The ‘Voice of the People’ Trap for a Troubadork

Sixty years on, many picture Bob Dylan as either a folk singer, a protest singer, or both, although he went “electric” in the mid ‘60s (really “Mixed-Up Confusion” in 1962), didn’t protest the Vietnam War (”How do you know I’m not for the war?“), and released only a couple of songs after 1963 that could be considered protest.

For a while, the Mr. Rogers of communism, Pete Seeger, thought the Messiah of the proles had returned in the body of Dylan, after hearing Dylan’s sharp early anti-racist lyrics and ability to crystallize the nuclear unease of the early 1960s in sing-along form. Perhaps Joan Baez saw Dylan as the King to her Homecoming Queen in the folk school. A royal union seemed possible. Imagine the talented babies! For those thinking music could change the world, the path to utopia was beginning to be beaten…gently. Woody Guthrie’s guitar killed fascists. Pete Seeger’s banjo was also emblazoned with a creed: “This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender.” Who could imagine the power of engaged Baez and Dylan guitars, not to mention the sweet/sour vocal blend that united commercial and traditional folk audiences. Their guitars could end bad stuff entirely!

The problem is, Dylan didn’t want it, for one reason or another. Folkies had too many rules. And Lefties expected you to fall in line. The Party line. To a non-conformist, the pigeonhole was a no-deal trap. In his 1964 folkie but non-protest-y album “Another Side of Bob Dylan,” he tried to tell them he had a foot out the door, explicitly:

And implicitly:

He split with and from Baez. She never got over it. Then, he went electric at the Newport Folk Festival and broke Pete Seeger’s little heart.

Pete had a replacement for Bob in his midst, who was just itching to take Dylan’s place: Bob’s rival, Phil Ochs. Pete knew him well. Ochs was only a year older than Dylan, and a gregarious songwriting socialist fully committed to protest music and in possession of a great, haunting voice, engaging presence and strong wit.

But nobody handed the orb and scepter to Ochs, despite his hunger, and a series of public events/publicity stunts, such as a concert (with Joan Baez!) declaring the Vietnam War over, a show in gold lamé at Carnegie Hall as an amalgam of Elvis and Che Guevara, a concert for the dethroned Chilean socialist Salvador Allende, and an appearance at the 1968 Democratic Convention riots. He appeared at the “Chicago Seven” trial and sang in the courtroom.

His experience at the ‘68 riots broke his faith in America. It consumed him and his ambitions. (Notice the fake tombstone on the album cover showing he died in ‘68.)

Although Ochs called himself a socialist, he loved the Founders, John Wayne, the flag (“I’ll raise it if I can”) and Americana. After ‘68, he spiraled into paranoia, depression and alcoholism, in time developing a second personality, John Train, a cartoon right-wing character complete with songs. Fans coming to Ochs shows in the early ‘70s might get a John Train show instead. Eventually, he hanged himself in 1976 at age 36, never achieving the career success he wanted, let alone being the bard of the age/spokesman of his generation.

Bruce Springsteen, a former great proponent of the joy of rock and roll, is a more energetic figure than either Dylan or Ochs, and has been aching to be crowned “The Spokesman” since the mid 1980s, when his new politically active manager put a bug in his ear about books with “big” ideas he should read. He became political then, and his music suffered ever since. He built a narrative of himself as the regular guy, the champion of the working man, although his only job has been playing a Telecaster. He still puts on an occasional southern accent when singing songs about people in the south or west. He has flashes of Dylan and Ochs’ talent, but with a tendency to repeat tropes. His band has become turgid and sluggish. His records have started to sound the same, something that never happened with Dylan or Ochs. But he wants to be The Voice.

And you can count on Bruce. He'll wade musically into an issue whether he fully understands it or not, because millions have his back. He thinks we NEED his take. That’s why he rushed out “Streets of Minneapolis.” (Streets are a favorite Boss trope.) The press tells him the song is great. It sells. The Europeans love him for giving the States a good scolding. And he will do his part and speak very slowly on camera, feigning thoughtful mulling and considerate word selection, all the while hunched as if the weight of the world is bending his shoulders; he’s not shrugging like Dylan or crumbling like Ochs.

The Left was unable to keep Dylan as a hostage, so he’s still making interesting (and non-political) albums today, even ruminating on his latest about Karl Marx broiling in hell. While few stood behind outlaw Phil Ochs’ “treason might be worth a try/this country is too young to die” rhetoric, Establishment Bruce is in a financially and culturally safe place to launch his flaccid missiles.

Oh, and he did an album of Pete Seeger songs. If only Pete were around to hear it…but he might be upset, because some of it was electric. Folk Music has rules.