How Mr Bob Dylan’s <i>John Wesley Harding</i> album changed the way rockers dress.

Those inclined to take their sartorial cues from the annals of music history may notice an abrupt shift transpiring between the years 1967 and 1968. Before that shift, such leading lights as The Beatles and The Rolling Stones wore mod suits, Technicolor tailoring and the occasional pastel military uniform. From 1968 on, they dressed as if going to brunch at the hippest restaurant you’ve never heard of. Denim jackets. T-shirts. Stubble.

What happened? John Wesley Harding happened.

Mr Bob Dylan’s album from December 1967 – the winter of doom that followed the Summer of Love – heralded a new era of rock-star dressing, one that endures to this day. When a musician seeks to communicate authenticity, whether as a one-off (say, U2 circa Rattle And Hum) or as a way of life (Wilco, Mr Gary Clark Jr), they often adopt a uniform similar to the one Mr Dylan wore 50 years ago this month.

If Mr Dylan’s low-key style – wide-brimmed black hat, warm and fuzzy coat, all captured in a black-and-white photo with the tossed-off immediacy of an Instagram post – seems like a rebuke of his psychedelically inclined frenemies across the pond, that’s because it was. “I asked Columbia to release it with no publicity and no hype,” Mr Dylan later said of John Wesley Harding, “because this was the season of hype.” Everything about the album feels counter-countercultural, from the minimalist instrumentation (guitars, drums, bass, nothing else) to the way it was recorded and released. Mr Dylan spent roughly 12 hours in the studio, and the album came out four weeks after it was finished. By contrast, The Beatles spent more time recording and mixing “Strawberry Fields Forever” alone.

But more than anything, Mr Dylan’s style set him apart. He was a tastemaker’s tastemaker. Rather than embrace the avant-garde like his peers, he went the other way, simplifying his sound and his wardrobe, matching it to his surroundings. At the time, Mr Dylan had quit the road following a motorcycle accident, holing up in upstate New York with his wife, his dog, and the musicians who would later form The Band. He wore worn-in jeans and wire-rimmed glasses. He grew a beard. He dressed casually, for himself.

In doing so, he pioneered a style that rockers have imitated – knowingly or not – ever since. Think of The Stones in the south of France, recording Exile On Main Street. Think of The Band’s self-titled 1969 LP, whose greyscale cover is a milestone of Dylanesque scruff. Or watch the 1971 Concert for Bangladesh, in which Mr George Harrison and Mr Leon Russell, among others, attempt to out-Dylan Mr Dylan by donning their best country gentleman duds, and strumming earnestly on acoustic guitars, all in the name of authenticity. The ensuing denim-off is impressive, but ultimately Mr Dylan triumphs in a last-minute appearance.

Or simply go to a bar in one of the cooler neighbourhoods in your hometown, particularly in the colder months. There, you’ll see young men in wide-brimmed felt hats, dark jeans, work boots that have known nothing but pavement. Like so much of Mr Dylan’s work, it’s a style that feels as if it was always there, but needed someone to discover it.

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