View Poll Results: Bob Dylan's type?

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Thread: Bob Dylan

  1. #161
    WE'RE ALL GOING HOME HERO's Avatar
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    Default Bob Dylan

    '. . . . I was standing on the side of the road

    Rain falling on my shoes

    Heading out for the East Coast

    Lord knows I've paid some dues getting through

    Tangled up in blue . . .

    We drove that car as far as we could

    Abandoned it out West

    Split up on a dark sad night

    Both agreeing it was best

    She turned around to look at me

    As I was walking away

    I heard her say over my shoulder

    "We'll meet again someday on the avenue"

    Tangled up in blue.

    I had a job in the great north woods

    Working as a cook for a spell

    But I never did like it all that much

    And one day the ax just fell . . .

    But all the while I was alone

    The past was close behind . . .

    She opened up a book of poems

    And handed it to me

    Written by an Italian poet

    From the thirteenth century

    And every one of them words rang true

    And glowed like burning coal

    Pouring off of every page

    Like it was written in my soul from me to you

    Tangled up in blue

    I lived with them on Montague Street

    In a basement down the stairs

    There was music in the cafes at night

    And revolution in the air

    Then he started into dealing with slaves

    And something inside of him died

    She had to sell everything she owned

    And froze up inside

    And when finally the bottom fell out

    I became withdrawn

    The only thing I knew how to do

    Was to keep on keeping on like a bird that flew

    Tangled up in blue.

    So now I'm going back again

    I got to get to her somehow

    All the people we used to know

    They're an illusion to me now

    Some are mathematicians

    Some are carpenters' wives

    Don't know how it all got started

    I don't what they're doing with their lives

    But me I'm still on the road

    Heading for another joint

    We always did feel the same

    We just saw it from a different point of view

    Tangled up in Blue.'


    - from Bob Dylan in America by Sean Wilentz; pp. 139-140: Dylan, who had heard of Raeben

    from Sara’s friend Robin Fertik, sought Raeben out with the intention of learning more about

    Jewish philosophy, but he ended up spending two months working at Raeben’s studio, five days

    a week, from eight thirty until four. Dylan later described his fellow pupils as a thrown-together

    assortment: “rich old ladies from Florida—standing next to an off-duty policeman, standing next

    to a bus driver, a lawyer. Just all kinds.” Dylan does not appear to have been anyone special, at

    least to Raeben, who, though he knew of Dylan’s fame, regularly berated him as an idiot (much

    as he did the other students). It is unclear how much the sessions actually improved Dylan’s

    sketching and painting; at neither would he ever become especially skilled. But Dylan credited

    Raeben with nothing less than teaching him “how to see,” by putting “my mind and my hand and

    my eye together, in a way that allowed me to do consciously what I unconsciously felt.”

    Dylan has from time to time spoken of mentors whose principles or systems pulled him

    out of an artistic and spiritual trough. In the first volume of Chronicles, he relates how recalling a

    particular “mathematical” tone structure that he had learned years earlier from the old blues star

    Lonnie Johnson helped revitalize his playing in the mid-1980s. With Raeben, he learned to

    eschew conceptualization (the bane, in Raeben’s view, of the contemporary art scene), and to see

    things plain, as they really are, always aware of perspective, both straight on and from above,

    simultaneously. He also learned how to abandon the sense of linear time to which he had clung

    automatically, and to understand the artistic possibilities of pulling together the past, present, and

    future, as if they were of a piece, permitting a clearer, more concentrated focus on the objects or

    objects at hand.

    That summer of 1974, working mainly in a house around back on a farm he had

    purchased in Minnesota alongside the Crow River (with his brother David’s house in front,

    closer to the road), Dylan pored over a small red notebook, writing lyrics for a new album that

    would capture the wounds, scars, and sorrowed wisdom of love. His writing included, early on,

    what would become “Tangled Up in Blue,” a song he would later describe as directly beholden

    to Raeben:


    I was just trying to make it like a painting where you can see the different parts but then you

    also see the whole of it. With that particular song, that’s what I was trying to do . . . with the

    concept of time, and the way the characters change from the first person to the third person, and

    you’re never quite sure if the third person is talking or the first person is talking. But as you look

    at the whole thing, it really doesn’t matter.



    Nor did it matter who the “she” was in the song, or how many shes there really were, or when

    anything happened; the song hangs together as one that took ten years for Dylan to live and two

    years for him to write.

    Indeed, it appears that Raeben affected Dylan and “Tangled Up in Blue” in several ways.

