Voices from the Grave: Bob Dylan’s Digital Séances, Achilles’ Choice, and the Art of Living

Edgar Allan Poe, Stephen Foster, Andrew Jackson, and Frank James in an AI-generated collage based on the original September 1965 Esquire cover — an image that Bob Dylan complained portrayed him as “part of a monster.”

The Enemy of the Unlived, Meaningless Life

At his age legends are expected to retreat into quiet retirement, but Bob Dylan, at 84, instead launches a series of Instagram reels, digital séances of sorts, featuring historical figures such as gangster Al Capone, poet/writer Edgar Allan Poe, America’s songwriter Stephen Foster, President Andrew Jackson, and retired outlaw Frank James. The audio clips present semi-fictional “auto” biographies, where long-dead figures ostensibly share their reflections on the lives they’ve lived.

So, why these particular voices from the past? What common threads connect a Chicago mobster, a master of the macabre, a minstrel composer, a so-called populist president, and a Missouri ex-outlaw? And what does the “Voices from the Grave” project tell us about Dylan himself?

The series seems to be driven by Dylan’s determination to remain an enemy of “the unlived, meaningless life,” a philosophy articulated in his song “False Prophet.” Through these postmortem reflections, Dylan delves into questions about art, legacy, fame, and most especially, choices made. Collectively, they offer a complex, often melancholic, examination of the decisions that came to define these speakers.

A significant (and unsettling to some) aspect of these recordings is Dylan’s apparent use of artificial intelligence (AI) to generate the voices, and possibly even parts of the scripts. Listeners have noted that the voices “definitely seem AI,” with one even sounding like a fairly good imitation of Marlon Brando’s Godfather before shifting into a generic Italian accent.

Yet, the writing itself feels too polished to be solely AI-generated, hinting at human involvement, perhaps by Dylan himself or his sometimes collaborators when it comes to prose — Eddie Gorodetsky or Lucy Sante. Maybe it’s the mysterious “Jackie Hamilton,” who is credited as one of the writers of the vignettes showcased in Dylan’s “Drawn Blank” art book but otherwise seems to have no other existence in this world.

Regardless of the exact mix of human and machine, the ambiguity is key. Dylan, a master of shifting personas throughout his career, has consistently challenged our ideas of authenticity and authorship. From reinterpreting traditional folk songs to borrowing words and imagery for his later works, he’s always pushed the boundaries.

The “Voices from the Grave” series invites us to engage not just with what’s being said, but with the deeper questions of who is truly speaking (or making it speak) and why. In many ways, “Voices from the Grave” serves as a meta-commentary on how famous figures are remembered, reinterpreted, and re-presented in our modern times.

“Voices ought not be measured by how pretty they are. Instead, they matter only if they convince you that they are telling the truth.” — Sam Cooke

The Chosen Shades

Dylan’s choices for his “Voices from the Grave” feature contradictory characters from American history, embodying the nation’s tangled past and its ongoing struggle with its own identity. By giving them a platform to speak from beyond the grave, Dylan invites us to look closer at the shades that haunt our collective memory.

An AI-generated image in the style of the original “Scarface.”

Al Capone: “I always tell the truth. Even when I lie”

We’re waiting in a hellish form of the Disney “Hall of Presidents,” half the lights not working, uncomfortable ripped, sprung seats, tattered curtains covered in green mold, something sticky dripping from the flaking plaster ceiling. Rather than audio-animatronic figures of U.S. Presidents waiting to speak, the stage is dark and seemingly empty. Then a spotlight gleams and Al Capone slowly stands to address the audience. Is he real? Is he a robot?

Al Capone in 1931 following his arrest on a vagrancy charge.

“Good evening, folks. Al Capone’s the name. Now, some folks got a lot to say about me, and most of it ain’t exactly flattering. But let me tell you, my philosophy was simple: supply and demand. Prohibition came along, people wanted a drink, and I provided. It’s called enterprise, on a grand scale. You work hard, you make connections, you provide a service. Sure, things got a little… spirited at times. But in a world where the rules are always changing, you gotta adapt, you gotta be smart, and you gotta protect your interests. I built an empire from nothing. And while the law eventually caught up, don’t forget, I gave the people what they wanted. That’s the American way, ain’t it?”

