The cassette tape was labeled in my father’s precise, fading hand: “Early Stuff.” It was a patchwork compilation, mostly crackling demos and Australian-market singles from the mid-sixties, the sound of three brothers—Barry, Robin, and Maurice Gibb—still finding their footing thousands of miles from the London scene they would eventually conquer. I remember feeding it into the deck of a beat-up sedan on a long, rainy drive, seeking the familiar jangle of pre-disco pop. What I heard instead was a shock of hushed reverence: a cover of Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ In The Wind.”
The shock wasn’t that the Bee Gees covered Dylan—everyone covered Dylan in 1963. The revelation was the sheer, aching sincerity of their version, a piece of music that felt impossibly fragile for a group that would later define the global sound of catharsis and glamour. This wasn’t the falsetto-laden, yacht-ready pop of the mid-70s. This was the sound of youth, talent, and profound earnestness, captured at the very moment the brothers began to recognize the weight of their own combined voices.
The Australian Incubator: Context and Commitment
To understand the Bee Gees’ “Blowin’ In The Wind,” one must place it in the context of their Australian years. This recording predates their grand 1967 international debut, Bee Gees’ 1st. While the exact commercial studio recording remains elusive and is sometimes confused with a live TV performance, the consensus points to a period of intense activity in 1963, a year that saw the original Dylan composition become an anthem. The track was never a single nor was it included on their first Australian album, The Bee Gees Sing and Play 14 Barry Gibb Songs (1965), nor on their breakthrough Australian album, Spicks and Specks (1966). It circulates primarily as a television performance from the Australian show Bandstand, or in sessions from that formative, pre-global era.
They were still teenagers—Barry was seventeen, and the twins, Robin and Maurice, were just fourteen—making their living in the Australian pop circuit. The original song’s gravity, written by an already politically charged Bob Dylan, stood in stark contrast to the bubblegum pop the Bee Gees were often pressured to perform. Their choice to interpret it speaks volumes about their musical ambition and their awareness of the deeper currents shaping the era. They weren’t just pop stars; they were musicians steeped in folk, rock, and soul.
Sound and Sincerity: Stripping Down to the Core
The sonic texture of their early version is defined by an astonishing restraint. There is no string section swelling into melodrama, no thunderous disco beat. Instead, the arrangement is minimalist, acoustic, and entirely focused on the harmonizing trio.
The backing is simple, featuring what sounds like a clean, open-voiced acoustic guitar carrying the rhythm and the melody’s harmonic progression. The absence of a prominent piano or electric rhythm section allows the air in the room, and the delicate weave of the vocals, to become the main textural elements. This creates an intimacy often lost in their later, highly orchestrated works. When you listen with studio headphones, you can almost feel the brothers leaning into the microphone, their voices nearly merging into a single, breathtaking instrument.
The most striking element is, of course, the three-part harmony. Barry’s voice, not yet the polished falsetto of his disco fame, sits low and grounding. Robin’s distinctive, quavering lead, already fully formed, is poignant and fragile. Maurice’s middle-register fills the space between them, providing a seamless cushion of sound. The voices are tightly clustered, yet each note is clearly distinguishable, carrying a weight that belies their age.
This arrangement is a lesson in acoustic dynamics. It’s mostly mezzo-piano—soft, conversational—punctuated by the slight, communal swell on the rhetorical refrain: “The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind.” That swell is their moment of catharsis, a quiet declaration that elevates the simple folk melody to something anthemic.
The Weight of a Question
Dylan’s lyric is, famously, a series of existential and political questions. “How many years can some people exist / Before they’re allowed to be free?” This piece of music demands a deep resonance with its themes of peace, justice, and willful blindness. In the hands of the young Gibb brothers, the questions feel less accusatory and more like a shared, communal plea.
“Their youthful harmony transforms the political query into a universal, heartbreaking lament.”
Their youthful harmony transforms the political query into a universal, heartbreaking lament. It connects the civil rights struggle in America, the anti-war sentiment building globally, to the personal growing pains of three immigrant kids trying to make it in a country that wasn’t quite home. It proves that the deepest songs are not defined by who sings them, but by the sincerity they bring to the message. I used to imagine them in the small St Clair Studio in Sydney, reportedly produced by Nat Kipner and Ossie Byrne, running through this difficult sheet music in their downtime. Were they thinking of the vast world outside Australia, the one they were so desperately trying to reach? Absolutely.
The enduring charm of this track lies in its contrast. We know where the Bee Gees went—the baroque pop opulence of Horizontal, the orchestral splendour of Odessa, and the undeniable dance-floor domination of Saturday Night Fever. But here, at the beginning, they were simply three young men with a few acoustic instruments and an undeniable gift for vocal blending, using a protest song to signal their arrival. If you’re undertaking guitar lessons to master folk chords, this song should be required listening for its deceptive simplicity.
This version is a time capsule, a reminder that before the Bee Gees became a worldwide phenomenon, they were a folk-pop harmony group whose greatest asset was the sheer, breathtaking quality of their vocal blend, capable of channeling the era’s most profound anxieties with grace. It invites us to listen not just to their sound, but to their journey, which began with this quietly moving nod to the folk canon.
Listening Recommendations
- Peter, Paul and Mary – “If I Had a Hammer”: Shares the same era and earnest folk-protest sensibility with pristine, powerful vocal harmonies.
- The Seekers – “Georgy Girl”: Another Australian group from the same time, known for clean, acoustic-based folk-pop arrangements and strong vocals.
- Simon & Garfunkel – “The Sound of Silence” (Acoustic Version): For a similar feel of hushed, intimate acoustic arrangement driven by close, ethereal harmonies.
- The Byrds – “Mr. Tambourine Man”: Exhibits the transition from pure folk material (also Dylan) into a sophisticated, electric folk-rock sound.
- The Hollies – “Bus Stop”: A classic mid-60s track that demonstrates tight, melodic pop songwriting built around impressive three-part vocal arrangements.
- Stevie Wonder – “Blowin’ In The Wind”: Offers a sharp contrast, showing how a soul-funk arrangement can completely reshape the same melody and lyrics.