Recently, Todd Carroll, MFA Director of Design Technology at SVA, asked me if I had any writing he could use to experiment with a new piece of AI software: NotebookLM, a personal AI research assistant powered by Google’s LLM, Gemini 1.5 Pro.
He didn’t tell me what the results would be. I assumed it would probably be some simple edits. I teach my writing students to avoid using AI for editing or even spellchecking, but I was still intrigued to see the results (as intriguing as Pandora’s box). In fact, it took me a while to believe the results.
The first thing I pulled from my desktop for Todd was a review of the Bob Dylan documentary film, first published in 2022 on Design Observer. I submitted the review and got back to work. Within 10 minutes, I received an email with an audio file attached. Rather than edit or rewrite my text, the AI had created an “original” podcast based on that content, with two completely normal generative voices talking about Dylan in my own words, but as seen through my eyes (or words). It was a perfect simulacrum.
Below is that mysterious AI podcast and the text it was based on. (I didn’t attach a bio or use the word “legendary” like some “podcasters” do; my signature was the only identifying information in the Word file I sent Todd; I assume the AI scraped information about me from the web and incorporated it into the final result.)
I have to admit, this is both surprising and appalling (surprisingly appalling and appallingly surprising) because the “hosts” discussed Dylan and why I wrote the review in ways that either had nothing to do with my actual thoughts or speculated about what I wrote in surprisingly insightful ways.
On the afternoon of June 12, my head felt like a beach ball full of sand, slowly leaking air. It was a symptom of the terrible cold I’d caught two days earlier on the flight from Milan’s Malpensa to New York’s Kennedy Airport. That’s when I started watching Martin Scorsese’s Rolling Thunder Revue, hoping this long-awaited film by two masters of the craft would have a therapeutic effect.
Saying I’m a Dylan fan is like saying Pope Francis is a fan of God. Dylan may not be God, but he has the charismatic power to lead me from darkness to light through his lyrics, his gestures, and his sound more than any artist I respect. So for over two hours, I was lifted from the awful head, nose, and throat discomfort I was in and transported to another world of bliss.
And then it was over, and I was instantly placed back inside the beach ball.
As the jugglers and clowns performed for me (especially Allen Ginsberg (“I saw the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by madness”), Joan Baez, and Roger McGuinn), those feelings faded away like the Aleve I had drunk earlier that morning, and I was thrown into a spiral of despair. Yes, I loved the movie, and it lifted my spirits. But when it ended, my body was once again in a sickly state, this time saddened by the emptiness. A cold is not just chills, fever, and stuffy nose. Even mild or temporary weakness can leave you feeling helpless. In the film, Dylan says, “There’s nothing left of the rolling thunder, all dust.” I’ve been indulging in morbid thoughts about dust lately (more than usual).
FYI, this is not a review of the Dylan/Scorsese documentary. I initially intended to do that, but never had the patience to re-examine the seminal scene by scene. Much has already been written about the entirely believable fictional interviews performed by actors and interspersed with vintage clips (read Rolling Stone or The New York Times for that). Instead, my short story and/or ersatz confession is an insomniac’s morning-after narcissistic musings about the buttons the film expertly pushed and how its artistry derailed my heavily guarded fireproof, waterproof, chemical-proof vault of emotions.
That artists and designers have the power to move us is nothing new. The best artists are wizards, mixing the tangible and intangible into strange combinations of image, sound and subtle messages that can either uplift or depress. Rolling Thunder made me aware of emotions I was trying to suppress, and it uplifted my aching body.
For me, the power of this cinematic experience is its all-consuming intensity. The contrast of Dylan’s crisp white oil-painted face with his off-white teeth and the piercing gaze of his searing blue eyes was the first time I, even an ardent follower of his music, had witnessed such charisma. It was hypnotic, and entertaining, of course. But it’s much more troubling than that. If that pure essence could be bottled, bad people could rule the world. I found myself wishing I could somehow physically share that vintage event, but trapped inside a beach ball. The Rolling Thunder Revue simultaneously drained and filled my spiritual enthusiasm. I felt alternately happy, sad, hopeful and melancholic. I yearned to find a similar way of self-expression. But it’s Dylan’s genes, not mine. I’m genetically incapable of making that kind of art.
Dylan is asked if he is still searching for something after decades of making art. His answer is more or less: Life is not about searching, it is about building. As the film shows, he built something that meant a lot to a lot of people. I am still searching for my Rolling Thunder. Watching the film, I felt like a marionette being pulled on stage, as many of us do. Dylan is an incredible puppeteer who not only pushed buttons, but also pulled strings. In five days, I watched Rolling Thunder Rev six times over, believing that somewhere in this film there was an answer to a question I hadn’t yet asked. But maybe it’s just a side effect of taking too many Aleve. Either way, it’s a must-see.