Capone, a Prohibition-era gangster, built a multi-million dollar empire on bootlegging, gambling, prostitution and murder. Yet Capone was still seen as a “Robin Hood” by much of the public and sometimes even portrayed that way by the press. His criminal career ended in imprisonment in Alcatraz, until he was freed in 1939 with his mental abilities severely impaired by untreated syphilis.

[embed]Looking for the Bully of the Town

“Al Capone had been a successful gangster and was allowed to rule the underworld in Chicago, but nobody wrote any songs about him. He’s not interesting or heroic in any way. He’s frigid. A sucker fish seems like a man who never got out alone in nature for a minute in his life. He comes across as a thug or a bully, like in the song . . . ‘looking for that bully of the town.‘ He’s not even worthy enough to have a name — comes across as a heartless vamp.” — Bob Dylan

In Chronicles, Dylan’s dismissal of the real Al Capone is quite direct: “He’s not interesting or heroic in any way. He’s frigid. A sucker fish…. comes across as a thug or a bully… “ Dylan’s attraction to Al Capone in the “Voices from the Grave” series stems not from the “thug or bully” he describes in Chronicles, but from the mythic “Scarface” figure that has replaced the real Capone in American popular culture. In three “Voices from the Grave” recordings Dylan invokes the fictional gangster — portrayed in a 1930 novel, 1932 movie, and most directly the 1983 remake starring Al Pacino. Dylan hints at his choice when the Capone recording shifts to a “Godfather” Brando-like voice, immediately recalling the line from “My Own Version of You” — “I’ll take the Scarface Pacino and The Godfather Brando…”

[embed]The Brando/Godfather voice can be heard starting at circa 2:20 in this clip

Like Vito Corleone, the Scarface Al of legend is determined to operate the world he controls as a society with its own system of morality and justice. Both Capone and Corleone are sympathetic — even admirable — characters when only their fictional legends are considered. Both are extremely frightening and dangerous if you’re unlucky enough to share their reality. Or, for that matter, if you happen to have lived in the reality of Andrew Jackson, a man who crafted his own legend.

Andrew Jackson and the “Populist” Paradox

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After finishing, Capone stands several minutes in silence, glaring at the audience as if daring them to respond, but the light eventually fades. On another side of the stage, a new spotlight glares and Andrew Jackson stands, stern and imposing, in military dress.

“They called me ‘Old Hickory,’ and for good reason. I faced down my enemies, whether they were the British at New Orleans or the entrenched elites in Washington. My philosophy was simple: the will of the common man, the strength of the Union, and the defense of this nation. I believed in a strong executive, one who would not bend to the whims of the powerful but would act for the good of the people. There were battles fought, policies enacted, and decisions made that some decried as harsh. But I tell you, freedom is not given, it is earned, and it is defended. And sometimes, defense requires a firm hand. I forged a path for the American people, and I never wavered.”

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If “My Own Version of You” could provide the soundtrack for Capone, Dylan’s “False Prophet” might fill that role for Andrew Jackson. To some, he’s the champion of the common man and a populist leader. To others, he’s a genocidal racist and a bloodthirsty tyrant. His presidency was marked by the Indian Removal Act, which led to the forced displacement of Native Americans, and he was a lifelong, unrepentant slave owner.

Thanks to Johnny Horton’s massive 1959 hit single, Jackson is probably best remembered by the general public today only as the hero of The Battle of New Orleans, a song which still has regular airplay on retro radio and was featured on Dylan’s Theme Time Radio Hour.

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“Throw the Rascals Out and Put Our Own Rascals In”

The Jackson “Voice from the Grave” is particularly intriguing because it’s a fabricated lecture presenting fictionalized opinions, especially on slavery and Native Americans, that directly contradict historical reality. But the recording isn’t about accuracy; it’s about exploring how powerful figures construct their own narratives and self-justifications.

Jackson’s presidency (1829–1837) was characterized by an appeal to the “common man,” a distrust of “the elite,” and a confrontational style that pitted Jackson against established institutions — a narrative that Jackson framed as the struggle between the virtuous, hardworking populace and a corrupt, self-serving aristocracy. But historians still debate whether he was truly a populist or if his actions were more aligned with replacing one set of elites with his own.