    Manic, brusque, and unsparing, Raeben would dress down his pupils as a means to help instruct

    them, sometimes revising students’ work right on the canvas in his loose rapid style, to show

    them how it was done. According to the artist John Amato, another student of Raeben’s at the

    time, Dylan was one day painting a still life of a vase—the quintessential artistic effort to stop

    time—and was working heavily in blue, a favorite pigment of novice students, when Raeben

    looked at the canvas dismissively, telling Dylan that he was all tangled up in blue.









    - from The Cambridge Companion to Bob Dylan (Edited by Kevin J. H. Dettmar); pp. 1-2:

    David Gates’s description of Dylan as “the man who did to popular music what Einstein did to

    physics,” while initially sounding like hyperbole, really isn’t. (The error, if there is one, isn’t in

    the parallel between these two innovators, but in equating these fields of innovation.) Dylan

    brought the long lyric line back to popular American song, much as Walt Whitman had restored

    it to populist American poetry a century earlier; and against the clear-sighted, sometimes

    childlike lyrics of the folk tradition, Dylan imported the French symbolists’ strategy of

    suggesting rather than delineating his subjects, a style of lyrical impressionism fully consonant

    with the introspective (and sometimes hallucinogen-enhanced) listening styles of the time.

    Equally important as these two factors, Dylan from an early age boasted the voice of a seemingly

    old man – seemingly the very voice, to steal a phrase from Greil Marcus, of “old, weird

    America.” In an era when pop (and even folk) stars were, as today, meant to sing like the

    nightingale, Dylan instead sang as the crow. But that croak, it seemed, contained a depth of

    feeling and passion and anger and joy and wisdom and disillusionment not hinted at by the

    songbirds; it came as a revelation. And it sounded like the voice of Truth.



    - from The Cambridge Companion to Bob Dylan (Edited by Kevin J. H. Dettmar); pp. 170-172

    [“Love and Theft” (2001) by Eric Lott]: Just as there’s probably no racially unmixed instance of

    American culture, so there’s no mixed instance not marked in some way or other by inequalities

    of power. Love is shot through with theft, and theft with love. Think about “High Water.” Where

    in the long musical history by which plantation slaves invigorated Anglo-Irish folk tunes with a

    post-African percussive sensibility only to be commercially represented on the US theatrical

    stage by white men who gave rise to generations of “white” rural string music, eventually to be

    taken up in homage to black blues musician Charley Patton by somebody (self-)named Bob

    Dylan (“Hm, Bob Dylan, I wonder what it was before,” Marshall Berman reports his mother

    musing when she first heard the name forty years ago) on an album called “Love and Theft” –

    where in all this can you even think of escaping the rigors and mortises of racialized cultural

    life in these United States?

    By the same token, I’d guess that Dylan regards minstrelsy, say, whatever its ugliness, as

    responsible for some of the US’s best music as well as much of its worst – without the wishful

    fantasies of musical racelessness that mar Greil Marcus’s invocations of the “old, weird

    America” (Invisible Republic 124). I’ve argued elsewhere that the emancipatory depictions of

    Jim in Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (such as when Jim and Huck are reunited on the raft

    after their separation in a fog) are no less indebted to minstrelsy than the more stereotypical ones,

    which is to say there’s no “transcending” or circumventing through sheer will the internally

    contradictory structures of blackface feeling. Stephen Foster’s “Oh! Susanna” (1848), written in

    “black” dialect with some less than palatable suggestions about African American mental

    capacity, is nonetheless a great song that exhibits a good deal of sympathetic identification with

    the black family separated by slavery depicted in it.

    The blues formats that Dylan chooses to say something about cultural borrowing on

    “Love and Theft” give rise in turn to its insistence on age and loss – lost love, lost relatives, lost

    time. “Love and Theft” is preoccupied with loss and futility in direct proportion to its refusal to

    give up – “never say die,” as Dylan sings on “Po’ Boy.” Song by song, the singer’s pathway

    stones are announced and recuperated by the general buoyancy of his wit and his music. The

    oscillation between death drive and pleasure principle isn’t unique to “Love and Theft,” of

    course, but is a structuring principle of all blues; the music’s repetitions don’t aim to drown in

    sorrow but to exorcise it, allow the repressed to briefly return on its way out of the psyche. The

    sound of loss and trauma returning in order to be remade comes in the “dirty” tones, the falling

    pitches, the flatted Es and Bs of the blues scale – and on “Love and Theft” in the voice of gravel

    that intones whole realms of aging and struggle. Dylan does seem singularly intent here, though,

    on capturing a state Freud termed “melancholia”: not the failed mourning of his 1917 essay

