It's Christmas Eve 1956 in Saint Paul, Minnesota. A cocky fifteen-year-old from Hibbing walks into a record shop with two friends: they've saved up a few dollars to cut an acetate, a homemade 78rpm demo barely half a minute long. "Let The Good Times Roll," the song they've chosen, is the latest hit by a New Orleans duo, Shirley & Lee. The three friends call themselves the Jokers: Larry Keegan and his cousin Howard Rutman handle the backing vocals, while Robert Zimmerman plants himself at the microphone and pounds away at the piano keys. On the Greyhound bus that takes them home, still talking about music, bundled up in their winter coats, their hearts are still racing.
That recording sounds today like a relic of a world that no longer exists, or perhaps like the very first hint of the world we know now. A sacred relic of the Dylan cult, because — as you'll have already guessed — this is the first documented recording of Mr. Bob Dylan. That alone would be enough to justify all the talk around the new volume in the "Bootleg Series," number 18, "Through The Open Window." But the eight discs of this collection hold much more: a genuine encyclopedic miscellany of the early years of America's great songwriting elder statesman, an ideal philological counterpoint to the first part of that portrait of the artist as a young pup brought to the screen in "A Complete Unknown". A precious historical document, though — as was already the case with the roughly contemporaneous "Witmark Demos", also released in the "Bootleg Series" some fifteen years ago now — it's best recommended to completists rather than casual listeners.
It all begins, predictably, with rock'n'roll dreams: "We lived under a cloud of death; the air was radioactive. There was no tomorrow, everything could end from one day to the next. Rock'n'roll made you unaware of the fear," Dylan recalls. "It was skeletal music, it came out of the darkness and rode in on the atomic bomb, and the artists had heads full of stars, like mystic deities." In May 1959, at the house of a friend from Hibbing, we hear him toying with doo-wop, echoing on "I Got A New Girl" another of the hits of the moment, the Crests' "Sixteen Candles".
Just a year later, though, everything has already changed: Dylan has enrolled in college, moved to Minneapolis, and discovered folk music. And here he is, working through his first sketches of Woody Guthrie (a devoted rendition of "Jesus Christ"), searching for a new identity. Ready to land in New York. That's where "Through The Open Window" really gets going, rewinding the tape on three legendary years (1961 to 1963). There are the first performances in the clubs of Greenwich Village, from the Gaslight Café to Gerde's Folk City, where Dylan starts getting on first-name terms with the traditional songbook (just listen to the ballad "The Girl I Left Behind" to believe it). And there's also the fateful moment when Dylan walks into Columbia's studios to back Carolyn Hester on harmonica for "I'll Fly Away", finally convincing John Hammond to take the gamble of signing that scruffy twenty-year-old.
On November 4, 1961, Izzy Young — owner of the Folklore Center record shop, the nerve center of the folk revival community — organizes Bob Dylan's first solo concert at Carnegie Chapter Hall. Only about fifty people show up, though, leaving three quarters of the hall empty. The opening tracks of the second disc of "Through The Open Window" document exactly that temporary setback to the young Dylan's ambitions, caught between the extremes of an overly forced "Gospel Plow" and a "This Land Is Your Land" stripped of all emphasis: the only original song is the indictment of indifference "Man On The Street", while the best moment comes from the razor-sharp tones of the classic murder ballad "Pretty Polly".
1962, which fills the third and fourth discs of the collection, is dominated instead by outtakes from "The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan", with a special mention for the attempt (strongly pushed by manager Albert Grossman) to emulate the Sun Records sound by covering Arthur Crudup's "That's All Right, Mama": the band is the same one that backs Dylan on the first single of his career, "Mixed-Up Confusion", but the ghost of electricity has yet to make itself known.
Meanwhile, there's no shortage of live material either, from the brilliant set at Montréal's Finjan (already a beloved bootleg among devotees) to the unmissable renditions of the traditional "Barbara Allen" and "The Cuckoo" at the Gaslight Café, not to mention the first, raw performance of "Blowin' In The Wind". Among the rarities, there's even one pulled from the BBC archives: "The Ballad Of The Gliding Swan", sung by Dylan in the lost film "Madhouse On Castle Street" (his first acting role).
Closing out the box set, a trio of concerts traces the arc of 1963. The first, at New York's Town Hall on April 12, 1963, is essentially the redemption for the Carnegie Chapter Hall flop: Dylan's name once again stands alone on the bill, but this time (even though "The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan" hasn't yet hit record store shelves) the setlist is magnetic, made up almost entirely of original songs.
There are topical songs drawn from the headlines (in "Who Killed Davey Moore?", Dylan even calls out the death of a boxer that had happened barely a couple of weeks before the concert), there are folk tributes (a lively "Pretty Peggy-O", loudly demanded by the audience). But the most intense moment is reserved for the nostalgic arpeggios of "Tomorrow Is A Long Time" (not by chance the best-known version of the song, the one that would be included on "Greatest Hits Vol. 2" in 1971). At the end, Dylan sets aside his guitar and (with a little less confidence than usual) reads the verses of his poem "Last Thoughts On Woody Guthrie", almost as if settling his debt to his mentor.
Three months later, the Newport Folk Festival gives him a triumphant welcome, both when he debuts his latest unreleased songs ("Playboys And Playgirls") and when he duets with Joan Baez ("With God On Our Side"), right up to the mass singalong of a "Blowin' In The Wind" already elevated to anthem status: Dylan has by now become the face of the civil rights movement, and it's no surprise to find him at the end of August at the March on Washington, singing "When The Ship Comes In".
The last concert of 1963 (also the only one featured in full in the collection) fills the final two discs and marks Dylan's definitive consecration in October: in one of the most prestigious settings in the Big Apple, Carnegie Hall, the new "prince of folk" plays the parts of storyteller, entertainer and prophet all at once, previewing many of the songs destined to appear on "The Times They Are A-Changin'".
The audience (which for the first time includes Dylan's own parents) is spellbound by hypnotic, solemn ballads like "Lay Down Your Weary Tune" and "Percy's Song", identifies with the rage of "Masters Of War", and is drawn intimately into the drama of activists (Medgar Evers in "Only A Pawn In Their Game") and ordinary people (the waitress of "The Lonesome Death Of Hattie Carroll"). By the end, the scene resembles Beatlemania: "The girls were clinging to the car," witnesses of the time recount, "while the police chased them off so Bob could get away unharmed." These are no longer just folk enthusiasts — they're Bob Dylan fans.
But fame, as we know, shows no mercy. Just a couple of days later, Newsweek publishes a full-blown character assassination, exposing the truth behind all the odd inventions Dylan had created around his own biography. In response, he spends Halloween day in the studio recording a new song, meant to close out "The Times They Are A-Changin'": "The dirt of gossip blows into my face / And the dust of rumors covers me," he sings bitterly. "I'll make my stand / And remain as I am / And bid farewell and not give a damn." The song is called "Restless Farewell", but tellingly it doesn't appear on "Through The Open Window": because it isn't an epilogue, but the start of a new chapter. The first chapter of those betrayals through which Dylan would learn to escape his own shadow.
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04/02/2026
This article is an English translation of the original Italian text by Gabriele Benzing, published on OndaRock.it. It was translated with the help of artificial intelligence, under the editorial responsibility of OndaRock's editor-in-chief, Claudio Fabretti.