For example, Jackson and his supporters heavily leveraged the narrative of the “corrupt bargain” in the 1824 election (where he won the popular vote but lost the presidency to John Quincy Adams through a House vote) to fuel public distrust in the existing political system. This resonated with a public sense that the system was rigged against the will of the people. Jackson also circumvented Congress and traditional political channels by directly appealing to the public through his messages and rhetoric, portraying himself as the people’s tribune.

Jackson’s strong personality and assertive use of presidential power, including his defiance of the Supreme Court’s ruling in Worcester v. Georgia, led opponents to label him “King Andrew.” The Court’s decision had affirmed the Cherokee Nation’s sovereignty and ruled that the state of Georgia’s actions violated the U.S. Constitution and federal treaties.

Despite the Supreme Court’s ruling, Jackson refused to enforce it, arguing that the Supreme Court had no authority to dictate his actions or the actions of states regarding Native American lands. As a result of Jackson’s refusal to enforce the ruling, Georgia continued to disregard the Supreme Court’s decision, and the Cherokee Nation ultimately faced forced removal from their ancestral lands in what became known as the “Trail of Tears.”

“The Trail of Tears,” The Granger Collection, New York

Despite his image as a man of the people, Jackson was a wealthy slaveholder who profited significantly from the institution of slavery. His vision of the “people” largely excluded people of color, and his policies, such as the Indian Removal Act, caused immense suffering for Native Americans, often justified as a way to provide land for white farmers.

By the end of Jackson’s Presidency, his administration had overseen the relocation of nearly 50,000 eastern Native Americans to the Indian Territory — what later became eastern Oklahoma. It opened up 25 million acres of eastern land to white settlement and, with the bulk of the land appropriated located in the American south, contributed to the expansion of slavery and ultimately to the Civil War. At the time of his death he was one of the largest slaveholders in the United States. Rather than freeing his approximately 150 slaves, Jackson’s will passed them to his heirs.

Jackson does hold the distinction of being the only president in United States history to have paid off the national debt. Upon his taking office in 1829, the national debt stood at $58.4 million — chump change in these modern times, but a significant figure in the 19th century. By early 1835, the national debt was officially extinguished and for a brief period, the United States was debt-free. In fact, the government ran a surplus, which was distributed to the states.

On the other hand, many historians observe that Jackson’s economic policies led to the so-called “Panic of 1837,” widespread bank and business failures, high unemployment and a three-year depression. Happily for Jackson he had retired from political life by then, writing to his successor, “I have been met at every point with expressions of `well done thou faithful servant.’” Unfortunately for Jackson’s successor, Martin Van Buren, the economic turmoil Jackson left in his wake led to both Van Buren’s and the Democrat party’s defeat in the 1840 presidential election.

By giving Jackson a “voice” that deviates dramatically from the historical record, Dylan implicitly critiques the sanitized or self-serving stories that often emerge around controversial figures. Jackson’s “populist” image is starkly juxtaposed with the harsh realities of his policies. The Jackson “Voice” examines the moral compromises and self-deceptions inherent in power, and how historical figures attempt to shape their own legacies even from beyond the grave.

The Songster: Stephen Foster

[embed]Dylan’s performance of Stephen Foster’s “Hard Times”

Anyone who wants to be a songwriter should listen to as much folk music as they can, study the form and structure of stuff that has been around for 100 years. I go back to Stephen Foster.” — Bob Dylan

As Jackson fades back into the shadows, the light turns to shine on Stephen Foster, seated at a piano. He rises and speaks so softly that the audience strains to hear his words.

Stephen Collins Foster: Library of Congress

“Many of you know my songs — of riverboats and golden slumbers, of homes far away and days long past. My philosophy, if you can call it that, was to capture the melody of the human heart. I sought to give voice to joy, to sorrow, to longing, to the simple beauty of everyday life. In a world often filled with discord, I hoped to bring harmony. My music was for everyone, for the grand parlors and the humble cabins alike. I believed that a song could bridge divides, evoke empathy, and remind us of our shared humanity. To touch a soul with a simple tune, to bring a tear or a smile — that was my life’s ambition, and my greatest reward.”

