Almost forty years after the release of Blonde on Blonde, Bob Dylan said in an interview with 60 Minutes that much of his music was “almost magically written.” While some might call marveling at his own creative genius narcissistic, listeners who have tried to unpeel the layers of meaning behind his best lyrics will find comfort in knowing that even Dylan has no idea how they came to be.
No song better demonstrates Dylan’s wild imagination and poetic prowess than “Visions of Johanna,” in which he finds himself in a relationship with one woman but longs for another. Although he tries to convince himself that he is content with Louise, he cannot fight off thoughts of the angelic and unattainable beauty, Johanna. Dylan invites the listener to the frontlines of a psychological battle against these visions, which overcome him and then become him. He severs his mind from his body, creating an out of body experience in which his conscience, conquered by his fantasy with Johanna, separates from a physical self that is still stranded in reality with Louise.
Dylan opens by introducing Louise, who “holds a handful of rain, temptin’ you to defy it.” In many ways, Louise is still a mystery, only known to the listener through the lights which “flicker from the opposite loft,” pipes which “just cough,” and country music which “plays soft,” imbuing the scene with gloom. If Louise is in the “opposite loft” from Dylan, then seeing her “and her lover so entwined” in the flickering light is “temptin” him; he wants to be with her but she is with someone else, and he is “stranded,” alone. Later, however, he describes Louise as “just near,” as if beside him. But why would he refer to himself in the third-person as “her lover?” And if Louise is actually by his side, why does he feel trapped and helpless in her company? The final line, “these visions of Johanna that conquer my mind,” ties everything together: Dylan longs for Johanna, hence he feels “stranded” with Louise. The word “conquer” seems to imply that the persona Dylan conjures is in a psychological battle against these visions, with no choice but to surrender. He is not a jealous onlooker after all. Instead, Dylan uses two different characters to draw the distinction between his body, “stranded” with Louise, and his mind — elsewhere, racked with thoughts of Johanna.
Dylan suddenly returns to the loft, where Louise is “all right,” “just near,” “delicate,” and seeming “like the mirror.” On the one hand, Louise may seem like the “mirror” of Johanna — similar in her tender, “delicate” quality, yet lacking something else (realness, tangibility). The presence of Louise only deepens his awareness of Johanna’s absence. On the other hand, Louise might seem “like the mirror” of Dylan’s vivid out-of-body experience. He knows their relationship is superficial and pointless, but like the hedonistic men who resort to prostitution, he settles for her because it’s better than being alone. He convinces himself that she’s “all right” — satisfactory, though nothing spectacular. But looking at her once more, “the ghost of ’lectricity howls in the bones of her face,” and her cold, lifeless face reminds him of the substance she lacks compared to Johanna. He sees the semblance of electricity in Louise, but no real light or passion. In the end, these visions of Johanna take his place and the thoughts not only overcome him, but literally become him. Even if his body remains “entwined” with Louise, —his conscience is elsewhere, tortured by inescapable visions of Johanna.
Now detached from his body, Dylan examines himself from the perspective of an outsider, aware of his flaws from this more objective point of view. He describes a “little boy lost” who “takes himself so seriously,” and “brags of his misery.” Dylan conjures a surreal image of his conscience looking down from above at his physical self. He sees an immature, misguided “little” boy who remains “entwined with Louise” even though, deep down, he wants Johanna.
The final verse returns to the loft where “The peddler now speaks to the countess who’s pretending to care for him.” He challenges Louise, the “countess” pretending to care, to “name me someone that’s not a parasite and I’ll go out and say a prayer for him.” Louise accuses him of using her, and he responds cynically that, in reality, all of us are selfish parasites. He even vows to “say a prayer” for any truly kind-hearted person, reflecting his view that people who do not prioritize themselves have no hope for survival in this cruel world. He expresses his disappointment that “Madonna, she still has not showed.” By likening Johanna to “Madonna,” an angel, he associates her with salvation—if she shows, she will rescue him from his psychological torture. Unfortunately, the “stage” where he expects her to appear is barren and crumbles to dust before she ever arrives.
As Dylan accepts that he will never reunite with Johanna, his conception of the perfect love, he realizes that this “fiddler” has no choice but to “step to the road” and move on. As he leaves Louise behind, he “writes ev’rything’s been returned which was owed / On the back of the fish truck that loads,” which might be his way of asserting that he ultimately made everything right with her, that he is not a parasite after all. He walks by a “fish truck” loading on the dirty street and the foul, overwhelming smell hits him in the face, a perfect metaphor for the unpleasant imperfections of life. As his thoughts of Johanna become too much to bear, his “conscience explodes” and “harmonicas play the skeleton keys and the rain.” Skeleton keys are specifically designed to open many doors. Dylan uses this phrase as a brilliant double entendre, invoking the surreal image of a ghastly, skin-and-bones piano player while also suggesting that his harmonica unlocks doors to higher spiritual realms, where “these visions of Johanna are now all that remain.” Music is his only means to reach this transcendental plane, and to express these abstract desires that torture his psyche. And through this creative channel emerges this tragic and poetic masterpiece. 3