We live in interesting times. Marauding packs of malevolent scary clowns roam the streets for no particular reason. Players of Pokémon Go are in plague proportions and keep trying to convince me that my dog is, in fact, a highly sought after Pokémon. Temperatures and sea levels are rising, the apocalypse edges ever closer and ‘MacGyver’ has been remade for television without the key ingredient that made the original series such a success; namely Richard Dean Anderson’s mullet. Oh, and Bob Dylan has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.
We live in interesting times. Marauding packs of malevolent scary clowns roam the streets for no particular reason. Players of Pokémon Go are in plague proportions and keep trying to convince me that my dog is, in fact, a highly sought after Pokémon. Temperatures and sea levels are rising, the apocalypse edges ever closer and ‘MacGyver’ has been remade for television without the key ingredient that made the original series such a success; namely Richard Dean Anderson’s mullet. Oh, and Bob Dylan has been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.
I, for one, am delighted. That Bob Dylan should win a Nobel Prize is a wonderful thing. That the announcement should provoke laughter from a number of those assembled just goes to show that the world has more Kajagoogoo fans than we first suspected. But what has followed has been truly astonishing. Turns out that a surprising number of people have unreasonably strong views as to what does and does not constitute literature. In particular, they take issue with whether or not Bob’s work counts as poetry or not. I doubt any of these naysayers own a copy of ‘Blood on the Tracks’.
Songwriting is tricky. Anyone can write a song, but writing a great song is an act as difficult as splitting the atom. It’s little short of miraculous. Without doubt, Bob Dylan has written some truly wonderful songs that are equal parts melody and profundity. These are undoubtedly great works of art that left their mark on the twentieth century. That he has the voice of a startled frog after swallowing a handful of gravel shouldn’t really come into it. Granted, not everything he’s written smacks of genius. Some of his songs are downright horrible. I strongly suspect when the committee was wrestling with whether songwriting could be literature, the lyrics to ‘Wiggle, Wiggle’ were not front of mind. But leaving aside the occasional turkey, why have so many people been so put out by Bob’s honour?
Let’s be honest: the world of literature is prone to outlandish acts of snobbery. In fact, the literary world is something of a parallel universe that often prefers to remain cosseted in obscurity, comforted by the fact that very few people either understand or like their work. It’s tempting, I think, to confuse the fact that no one likes your stuff with the idea that nobody else is smart enough to understand it. These are the people who have been most directly insulted by Bob’s elevation to Nobel Laureate. The ones who don’t accept that the art form is anything more than disposable or, alternatively, that a Grammy should be considered reward enough. Their problem, I feel, is that they are comforted by a narrow approach to what constitutes literature.
Personally, I’m delighted that ‘literature’ has been broadened out to members of the entertainment fraternity. Now that Bob has broken through, I see no reason why Jay-Z can’t win next year. His lyrics too are poetic. And, in my experience, poetry readings would be far more interesting if, whilst seated around an open fire, students forgot about Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson for a while and unleashed the first three verses of ‘99 Problems’. It would really complement the wine and cheese.
It’s a travesty that pop stars weren’t receiving these awards before now. I demand a recount. Members of the Grateful Dead are natural contenders for the Chemistry Prize. Dr Dre is a shoo-in for the field of Medicine. And that Culture Club did not receive the Nobel Peace Prize for their 1984 single ‘The War Song’ is especially galling, particularly when you consider that it was so plainly awful that it nearly ended their career (although Boy George’s subsequent decision to appear on an episode of the ‘A Team’ didn’t help). While we’re at it, Madonna should be the UN Secretary General. As a bonus, she’d also be less likely to make another album.
The strangest criticism of the decision is that Bob Dylan doesn’t need the attention. To the best of my knowledge, whether or not you need publicity isn’t part of the criteria for getting a Nobel. I doubt greatly that anyone would claim Barak Obama was wallowing in obscurity when, in 2008, he was award a Nobel. No, these people are just plain mean-spirited. I, for one, am glad that there’s finally a Nobel winner who has jammed with members of the Rolling Stones. Patrick White and Saul Bellow were responsible for some truly wonderful books, but neither of them ever traded licks at Live Aid with Keith Richards. I rest my case.
I guess you’d say I’m biased. That’s because I’m part of a generation that was raised to believe that pop stars could do anything. Relieve famine, protest injustice and give Robbie Williams something useful to do with himself – these achievements would not have been possible if not for popular music. Though apparently there’s a hitch. Bob, it seems, has not returned any phone calls in response to the news. It’s said that the committee feels greatly insulted. He probably just wants to know if the dressing room rider has the right number of brown M & Ms. As well he should. All I can say to members of the Nobel committee is this: welcome to rock and roll.