    “Mourning and Melancholia,” even less a synonym for depression, but a middling state in which,

    as Freud summed it up in The Ego and the Id, the lost love object is retained as a (historical)

    component of the self. In these terms, the content of one’s emotional life is nothing less than the

    transferential sum of abandoned or lost loves, a nexus of ghostly emotional attachments, “the

    sedimentation,” as Judith Butler has put it, “of objects loved and lost, the archaeological

    remainder, as it were, of unresolved grief”. Loss inevitably undergirds the self, on this view, and

    if that tends in a variety of ways to haunt us it also connects us concretely and materially to the

    past, to history. It thus has an immense productive aspect for thinkers and creative artists, which

    is why I’d argue that the key line on the whole of “Love and Theft” is “I wish my mother was

    still alive” (“Lonesome Day Blues”).

    Beatty Zimmerman died in late January of 2000. To make too much of this fact would be

    as foolish as thinking it had nothing to do with the feel and spiritual vibe of the album Dylan

    wrote and recorded a little more than a year later. The line above seems to come out of nowhere,

    at the end of a disjointed verse in the middle of the internally dissociated “Lonesome Day

    Blues,” as though live and direct from the unconscious. Closer inspection reveals the

    connections, which have the odd effect of making the song seem even more self-exposing.

    Singing against a heavy blues downbeat, the song’s speaker sits thinking, his “mind a million

    miles away.” It is on the whole a roving set of reflections on drastic loss. He left his long-time

    darlin’ standing in the door; his pa died and left him, his brother got killed in the war; Samantha

    Brown lived in his house for four or five months but he didn’t sleep with her eeeeven once. Then

    comes this:


    I’m forty miles from the mill – I’m droppin’ it into overdrive

    I’m forty miles from the mill – I’m droppin’ it into overdrive

    Settin’ my dial on the radio

    I wish my mother was still alive


    In some deep current of feeling, mother and radio are bound up with each other: it’s a genius

    couplet. Both are major modes of cultural and more specifically musical transmission (which

    incidentally realizes the punning intention of “droppin’ it into overdrive”). The mother is the pre-

    linguistic source of all music, her heartbeat the first rhythm we hear, her hum among the first

    melodies; losing her in the process of individuation is our first loss, the first love object to be

    introjected as part of the ego’s melancholia and one template for our later relationships. The

    radio mimics the mother’s subsequent status as ghosted, disembodied musical source (I’ll refrain

    from speculating on the radio dial’s anatomical analogue), and its status as a technological

    anachronism in an age of downloading, music-sharing, and iPods casts upon it a similarly

    vestigial and recursive shadow (that is to say, when you hear the radio you remember the first

    times you ever heard the radio; the same goes, unconsciously, for the pull—or push—of your

    mother’s voice). So it’s no real surprise that the two references might come one after the other,

    or, as the syntax of the line suggests, that the radio itself might remind the singer of his mama.

    The phrase “love and theft” finds an especially poignant resonance in the context of Dylan’s

    mother being stolen away; such is the power of her originary position, moreover, that she might

    even be the long-time darlin’ the singer last left standing in the door. In any case, Dylan singing

    about his mother opens rather effortlessly onto singing about music and by implication his

    career, and given that doing so has helped create a powerful song on a powerful album, we might

    say that loss is recuperated here by, and in the service of, a melancholic art.

    It’s the memories that haunt you, things acquired, loved, and lost. “Some of these

    memories you can learn to live with and some of them you can’t” (“Sugar Baby”). So many

    things cluster here: the people you once clung to, the wrongs you couldn’t help (“So many things

    that we never will undo / I know you’re sorry, I’m sorry too,” Dylan sings in “Mississippi”), the

    very sources of your energy and your art. “These memories I got, they can strangle a man”

    (“Honest with Me”), not a good thing for a singer, but understandable if what you’ve got in your

    throat are traces of a thousand different songs from apartheid America. Race, memory, and

    music meet in musical melancholia, where you get by with materials you barely remember

    taking in the first place: you were too young, or they were too available, or both, and they work

    so well, speak so solidly to your condition. You reach back to your roots, you work through your

    masks, and you find yourself again in the land where the blues began.






    Last edited by HERO; 05-24-2014 at 01:39 AM.

  2. #162
    Raver's Avatar
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    It's his birthday, good timing. Anyways, I'm curious on what @Bob Dylan has to say about his type.
    “We cannot change the cards we are dealt, just how we play the hand.” Randy Pausch

    Ne-IEE
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  3. #163
    A dusty and dreadful charade. Scapegrace's Avatar
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    I'm pretty sure Bob has been typed ISFj about 93 times already.
    "[Scapegrace,] I don't know how anyone can stand such a sinister and mean individual as you." - Maritsa Darmandzhyan

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  4. #164
    boom boom boom blackburry's Avatar
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    He looks like Baby from Dirty Dancing.