Stephen Foster is celebrated as one of the first American songwriters to sustain himself solely through composition, producing a vast catalog of works in less than two decades. Yet, his legacy includes songs, such as “Oh! Susanna” and “Camptown Races,” that were written for minstrel shows, where white performers caricatured African Americans. While some of Foster’s compositions did bestow dignity upon Black subjects, the offensive language and derogatory imagery in others have led some venues to cease performing his music altogether, while many educators now use his work to teach about racism in American cultural history.

One of the shortest chapters in The Philosophy of Modern Song is on Foster’s “Nelly Was a Lady;” a five-paragraph Dylanesque riff on loss and love followed by a few short lines on the song itself. Dylan’s commentary begins with, “Stephen Foster is the counterpart to Edgar Allan Poe,” and details the song’s themes of loss, death, and grief while side-stepping one of the most contradictory facts about “Nelly Was a Lady.” The song was popularized by blackface minstrelsy even though Foster had composed it in hopes of leaving that genre behind.

*“I would guess that Dylan regards minstrelsy, say, whatever its ugliness, as responsible for some of the United States’ best music as well as much of its worst.” — Eric Lott*

Foster wrote to E.P. Christy — founder and head of the blackface minstrel group Christy’s Minstrels — and informed him of his plans to create works better suited to refined white taste and the refined white family parlor. Well aware that Christy and his Minstrels were still the best vehicle in bringing his music into the public ear, Foster pled in his letter that, “the [new] songs should be performed in a style that will evoke pathos rather than laughter.”

Christy purchased one of the first of those new songs, “Nelly was a Lady,” for $10, but ignoring Foster’s wishes, portrayed its sentiments through broad blackface caricatures and dialect and making it a massive stage hit for the Christy Minstrels. When published, the song would also become a staple in thousands of white parlors, at least partially fulfilling Foster’s dreams to move beyond blackface, even though his association with minstrelsy would remain a significant and damaging part of his legacy.

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It’s no coincidence that Dylan immediately followed the “Stephen Foster Speaks from the Grave” recording with a new Instagram reel of Paul Robeson’s 1930 performance of “My Old Kentucky Home.”

Originally conceived by Foster as an anti-slavery protest inspired by Uncle Tom’s Cabin, the song was almost completely co-opted over time to become a nostalgic anthem for a fictional, genteel, ante-bellum Old South. When Robeson released his version of “My Old Kentucky Home” in 1930, he deliberately re-centered the song on the Black suffering at its core, forcing listeners to confront the song’s true meaning.

By bringing Foster’s voice forward from the grave, and immediately following it with Robeson’s recording, Dylan prompts listeners to grapple with the uncomfortable, contradictory truths embedded in the layers of myth and reality that is America’s history.

It’s also probably no coincidence that of all the recordings the Dylan Instagram account has posted, only Robeson’s performance of “My Old Kentucky Home” is “no longer available.” Perhaps the recording’s deletion is deliberate Dylanesque irony on the never-ending cultural wars that will always be part of Stephen Foster’s unfortunate legacy.

And the Shadow: Edgar Allan Poe

Foster now turns to look at his companion, Edgar Allan Poe, who rises from his chair to address the audience.

“Observe, if you will, the shadows that cling to the edges of your perception. I am Edgar Allan Poe. My life was spent exploring the dark corridors of the human psyche, the terror of the unknown, the beauty in the macabre. My philosophy? That truth often lies not in the blinding light of reason, but in the veiled mysteries of the soul. I sought to evoke not merely understanding, but feeling — the chill of fear, the ache of loss, the unsettling whisper of madness. For in these depths, we confront ourselves, our deepest anxieties, and perhaps, our true nature. Do not shy from the darkness, for within it, the most profound revelations often reside.”

[embed]Bob Dylan reading the poem, “Annabel Lee” on Theme Time Radio Hour

Given that Bob Dylan’s full name is Robert Allen Zimmerman, it is highly likely that the misspelling in the Instagram video’s title, “Edgar Allen Poe speaks from the grave” is a deliberate joke, although one that also likely would have been unappreciated by the real Poe.

A melancholic shade in limbo, Poe’s “Voice from the Grave” seems focused on resentment. His narrative emphasizes the loss of his parents and his complicated relationship with his foster father, John Allan, a relationship which he returns to obsessively in his testament.

