Because Bob Dylan’s The Bootleg Series Vol. 18: Through The Open Window, 1956-1963 covers much the same ground as the 2025 biopic A Complete Unknown, it is the ideal collection to release in the wake of that film.
As has been the case with previous editions of this archival enterprise, the curators, headed by co-producers Sean Wilentz and Steve Berkowitz, clearly outline the progression of Bob’s musical evolution. Within the one-hundred twenty-four page booklet, the former offers a carefully annotated chronicle of the music’s timeline, vividly illustrated with a plethora of period photos that, along with the extensive array of recordings, bring this period of history to life, within which resides Bob Dylan.
It is altogether startling to trace the evolution of Dylan’s initial immersion in the roots of folk music, which ultimately led to the composition of his own original material. Bob’s discovery of Woody Guthrie, alongside abiding relationships with Pete Seeger and other prominent figures in his life, such as Joan Baez, triggered his imagination, which he then put to work with an almost feverish intensity: the future Nobel Laureate studied and learned from the best in order to eventually transcend (or at least compare favorably) to his main influences.
Not surprisingly, the earliest selections present a young artist not yet sure of himself. On the culls from the Fifties In Minnesota, “Let The Good Times Roll” and “I Got A New Girl,” Dylan sounds downright meek. But this enthralling take of “Jesus Christ” from Minneapolis belies that theory: the young Mr. Zimmerman is finding his voice.
Accordingly, there’s a quantum leap in polish and professionalism radiating from entries like “Seven Curses,” an outtake from the 1964 album The Times They Are A-Changing. True to his innate idiosyncrasies, the artist used informal gatherings as proving grounds for his material and musicianship, seemingly never resting from practicing in one forum or another.
The roughly two-minute duration of such cuts as “C Moan” and “Remember Me” thus becomes akin to flipping through an album of photo snapshots, the sum total of which presents a composite of the artist and the progression of his creativity wherein he learns, absorbs, then processes his roots. The length of such tracks belies the depth of feeling Dylan exudes and the contrast with the timidity of prior numbers is well-nigh astonishing.
For instance, “Railroading On the Great Divide” finds Bob becoming a part of the history described in the song. Meanwhile, a rehearsal from NYC in 1961, “Man Of Constant Sorrow,” captures a fledgling artist discovering how traditional music speaks to his own life experience. And “He Was A Friend of Mine” sounds so close to Dylan’s heart that it’s hard not to interpret this reading as a homage to the aforementioned folk icon he met that same year. In this autobiographical regard, see also “I Was Young When I Left Home.”
The expanse of tracks on the double-CD Through The Open Window clarifies how playing harmonica was a purposeful element of Bob’s chosen style, one that, on “Ramblin’ Round,” quite distinctly informs his vocal phrasing. And given the man’s customarily taciturn demeanor these days, the verbosity of “Story: East Orange New Jersey” also brings a smile, especially as it’s a rehearsal in front of partygoers back in his home state. In addition, “Talkin’ New York” reminds in no uncertain terms how such humor was such an integral component of Bob Dylan’s persona in the early Sixties. Certainly, the man himself, in his 2004 book Chronicles Vol. 1, has spoken to his insatiable curiosity during this period and here is tangible evidence of his obeisance to the folk tradition’s use of broad satire.
It’s worth noting that some three dozen tracks on the 8-CD box set of Through The Open Window have been previously released, albeit in very limited form, on the two 50th Anniversary Collections of 1962 and 1963, culls from which also appear on the more widely distributed Bob Dylan Live: Rare Performances.
Then, too, there exist other previously released anthologies from this same era. Still, for the fanatics and completists, correlating the differing tracklists on LP and CD for The Bootleg Series Vol. 18 may well render moot any overlap with The Witmark Demos 1962-1964, Live At The Gaslight 1962 and Brandeis University 1963.
Dated as the Volume 18 cover image of Dylan may be, festooned in his work shirt and jeans, the abandon in this “Dusty Old Fairgrounds” from Town Hall in New York 1963 recalls Bob’s solo segments from tours with The Band (nee the Hawks), including the reunion of 1974. The incremental growth in Bob’s poise, especially as he began to write his own material, mirrors how this extensive anthology concludes with a flourish, drawing on previously unreleased culls from the Carnegie Hall concert of 1963 (an impact duly emphasized at the outset of the aforementioned essay).
Far from just a slice of history, this roughly thirty-five minutes simultaneously consolidates the creative metamorphosis that preceded it and reaffirms the continued relevance of Bob Dylan’s work. Listen to “Who Killed Davey Moore” or “Just A Pawn in Their Game” and hear today’s headlines and/or internet memes, the names changed for pertinence to contemporary times.
Even then, however, there’s this striking “Lay Down Your Weary Tune.” The unforgiving introspection illuminates Bob Dylan’s otherwise visionary perceptions and hints at the paradigm shifts he had begun to engender in these pivotal years as ‘The Voice of A Generation.’
