Magic from Big Pink: Why I Love I’m Not There I’m Not There is my favourite Bob Dylan song. Not only that, it’s my favourite Dylan recording. These are not usually the same thing. As much as we like to imagine that music is summoned with a spell, many of the songs we love are constructed, pieced together through edits, takes and overdubs. That doesn’t take away from their magic. But there is something wondrous about hearing a room’s energy make music in the moment. What makes I’m Not There even more special is that this isn’t just a live, raw performance, but would, in fact, appear to be both beginning and end of the song’s existence. It’s more than a Dylan classic shoved in the vaults, of which he has many. With his other lost gems, they are often gifted to fellow artists, or we will have demos and progressions, alternate takes and some kind of process that makes sense, even if we have to look at it through Dylan’s sometimes baffling reasoning. There’s more than one version of She’s Your Lover Now, so we can hear him trying to shift the song till it suits. Blind Willie McTell also exists in multiple forms, and even in its most mesmerising incarnation, Dylan felt it didn’t fit Infidels, as mad as that might sound to mere mortals like you and me. Then sits something as wonderful as Red River Shore. From interviews with Jim Dickinson, we know Dylan tried everything to get it to work yet felt he couldn’t, despite the fact it’s an incredible piece of music, a masterpiece worthy of any of the master’s records. But the song was completed. There’s a resolution to its creation, just not contentment with the results. Finally, there’s Farewell, Angelina, another song Dylan recorded only once. Yet it sounds fully formed, a clear and complete composition, delivered by one man with no band caught up in the moment alongside him. Dylan has spoken about the song, even offering an explanation for its absence from the album. It’s also one that Joan Baez would take and give a life of its own. There’s no great mystery surrounding Farewell, Angelina, even if we might find it remarkable that Dylan never released his own recording. I’m Not There isn’t like that. All that exists is this one take. There’s no clues to follow, no demos before or later cuts, no real information about its creation, nor interviews explaining how he tried but couldn’t crack it. What we have is the moment itself. The song and the recording are inseparable. By the sounds of it, Dylan and his disciples descend the stairs at Big Pink, pull up a pew around the fire, strike up their instruments and channel something otherworldly. Out it comes. There isn’t even an intro. Either one never existed, or there’s such a scramble to hit record that it’s missed. The ending is just as abrupt. What the tape holds is this fleeting flash of magic, and then it’s gone like the rain before the shining yesterday. I’ve always thought of it as a remnant from the mid-sixties trilogy, but a lo-fi reimagining of the thin wild mercury sound, transported through the time warp of an upstate New York basement, slowed down and shot full of sedatives in a reflection of its singer’s mindset, as he recovers from a mysterious accident that might itself be myth. He seems to summon the song, slipping into a trance as those around follow the trail. Garth Hudson’s organ swirls like a lost spirit, setting much of the strange, spectral mood. Rick Danko’s busy bass gives bones to the backing, as Richard Manuel’s piano slips through the spell. All the while, that scratched guitar presses on. 🧵