“The world does not reward the poet, nor does it sustain the dreamer. My foster father, John Allan, the one man who might have aided me, cast me aside like a beggar.” — Edgar Allan Poe Speaks from the Grave

Poe refers to Allan eight times in the recording — more than he does his “one true light,” his dead wife, Virginia Clem. While a “man of means,” Allan was “no true father” to Poe. He always maintained a “distance, a coldness.” Poe goes on to blame Allan for his failure to graduate from West Point after Allan refused to pay Poe’s gambling debts. In 1829, following the death of Allan’s wife and Poe’s foster mother, Frances Allan, Poe notes that “any pretense of kindness from Allan vanished” and that he “found himself not welcomed but barely tolerated” in the house. By 1831, Poe recounts that John Allan had “disowned me completely.”

John Allan “died in 1834, leaving behind wealth that might have been mine had he willed it. But he left me nothing,” Poe’s shade notes resentfully.

For Poe, writing was not merely a choice but a “necessity, an impulse that could not be silenced.” He had “no wealth, no security, no inheritance” and possessed only his “mind, [his] pen, and a restless hunger to carve [his] name into the annals of literature.” He viewed writing as “the only course that did not feel like exile from my own soul.” Ultimately, his stories, poems, and criticisms were his “defiance, [his] revenge against the indifference of the world.”

“‘I wanted to shout back at it, maybe I didn’t write you, but I found you’… I know just what he meant.” ~ Bob Dylan quoting Hoagy Carmichael on Theme Time Radio Hour, Young & Old

Poe explicitly states that he did not “seek these stories. They found me. They whispered in the night they lurked in the dim corners of my mind. They pressed themselves upon my very soul until I had no choice but to give them form.” He believed that it was his “destiny” to write these stories, and that “only I could tell them as they needed to be told.”

Above all, Poe claimed his “greatest teacher was experience — loss, sorrow, poverty, rejection.”

“My name endures. Theirs… dust”

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Poe’s voice from the grave goes on to take to task those whose work or opinions he disdained, echoing many of the sentiments that Bob Dylan expressed in his Musicares speech of 2015. Both demonstrate a strong sense of being misunderstood, unappreciated, unfairly treated by the establishment figures of their respective eras.

Poe felt that the literary establishment “disdained me, saw me as beneath them, an outcast, an intruder, upon their genteel literary world.” He embraced his unique, macabre style, which was seen as beyond the “strict confines of Study” and aimed to create “spectacle through words.”

Dylan notes that “right from the start, my songs were divisive for some reason. They divided people. I never knew why.” Lou Levy told him “there was no precedent for what I was doing, that I was either before my time or behind it.” Dylan remarks that critics “made a career out of accusing me of having a career of confounding expectations,” and he jokingly embraces this as his profession. He also questions why critics apply harsh standards to his singing voice (e.g., “croak,” “sound like a frog,” “no vocal range”) but not to other artists like Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, Lou Reed, or Dr. John.

Poe viewed writing not as a choice but as a “necessity.” He states, “my path was not chosen. It was ordained. What else could I have done but write?” He explains it was “a fire within me, a fever in the blood” that no school could teach. His writing was his “defiance, his revenge against the indifference of the world.”

Dylan echoes this sentiment, stating that his songs “didn’t get here by themselves. It’s been a long road and it’s taken a lot of doing.” He suggests his process was “natural” and that he was “just writing them. I didn’t think I was doing anything different. I thought I was just extending the line.” He implies an inherent drive, a predestined connection to traditional forms that he simply carried forward.

Poe vehemently expresses contempt for mediocrity in the literary world, noting that he was known as “the Tomahawk man” for his “ruthless reviews” and his pen was wielded “like a dagger cutting down the dull, the derivative, the undeserving.” He “eviscerated the New England literati,” mocked “feeble verse of self important poets,” and denounced “mediocrity that plagued American letters.”

