Bob Dylan

Those cynical about the seemingly knee-jerk adulation of Bob Dylan should recall that for years, the musician was deemed a wash-up—a bellwether of fallen baby-boomer icons. This perception changed in 1997 when he released Time Out of Mind, breaking a two-decade malaise with all the swagger of a ruined John Wayne character reemerging for a shoot-out. Like so much of the songwriter’s career, the magnitude of his second life is without precedent in rock music: Tall-tale heroes do not disappoint, and neither does modern-day Dylan.

The balladic Modern Times is the artist’s third record since his creative rebirth. Once again, Dylan portrays the type of mythical bluesman he admired in his youth: He’s wise, romantic, wistful and creepy, alternately humming about heaven and threatening rivals with death. Because this understated album is rooted in early rock, blues and Tin Pan Alley, it can seem as if the modern times Dylan addresses passed long ago. Yet these songs more likely occupy an America akin to the one in his screwy 2003 movie, Masked and Anonymous, where the past and a bastardized present intertwine—hence his strange shout-out to Alicia Keys, which seems the Dylan equivalent of a hostage holding up a newspaper. Plunged into the ugly ’00s, the songwriter even eases his long-standing political reticence. “The Levee’s Gonna Break” spins like a nursery rhyme with ghoulish imagery; “Workingman’s Blues #2” laments low wages and a fallen “proletariat,” like Paul Krugman gone electric. Just one hitch: What does it say about a medium’s future when its best work is being created by a 65-year-old? — Jay Ruttenberg