Most of the reviews of Rough and Rowdy Ways I've read have offered a great deal of affirmation and a good deal of insight. One, however, irked me greatly, because it interpreted the 'you' that Dylan was endeavouring to create in My Own Version of You as a woman. Now, I want to make it clear that I have no problem at all with gendered readings; they are invariably illuminating and often necessary to critique unquestioned patriarchal norms and assumptions. But I'm not too keen on gendered mis-readings, and that's clearly what this was, because there's far more evidence to suggest that the 'you' in this song is not female, rather than there exists evidence to suggest that it is. In fact, the 'you' in this song is one of Dylan's more enigmatic creations. It defies easy understanding, seeming to morph and blur in substance and identity as the song unfolds.
From the outset, the song is a contradiction, blending the plural 'summers' with the singular 'January', suggesting that the 'time' in which this narrative is occurring is an imagined one, or at the very least, a constructed or composite one. The imagery of 'morgues and monasteries' conjoins a secular setting with a sacred one, and given both are ripe for the plunder (if one so chooses), Dylan seems to be suggesting that death is the great equaliser, and ultimately the great reducer.
The desire to 'bring someone to life' is a triple-construct: there is the 'you', created from the stolen remains, the identity of the 'you' itself, and finally, the 'version' to be created. The plural exists within the singular, which remarkably, is exactly what occurred in the song's opening, as the act of visitation (of the morgues and monasteries) occurs in a fusion of plural and singular time.
Up jumps Richard III, carried forth by a borrow from Shakespeare's famous 'winter of our discontent' line, with the 'our' shifted to 'my'. This could easily just be an update of the language, but again, it's an example of plural and singular being manipulated. It's also an example of layered identity, given Richard is an historical figure from both fact and fiction. Shakespeare created his own version of Richard, and now Dylan is creating his own version of 'himself' (in the song's persona), borrowing from Shakespeare's version!
The song is a labyrinth; a maze in three dimensions. The 'you' who is to be 'copied' is now directly addressed in a reproachful light, which adds more ambiguity than it does clarity. Where the you 'went' remains a mystery to the listener, and it's unclear if it is known to the persona. And then within the same verse, an unreliable 'they' is introduced into the narrative, both placeless and vague. It seems a clouding, unwelcome presence for the persona, perhaps purposefully disorienting for both the persona and listener. And it must be noted, again, this verse contains singular and plural elements, in the 'my', 'you, and 'they' components.
The next couplet is arguably the song's most brilliant moment, in that on one level, it is an irreconcilable vagary, but on another, it's the best window into Dylan's method and the song's primary meaning. It seems impossible for the creation to be unseen if it's a version of that which exists, unless the 'you' being created and the 'you' being re-created or interpreted are viewed as a pluralised entities rather than singular ones. It would not be the first time Dylan has explored this concept: in Cold Irons Bound, he noted that 'reality has always had too many heads', and in High Water (Song for Charley Patton), he argued that 'you can't open up your mind [boys] to every conceivable point of view'. Perhaps then, this song should be viewed as an unfillable yet inescapable desire, or the culmination of a life's work, in that finally, perhaps in song, life or both, the impossible has been done. Like the alchemist transforming lead to gold, the plural and the singular have been fused into a stable entity. If this seems ridiculous, I can only suggest that the concept of cognitive dissonance is a long established one, and one that is often said to be a necessary part of any reality construct.
The next couplet - more than any other - is what left me bewildered as to how anyone could see the 'you' being constructed as a woman. Four men are mentioned - two fictional and two actual - along with a robot and finally, the figure of the commando, which is more abstract in this context. The image of the creation being a saviour is layered with possibility. It's the song's most overt reference to the story of Frankenstein. In many ways, Frankenstein did seek to be 'saved' by his creation, in the sense that the fulfilment of an ambition would save him from failure and obscurity. And if we remember the context of the novel, Shelley wrote at a time when the morality and the consequences of scientific 'meddling' were in the minds of many. Mankind has often sought to be saved by its creations, with disastrous consequences, particularly when the creation is a potential weapon, as it is here (at this point in the song). The persona seems to ask the creation to promise to be good, which of course in its pre-sentient state, it cannot do.
The next stand-alone couplet is almost as illuminating as the previous one, in that the idea of creating 'someone who feels the way I feel' can be read as the desire to create a reality that reinforces the identity of its creator. Arguably, this is the goal of all reality constructs, whether it be a conscious ambition or not.
The song broadens out, adding the study of Eastern and Middle-Eastern language and culture. Language itself is one of the most important fusions of singular and pluralised constructs, and here, it's potentially being used to deepen the reality that's being created into something with as far and wide a reach as possible. And it's a reach that moves across time, space and culture. Too many people who create their understandings of the world do not do this. We live in an age of hyper-partisanship, in which isolated perspectives are increasingly self-reinforced through cherry-picked (dis)information and the intractable growth of partisan and systemic mistrust. By reaching beyond those limits, Dylan is schooling his listeners; if you are going to create a reality, be thoughtful and thorough about what you are doing.