Dylan similarly shows disdain for what he perceives as uninspired or overly commercial music. He explicitly states he “wasn’t a pop songwriter and I really didn’t want to be that.” He criticizes Lieber and Stoller’s songs as “novelty songs” that “weren’t saying anything serious.” He contrasts Ahmet Ertegun’s productions with Sam Phillips’ “radical eyes that shook the very essence of humanity” and created “songs that would never decay.” He also takes issue with Tom T. Hall’s “overcooked” songwriting, which epitomized the “comfortable” Nashville scene, and praises Kris Kristofferson for challenging it by “going for the throat” with raw, honest work.

Poe identifies his influences from a vast literary tradition: Shakespeare (his “true master”), Byron, Shelley, Coleridge, Milton, the Gothic tradition (Walpole, Radcliffe, Maturin, Lewis), German Romanticism, and even the Bible for its language. Crucially, he states that his “greatest teacher was experience — loss, sorrow, poverty, rejection. These shape me more than any book… My mother’s death, my estrangement from Allan, my constant struggle against the world’s indifference. All these were lessons written not on the page, but upon my soul.”

Dylan links his songwriting to “traditional music: traditional folk music, traditional rock ’n’ roll and traditional big-band swing orchestra music.” He also alludes to the “hard ground” from which his songs came and acknowledges the support and inspiration he drew from other artists, like Johnny Cash, who was “a hero of mine.” While less focused on personal suffering as a creative source than Poe, his tribute to MusiCares for helping a struggling artist like Billy Lee Riley highlights his awareness of the hardship and fragility of an artist’s life.

In essence, both Poe and Dylan portray themselves as artists driven by an internal imperative, shaped by profound influences (both artistic traditions and life experiences), and often at odds with the conventional expectations and criticisms of their respective establishments, yet ultimately confident in the enduring power of their unique artistic contributions.

Frank James: Kleos, Nostos, and the Choice of Life

And finally, the spotlight arrives at Frank James, American outlaw and former Confederate bushwhacker, brother to the more famous Jesse James.

![Frank James, ca. 1865. Clay County, Missouri, Photograph Collection}

Frank James, ca. 1865. [Clay County, Missouri, Photograph Collection}

“Good evening. My name is Frank James. For most of my days, the law and I were… complicated acquaintances. Some say outlaw, some say rebel, some say a victim of circumstances born of a war that tore this nation apart. I saw men driven to desperation, to acts that history would judge harshly. My philosophy? Survival. In a world that often dealt a harsh hand, you did what you had to do to protect your own, to carve out a place, even if that place was on the wrong side of the tracks. The line between right and wrong, between hero and villain, it’s often drawn by the victors, or by those with the biggest guns. I lived by my own code, and for better or worse, I stood by my brother and my comrades. That, I reckon, is my truth.”

James’ “Last Testament” in Dylan’s series offers a reflection on a life of crime, the lingering impact of the Civil War, and the closing of the American frontier. James expresses regret not for his actions, but for the “hardship, the blood, the loss,” especially the death of his brother and the imprisonment of his comrades. A key lament in his “voice” is the relentless march of time: “the world changed faster than we could… We weren’t just running from the law. We were running from time itself. And time, time never loses.”

The reflection from Frank James brings us to a dilemma facing the heroes of ancient Greece: the choice between kleos and nostos. To pursue glory — or to make the counter-decision for quiet obscurity — are choices which often dictate the trajectory of a hero’s life… and death.

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“Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story” — Opening line of Homer’s The Odyssey /Closing line of Bob Dylan’s Nobel Lecture.

Kleos — renown, fame, that which is told or sung about an individual — was a paramount aspiration for the ancient Greeks. Kleos was typically garnered through monumental deeds that would be enshrined in epic song, granting the hero a form of immortality. Yet, the pursuit of undying fame frequently presented Grecian heroes with a inescapable choice: a short, brilliant career culminating in death, or nostos — an uneventful life and peace.

In the Iliad Achilles’ mother, the sea goddess Thetis, revealed to him those destinies: he could return home and live a long, peaceful life without glory, or he could remain at Troy, die young in battle, and secure eternal fame.

Achilles chose the latter path, a decision made with full awareness of its fatal consequence. Achilles’ choice, kleos aphthiton, “imperishable glory” promises more than mere fame; it ensures that the hero’s name and deeds will live forever.

Within the narrative of the Iliad, Achilles’ decision is portrayed as the pinnacle of heroism. But the Odyssey presents a different narrative, one that Dylan takes pains to make clear in his Nobel lecture.

