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Burying the Brakeman

They tried this nine years ago, and then, somehow, it worked. In 1988, Columbia Records rounded up a cast of familiar and vaguely bankable voices -- among them Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, U2, Emmylou Harris, Bruce Springsteen and John Mellencamp -- and asked them to breathe life into the words of Huddie Ledbetter and Woody Guthrie. The superstars were given the opportunity to rescue those legends from the hallowed halls of the Library of Congress, told to take them out to play and stretch their legs a bit. The result, Folkways: A Vision Shared, was for a good cause -- to raise money for the Smithsonian to purchase and protect Mo Asch's label and legacy, the Folkways catalog -- and produced an even better record, one in which today's performers captured yesterday's lightning in a bottle. The musicians lined up for Folkways, including Arlo Guthrie and Sweet Honey in the Rock and even Brian Wilson and Little Richard, respected the originals and often transcended them, and to listen to the record now is to understand the meaning of timelessness -- everything sounds as though it was written now. A Vision Shared was the first, and remains the last, tribute album to warrant such a title.

Not in two decades had Bob Dylan sounded so forceful as when he ripped into Guthrie's "Pretty Boy Floyd," recalling the story of the Okie outlaw who took his booty in the name of the people. Dylan sounded reborn, like a child taking his first steps -- appropriate, perhaps, since Guthrie had been his idol, his inspiration, his mentor and his friend. Dylan literally watched as the man died, only to years later bring him back to life.

With The Songs of Jimmie Rodgers: A Tribute, Dylan once again tries his hand at a little resurrection magic, this time with a song-writing giant he knew only through his music and his myth. Guthrie was an easy choice, a batting-practice pitch easily hit over the wall; Rodgers -- the man saddled with the unfortunate title of "The Father of Country Music," though he was no more than perhaps its uncle -- died in 1933 in a New York motel room during a break from recording sessions, and Dylan and the rest of the acolytes would struggle to know him from afar. Perhaps that's why the Rodgers record -- the first release on Egyptian Records, Dylan's own imprint on Columbia -- is so little fun, why it smacks of worship and doesn't ring with Folkways celebration. It's like hearing a bunch of people too scared to make history their own, millionaires who have nothing in common with a tuberculosis-suffering brakeman who wrote of hoboes and field hands because he was them. Just because someone grew up listening to a particular artist's music doesn't mean he understood it, or that he felt it.

The assortment of musicians rounded up for The Songs of Jimmie Rodgers is simply all wrong: Where A Vision Shared had the twang of campfire familiarity about it, where it resonated with bottleneck heartbreak, this feels slick and dandified and misguided -- like something made to get played on radio, not to honor a man misunderstood by history. Van Morrison mumbles his way through "Mule Skinner Blues," Aaron Neville sings the country standard "Why Should I Be Lonely" as though he's still trying out for the Vienna Boys Choir and Mary Chapin Carpenter turns "Somewhere Down Below the Mason-Dixon Line" into a public-radio anthem, a record to be given away during a pledge drive.

Bono's "Dreaming with Tears in My Eyes" reeks with the stench of self-seriousness; he moans and drones, choking down the words with a string-section chaser. Bono is too far gone now, too much a joke and too little a great singer for Rodgers's material; he has finally delivered on his threat to become post-metal's Robert Plant, turning a desperate man's wisdom -- "Sunshine will turn into sorrow as I dream of the love we once knew" -- into an arena-rocker's cliche. It's a far cry from the man who turned Guthrie's "Jesus Christ" into a runaway thriller a decade ago.

Dylan croaks "My Blue-Eyed Jane" as though he just learned the words yesterday and has yet to teach the band the music; his voice sounds shot, full of phlegm and pain, and the band doesn't know whether to play with or against him. This isn't Nashville Skyline Dylan, but the lost kid who tried to record with Johnny Cash in the 1960s only to find he didn't know his way around history when history was standing at the microphone next to him. Dylan at his best has always understood that the past existed to be tinkered with in the present; he stole wholesale from traditional hymns because he knew moribund words could be made vital for today. But here he seems too caught up in yesterday -- Rodgers's and, sadly, his own. Rodgers's simple, heartbreaking song about love never meant to be -- "When the sun goes down / And the shadows are creeping over town / And I come back again / My blue-eyed Jane" -- is swallowed up in a voice worn away by dust and attrition. On the eve of Rodgers's 100th birthday, this is like kicking a little graveyard dirt in his eye.

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