The only Bob Dylan album in the Library of Congress’ Recording Registry
Bob Dylan may be a worldwide musical icon, but you can hardly say he’s a man who clings to institutions.
It has always been his mark that number one hits, shiny hauls of awards, and towering stadiums are the objects to be avoided, despite the fact that he could very easily master them. Instead, his mantra is about finding the more complicated, potentially more treacherous, but often more interesting route through the world, disregarding convention at every possible turn.
All of this is to say that you’re far more likely to find Dylan revelling in an intimate venue these days, eschewing every other aspect of the press and the spotlight, as he focuses on the only real thing that has ever mattered: the music. Recognition and celebration of that feat is almost seen in his eyes as the unfortunate par for the course.
To many other artists, the Library of Congress’s Recording Registry is viewed as the pinnacle of everything you have ever musically strived towards: that your work is considered so significant and vital to the course of culture that it needs to be enshrined in history forever. Dylan, on the other hand, doesn’t seem so sure.
After all, there are countless numbers of his albums that could theoretically be considered in this vein, but the musician has always kept them close to his chest in terms of allowing them to be used for historical purposes in the wider world. There is only one that he let slip the net – and it was probably because he realised that the mammoth he created was far bigger than even himself.
Why did Bob Dylan let the album be recognised?
Of course, that could only be The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, the 1963 sophomore effort that cemented him as the folk god of the world with a penchant for lyrics and a passion for igniting political fires. But this was simply Dylan assessing his corner of the world as he saw it – he never expected it to resonate with every ear, culture, and movement it hit.
Obviously, songs like ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’, ‘Masters of War’, and ‘A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall’ encapsulated a moment in time that edged to the brink of destruction and then mercifully teetered back. It goes without saying that most work which held a lens to this tense time in history would want to be preserved, but it seemed that Dylan was getting in over his head somewhat.
His attempts to shake free from the shackles that the Freewheelin’ album created for him in subsequent years prove testament to that, mainly due to the fact that he never once intended to be defined as a political lyricist. But in doing so, there was also the acknowledgement that he had created something with far more power than he even knew, so when the record was selected as one of the first 50 artefacts of the library in 2002, he was happy to let it go.
To diehard Dylan fans, saying that The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan endures as his singular legacy is basically like sacrilege, given they are so accustomed to his treasure trove of deep cuts and bootlegs. But when the world does finally hit the nuclear button as they feared, then in the ‘60s, it’ll be that album that emerges from the dust. Does that stand for nothing?
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