“When Odysseus in The Odyssey visits the famed warrior Achilles in the underworld — Achilles, who traded a long life full of peace and contentment for a short one full of honor and glory — tells Odysseus it was all a mistake. “I just died, that’s all.” There was no honor. No immortality. And that if he could, he would choose to go back and be a lowly slave to a tenant farmer on Earth rather than be what he is — a king in the land of the dead — that whatever his struggles of life were, they were preferable to being here in this dead place.”

The allure of kleos lay in its promise to transcend the finality of death. From the vantage point of the Greeks, the choice of kleos at the cost of one’s life was the ultimate leap to immortality. But if being king of a lifeless, joyless domain is worse than the worst existence among the living, as Achilles maintains, the promised rewards of kleos are hollow. The fame and glory that Achilles attained, for which he ultimately sacrificed his life, provides no comfort in death. Kleos is at best a consolation prize, insufficient to offset the loss it seeks to remedy.

Frank James last job was giving tours of the James’ family farm where he lived in quiet retirement. While Kodaks were “bared,” you could buy this postcard from Frank for 20 cents.

Frank James, in his own way, embodies the choice of nostos. Unlike his brother Jesse, who died violently, Frank surrendered to the authorities, was acquitted of his crimes, and lived out his remaining days quietly, eventually dying peacefully at the family hemp farm where he had been born.

“I have been hunted for twenty-one years, have literally lived in the saddle, have never known a day of perfect peace. It was one long, anxious, inexorable, eternal vigil.” — Frank James on surrendering to Governor Thomas T. Crittenden of Missouri on October 4, 1882, five months after his brother Jesse was killed.

He deliberately turned away from a life of violence, infamy, and probable early death, choosing the path of return to home and a quiet end. He chose life, even if it meant relinquishing the “glory” of the outlaw legend that had seduced his brother.

“Tell Me, O Muse, of that Resourceful Man”

AI-generated. Odysseus pulled between kleos and nostos

Unlike Achilles, who saw kleos and nostos as a binary choice — glory and death or peace and obscurity, Odysseus, that resourceful man, imagined a destiny where he could achieve both. From the moment he leaves Troy, his primary goal is nostos, to return to Ithaca, his wife Penelope, and his son Telemachus. As he struggles home, every obstacle he faces results in heroic feats, acts of kleos that enhance his reputation. His cleverness, resilience, and bravery become legendary. His story is sung by bards and recounted through generations. The Odyssey itself is a testament to his having achieved kleos aphthiton. His journey and his story become a source of awe for future generations.

Timothée Chalamet as Bob Dylan rides off in A Complete Uknown to kleos aphthiton.

How to Exit the Rat Race Without Even Trying

This brings us to Bob Dylan himself and a pivotal moment in his life: the mysterious motorcycle accident of 1966. On July 29th of that year, Dylan crashed his Triumph motorcycle near Woodstock, New York. Officially, he suffered neck injuries, but the details remain shrouded in mystery. No ambulance or hospital visit was ever documented, fueling persistent rumors that the accident was staged or exaggerated.

At the time, Dylan’s life was spiraling out of control. He was enduring endless touring, heavily using amphetamines, and living a chaotic existence that many believed was unsustainable. He was on a trajectory that would have inevitably led to the doors of the infamous “27 Club” — a place in Hades reserved for musicians who die at that young age, often from drug excess or under mysterious circumstances.

Many biographers and commentators suggest that the crash offered Dylan a much-needed escape from the relentless pressures of fame and the “rat race” he found himself in. Dylan himself confirmed this in his autobiography, Chronicles Volume One: “Truth was that I wanted to get out of the rat race. Having children changed my life and segregated me from just about everybody and everything that was going on. Outside of my family, nothing held any real interest for me and I was seeing everything through different glasses.”

He was tired and had come a long, long way. Now what he wanted more than anything else was a white picket fence, a passel of kids, and most of all, to be left in peace.

Taking either of the roads of kleos or nostos seemed bad. Both hazardous. On one he could drown and on the other he could starve.

