He’s back. Like Twain, the reports of his death have been greatly exaggerated.
Half a century has passed between the release of Bob Dylan‘s first eponymous album and this morning’s release of Tempest, and while some have drawn parallels William Shakespeare‘s final play, The Tempest, it remains unknown if Dylan’s latest offering will ultimately stand as his swan-song.
I, of course, hope not.
For history to stake a claim as a predictive modeler, one would expect more than just a shared name to signify the end. Shakespeare had 35 plays to his name before retirement, Tempest is Dylan’s 35 album. Hmm, spooky.
I’d rattle off more connections if there were any, but there really aren’t.
Bob Dylan remains America’s greatest living musician and Tempest proves yet again that those who claimed the ’80s signaled his demise (again raising the specter of doom post Christmas in the Heart) are damn fools. If, in the end, Tempest becomes Dylan’s final manifesto there will be an argument to be made that he saved his best for last.