Further to this, he speaks to the willow, which might be a reference to the lament offered by Desdemona in Othello, not long before her murder at her husband's wrathful and deceived hand. It wouldn't be the first time Desdemona has appeared in a Dylan song, in fact, it would be (at least) the second following on from her appearance in Poor Boy. Interestingly, these are both songs that occupied pluralised spaces. Regardless of this, if it is Desdemona - partially obscured - then it's an ingenious way of invoking patriarchal blinkering, in that the female insight is there for those who want to see it, but easy to miss if viewed solely in patriarchal terms. As I said at the outset, gendered readings can be very useful.
And finally, Julius Caesar appears - an overt reference to the classical history of the Western World. Perhaps notably, things did not end well for Caesar. Are his choices a warning? And should his presence here be considered as a possible insight into how one is to read Crossing The Rubicon later on? Ah, sweet mysteries of life.
That this song has appeared so late in Dylan's career is arguably acknowledged in the next couplet. The construction of one's personal reality is, by definition, a lifelong pursuit. Perhaps it should even be viewed as a prison as well as a prism. After all, as noted in Murder Most Foul, 'only dead men are free'.
Dylan's rhyming of 'Leon Russell' with 'St. John the Apostle' is one of Dylan's most outrageously audacious. It's my favourite one since he rhymed 'tough sons of bitches' with 'orphanages' back on Thunder on the Mountain. Dylan's brought into the song the world of music itself, and has done so in the context of religion, specifically, prophesy and revelation. The persona knows death will come. Music and life, on the road to silence and the afterlife. It nicely links what has been (in the song) and what is to come.
Bringing someone to life to 'balance the scales' could be seen as the reclamation of life from death, or the redeeming of a singular (albeit composite) reality from the those that - in going ungrasped - effectively 'die' the moment they come into existence. The idea of 'not getting involved in any insignificant details' is a line I find amusing, in that the construction of reality is nothing but details. And when it comes to reality, regardless of how they are regarded, each is as significant as the other. We have no control over such things, however much we might strive to think otherwise.
Biblical imagery leaps forth once more in the next stanza - another (arguably) vital element in any conception or construction of reality. It was the head of John the Baptist most famously brought forth on a silver tray. The killing of a man connected to the coming of the Saviour. To me, this is such an elusive and difficult part of the song. Is reality of divine purpose or nature, or the ultimate deception? And who or what is murdered in its construction? All other possible realities, or 'reality' itself? It's brain-bending philosophical; a metaphysical conundrum. And yet, just thinking about it all subsequently feeds its way back into the version of reality constructed. 'You' could very well be everything; the ghost of Spinoza's version of God.
Decency and common sense are two of the most vital elements of the human experience, and yet they are utterly intangible. They cannot be written into law, and they cannot be definitively defined. We all have different understandings of what they are. A troubling, elusive necessity.
Shakespeare returns! This time it's Hamlet, with the play's titular character offering the arguably definitive representation of existential duality. It's an unanswerable question unless one views the question as its own answer; that to be human is to ask. To be human, one might further suggest, is to create reality. The persona is doing it. Dylan is doing it - in his life and his song. We are all doing it as we listen, and in every other moment of our lives.
Perhaps, if this bringing to life is done 'in the wee small hours' it should be viewed as a subversive act, or possibly a dream-state endeavour. Are we all, collectively and individually, the dream twisters? Setting this aside, it feels to me like Dylan is acknowledging that his own version of reality was greatly enriched by his journey through the great American songbook. These ears can certainly hear it in a great deal of his singing throughout Rough and Rowdy Ways, and in particular, the melodies of I've Made Up My Mind To Give Myself To You, Black Rider and Mother of Muses. Albums are singular entities and pluralities of songs. Dylan is refracting layer after layer of perception. It's mesmerisingly glorious.
When Dylan says, 'I can see the history of the whole human race', you know he cannot, but it's wonderfully tempting to believe him, given all that's come before it. And he then doubles down by throwing out phrase after phrase and couplet after couplet of historical fragments, cohering them into a convincing case for his assertion. But it's a falsehood; a delusion. For all that we can learn and understand, the 'whole' will always elude us. It's a trap, this concept of complete knowledge. Dylan acknowledged precisely that in those lines from Cold Irons Bound and High Water (song for Charley Patton). But nevertheless, we struggle and strive, knowing no other way to be, desperate to believe in our own identities, desperate to believe that in some tangible, reassuring sense, we exist at all.
In the end, it is the tragicomedy that is life itself. It why one must 'do it with laughter - do it with tears'. Reality is this 'person' we create. Beyond it lies the omnipotent, unfathomable, unknowable world beyond world. All we can do is create our own version of it, and in doing so, create our own version of ourselves.
Rough and Rowdy Ways is full of absolutely incredible songs. To be honest, the more I listen to it, the more I'm coming to believe that every single one is a masterpiece. This album may well be Dylan's greatest achievement. It doesn't just feel like the culmination of a life's work - it feels like the culmination of a life, and an extraordinary one at that.