Rather than making Achille’s choice, Dylan took the path between kleos and nostos that had been charted by Odysseus. Whether he staged it, or took advantage of a serendipitous motorcycle accident, the result was that he could work on retaining “imperishable glory” and retire from the rat race to a quiet family life.

It would still be a hard road to travel. He might end up starving. He might have to change identities, lose his way, even be abandoned for a time by his Muse. He might have to sell furniture or wooden legs.

But he would be alive. Dead is dead whether you’re a famed songster or a complete unknown. Life itself, with all its problems, is always a better choice than death.

The Artist as Guide to the Underworld

The “Voices from the Grave” Instagram series is far more than a casual experiment; it is a continuation of Bob Dylan’s lifelong artistic interests. By choosing figures like Al Capone, Edgar Allan Poe, Stephen Foster, Andrew Jackson, and Frank James, Dylan engages with the multifaceted and often contradictory nature of American history and identity.

Ultimately, this project is Dylan’s contemporary digital séance, a bold move that leverages modern technology to continue an ancient dialogue. Through these figures who have left often controversial marks on the cultural landscape, Dylan invites his audience to grapple with the complexities of the past and its persistent echoes in the present.

To fully appreciate the depth of “Voices from the Grave,” readers are encouraged to:

● Cross-reference with Dylan’s lyrical canon: Explore how the themes of mortality, moral ambiguity, and the inclusion of historical figures in the “Voices” series resonate with Dylan’s his extensive discography, particularly albums like “Time Out of Mind” or songs like “Murder Most Foul.”

● Delve into the historical contexts: Research the actual lives and controversies around Al Capone, Edgar Allan Poe, Stephen Foster, Andrew Jackson, and Frank James to understand the historical backdrop against which Dylan’s semi-fictional narratives are constructed.

● Consider the implications of AI in art: Reflect on the broader questions of authorship, authenticity, and creative control raised by the probable use of AI in the series. I was bemused (and a bit frightened) when an AI image I created for an article drew a virulent response on Facebook, with one poster complaining that it was, “disappointing to see respected people in Dylan world using it,” and another commenter going out of their way to make sure I was aware that they thought the image was “shit.”

I’m probably one of the least respected people in “Dylan world” that you’re likely to find. Like Dylan, I’m experimenting with AI and expect to continue to do so. If you have an issue with that, chacun à son goût, baby. And one last note, while I used AI to conduct some of my research (I recommend Notebook LM) and to produce some of the imagery, the words are mine.

● Engage with “Theme Time Radio Hour”: Explore Dylan’s previous foray into historical and cultural commentary through his radio show, which often featured obscure historical anecdotes and musical connections, providing a precursor to the “Voices from the Grave” format.

Acknowledgments

Bob Dylan’s “Voices from the Grave” series can be found at his Instagram account https://www.instagram.com/bobdylan. As well as those audio recordings, Dylan’s account has posted a variety of audio/video clips featuring everyone from Rick Nelson to Hoagy Carmichael, all worth the viewing/hearing.

This article draws inspiration from the insightful work of Grayley Herren, particularly his Substack articles (https://shadowchasing.substack.com/ ) and his paper “Mythic Quest in Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde,” which explores Dylan’s engagement with classical mythology and archetypes. That paper can be accessed here: (https://www.exhibit.xavier.edu/context/english_faculty/article/1576/viewcontent/Mythic_Quest_in_Blonde_on_Blonde.pdf)

I also drew inspiration from Steven Thwaits’ “I Don’t Love Nobody” Substack article, Alone with Ghosts: Bob Dylan’s Instagram Posts Part 9. That’s just one of Steve’s articles, all of which are well-thought-out and thought-provoking. You should subscribe if you like his work.

I draw continuing inspiration from the posts and articles of my friend, Scott Warmuth.

About two decades ago, I did a podcast series about Dylan’s Theme Time Radio Hour called Dreamtime, eventually abandoning it after four years and 60-odd episodes because I felt I was a voice in the wilderness (it also was not that good). In 2006 there weren’t all that many podcasts, certainly not many about Bob Dylan, and Dreamtime was the only one about Dylan’s radio show. Now there are thousands of podcasts about every subject under the sun, and seemingly hundreds focused on Bob Dylan. One of the best is Laura Tenschert’s Definitely Dylan.

Finis