55 Years Later: Revisiting Bob Dylan’s Americana Leaning ‘John Wesley Harding’

Bob Dylan’s eighth studio album John Wesley Harding (released 12/27/67) may be the most singular piece of work he’s ever created. The album was released at the end of a year marked by what came to be known as the psychedelic era of contemporary rock and, in in its spare instrumentation and tradition-influenced songwriting, was diametrically opposed to the kaleidoscopic likes of Jimi Hendrix’ Are You Experienced?, The Doors’ eponymous debut and the Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The spartan approach, in fact, may be at least part of the reason so much (over-) interpretation was applied to the lyrics, the liner notes and even the cover photo (with partially-hidden images of the Beatles?!). 

JWH also stands in stark contrast to three albums of lyrically abstract, blues-influenced rock and roll that catapulted ‘the voice of a generation’ to international acclaim (and some measure of derision for selling out as such): Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde On Blonde. At the same time, John Wesley Harding shares many stylistic threads with, and was recorded around the same time as, the prolific series of sessions Dylan conducted with The Band known as The Basement Tapes.

Nonetheless, this relatively quiet record of Bob’s stands on its own as a labor of pronounced personal meaning. In slightly less than thirty-nine minutes, Dylan manages to conjure up more of a saintly atmosphere than permeates either of his Christian period albums, 1979’s Slow Train Coming and the next year’s Saved. That sanctified air, however, isn’t the result of the Nobel Laureate self-consciously attempting to create the ambiance: produced by Bob Johnston, the stripped-down arrangements of guitar, bass and drums surrounding Dylan’s own vocals, piano and harmonica have as much to do with intimacy of expression as the efficiency of the creative process. 

The deep, almost profound tranquility of this music and the performances emanates first and foremost from Bob Dylan’s singing. Sans the phrasing so often ripe for caricature, it sets an unmistakable tone for the unhurried, ascetic economy within the accompaniment from Charlie McCoy on bass and Kenny Buttrey on drums; supremely restrained and to the point, their musicianship displays no more flash than the pedal steel of Pete Drake, who played on two numbers at the very end that might well have been excised without undermining the impact of the other ten tracks.

While there is much here in common with the aforementioned recordings Bob made in Woodstock with his loyal road warrior accompanists that (mostly) predate it, this music lacks the often ribald sense of humor in many of those songs. The comedy here, such as it is, arrives understated to the point of being almost unnoticeable, as in the absurdity of the imagery in “The Ballad of Frankie Lee and Judas Priest.” “The Wicked Messenger” is likewise a bit tongue in cheek, though there are apocalyptic overtones present in it, the ominous likes of which become even more pronounced in “All Along the Watchtower.” 

A parable of sorts like the title song (its spelling of the surname a deliberate variation on that of the actual historical figure), the latter number found its apotheosis in Jimi Hendrix’ arrangement on 1968’s Electric Ladyland. Still, the ‘West Coast Seattle Boy”s three-dimensional studio recording (the late guitar icon also covered “Drifter’s Escape”) was so dramatically effective in part because its layered arrangement is far and away removed from the skeletal take that resides so comfortably next to the talking blues of “I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine” (a variation on an early 20th century folk number recorded by Joan Baez).

Compared to the often unforgiving and anarchic attitude that pervades Dylan’s aforementioned mid-Sixties triptych, there’s a prevailing humility in more than just “I Am  Lonesome Hobo” and “I Pity The Poor Immigrant.” The author is rediscovering the power of empathy here rather than applying a viciously vindictive edge to the premise of standing in another’s shoes as epitomized by the one-off 1965 single “Positively Fourth Street.” And that’s not to mention the enlightened perspective on materialism suggested by “Dear Landlord.” 

Interpreted with no small amount of glib surety as a directive to Bob’s then (and soon to be ex-) manager Albert Grossman, this missive-in-song could conceivably be the artist’s point of view in the midst of negotiations that secured him a lucrative new contract with Columbia Records around this time. Still, it’s a pragmatic point of view to adopt under such circumstances: ‘…anyone can fill his life up with things he can see but he just cannot touch…’

Given the subjects and topics therein, the final two cuts of John Wesley Harding could have been included on Dylan’s next album Nashville Skyline (and indeed would’ve given ballast to its slight less-than half-hour duration). “Down Along the Cove” is the liveliest cut here, it’s sinuous, earthy tone of a piece with the much slower waltz-like tempo of a modified blues in the form of “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight.” The gaiety of Drake’s pedal steel highlights both cuts, markedly distinguishing them from the preceding solemnity.

As often as observers at one time conjectured upon the biblical influence on many of the songs here–did Dylan read the good book much while recuperating from his (alleged?) motorcycle accident?–this final pair resonates ever more sweetly over the half century since the initial release of John Wesley Harding. Indirect as it may be, this is nonetheless tangible evidence of a man and an artist steeped in connubial bliss. 

It’s that very same state of mind that permeated the so-called comeback LP of New Morning two-plus years later, depicting a Bob Dylan who sounds perfectly happy with a stable, nurturing homelife that fosters, rather than precludes, fruitful connection to his muse.