anybody, was everybody,” one critic observes about Darin. As is common in this kind of project, the most noticeable drawbacks emerge. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones, among other British acts from the 60s, are largely absent, with The Who as a notable exception, in which Dylan’s anthem-infused gaze is most evident. The opening frame sentence—“This is a song that doubts everything and does no one any favors”—casts a strange brilliance over the work. Three other non‑American songs appear, two sung in English (Elvis Costello’s Pump It Up and The Clash’s London Calling) and one in Italian (Domenico Modugno’s Volare). Writing about the latter, Dylan remarks, “There’s something very liberating about listening to a song in a language you don’t understand.”
That attitude toward language isn’t something Dylan claims to weigh heavily when making his selections. Yet the book’s second major shortcoming concerns the limited female representation. Of the 66 tracks, only four are performed by women: Cher’s Gypsies, Vagrants and Thieves; Rosemary Clooney’s Come on Home; Judy Garland’s Rain or Shine; and Nina Simone, whose Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood appears among the entries. The ratio invites critique, and the discussion is broadened by some provocative, if controversial, asides, such as the author’s reflections on prostitution—“when you pay for sex, it’s perhaps the cheapest price there is”—and on polygamy: “What an oppressed woman, a future without the whims of a cruel society, wouldn’t she be better off as one of the wives of a rich man? She was properly cared for rather than being alone on the street at the expense of the state.”
50s
From a certain vantage, Dylan’s defense reads like an artifact of time and place. The book appears to be anchored in a world where country singers once drove lawnmowers to the liquor store while their wives hid the keys. It is not surprising that nearly half of the songs reviewed—28 in total—date from the 1950s, a period when the young musician began to explore blues, country, rock and roll, folk, and poetry in that order and then adopted a new name. The result reads as a historical panorama, not merely a nostalgia trip.
Judging by the book’s philosophy, what comes after it can feel like a long, unyielding fall. “Rock and roll has moved from a window-based brick to the status quo: from slicks on leather jackets that defined rockabilly to stickers bearing catchphrases,” an observation anchors the sense of cultural shift. The 81-year-old Dylan is unmistakably a figure from a different era, and the commentary rings true in its own way. The flood of atomic imagery—Elvis Presley’s Viva Las Vegas and other vivid references—feels inescapable, even as Dylan draws parallels between bluegrass and heavy metal, two forms that have not visibly or audibly changed for decades. Critics resist laughing at these connections, even as they recognize their audacity. In the end, the new book from the 2016 Nobel Prize laureate offers not a revelation but a wellspring of curiosity and wonder.