  5. #165
    A dusty and dreadful charade. Scapegrace's Avatar
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    You're comparing Bob Dylan to someone from Dirty Dancing? ahahahha


    Oh my lord.
    "[Scapegrace,] I don't know how anyone can stand such a sinister and mean individual as you." - Maritsa Darmandzhyan

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  6. #166
    Humanist Beautiful sky's Avatar
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    ENTj or ISTp I believe
    -
    Dual type (as per tcaudilllg)
    Enneagram 2w1sw(1w9) helps others to live up to their own standards of what a good person is and is very behind the scenes in the process.
    Tritype 1-2-6 stacking sp/sx


    I'm constantly looking to align the real with the ideal.I've been more oriented toward being overly idealistic by expecting the real to match the ideal. My thinking side is dominent. The result is that sometimes I can be overly impersonal or self-centered in my approach, not being understanding of others in the process and simply thinking "you should do this" or "everyone should follor this rule"..."regardless of how they feel or where they're coming from"which just isn't a good attitude to have. It is a way, though, to give oneself an artificial sense of self-justification. LSE

    Best description of functions:
    http://socionicsstudy.blogspot.com/2...functions.html

  7. #167
    A dusty and dreadful charade. Scapegrace's Avatar
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    The man is positively wispy he must be ENTj. *Snort*
    "[Scapegrace,] I don't know how anyone can stand such a sinister and mean individual as you." - Maritsa Darmandzhyan

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  8. #168
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    bump.

  9. #169
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    I would say ESI but I think he is intuitive. I have no idea except introverted.



    Love him, 4w5

  10. #170
    Jesus is the cruel sausage consentingadult's Avatar
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    Inspired by this thread I took some time to watch some interviews, and I can not conclude anything else than SLI for his type. A lot of Mobilizing Fi in those interviews, a person clearly marching to his own drum beat, and (perhaps wrongly) anticipating rejection, through his Mobilizing Fi being preemptively defensive about it.

    Also, in many interviews Dylan clearly doesn't connect with the interviewer (because interviewers treat him as if he were an intellectual) and this discomfort shows in his body language: e.g. an ESI would in such cases more likely express judgement (verbal or non-verbal) towards the interviewer, but with Dylan it translates into expression of physical discomfort, e.g. rocking his body back and forth, i.e. he feels physically estranged, he does not want to be there any longer.

    I think his overall attitude is one of someone who has trouble appreciating other people. Think of Ganin's Hidden Agenda for ILIs and SLIs: "to love". These two types find it difficult to find people they consider worthy of being loved. He does not want to talk about intellectual stuff, he wants to connect emotionally, but he depends upon the interlocutor to make it happen. Those are the people that SLIs and ILIs consider 'worthy'.

    ETA: I just came across an interview where he actually opens up, because of the approach of the interviewer:

    Last edited by consentingadult; 10-28-2016 at 11:09 PM.
    “I have never tried that before, so I think I should definitely be able to do that.” --- Pippi Longstocking

  11. #171
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    ESI
    Last edited by Jake; 11-30-2016 at 05:42 PM.

  12. #172
    Jesus is the cruel sausage consentingadult's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by somebody View Post
    EII
    make your case!
    “I have never tried that before, so I think I should definitely be able to do that.” --- Pippi Longstocking

  13. #173
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    Quote Originally Posted by consentingadult View Post
    make your case!
    He's definitely Delta, Ne isn't repressed like it would be in SLI or LSE. Not IEE as I don't think an IEE could stay so quiet for so long and want to run away from the media so often (stereotyping, I know). Strong Ni in a couple of videos (demonstrative, possibly?).

    My other impression is Gamma NT, lots of Te from him...possibly London
    Last edited by Jake; 10-29-2016 at 01:53 PM.

  14. #174
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    i love bob. lyrical genius.

  15. #175

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    ESI

  16. #176
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    Bob Dylan - ESFP - Napoleon




  17. #177

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    that girl at the end (probably an ESE) always makes me laugh. it's very weird to see him in a strong Fe enviroment with extroverts that are involved in what's happening.


  18. #178
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    This is the comment you are looking for



  19. #179
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    IEI

  20. #180
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    ESI and I don't really know why. Just a hunch. He said something like this in an interview: "Where you live, where you find yourself, you have to make the best out of it"

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