Even though it said “Unknown Caller,” I had a sense for who it might be from the area code. She introduced herself as the assistant to one of the most powerful men in the music industry — the C.E.O. of the company that had just purchased my little startup. He’d gotten wind of the acquisition and wanted to wanted to meet. I was given a date, a time and a location. Nothing else. I asked several follow-up questions but got no answers. And so, without any further context, the rendezvous was set. In the interim, my days were restless and my nights were sleepless.

Three days later, I took the subway uptown and walked over to a stunning townhouse along Fifth Avenue and Central Park. I announced myself and was escorted into a kitchen abuzz with assistants, chefs, drivers and entourage. The very important man I had come to meet was on a call in the next room over — I could see him but he did not look in my direction. And so, I sat, uneasy and confused, like I was trespassing, for thirty minutes. Finally, he walked towards me, still on his call, and hand signaled for me to follow. We walked out of the kitchen, out of the house and into a waiting black Land Rover. I rode shotgun while he continued on his call. We drove through Central Park to the East and parked (illegally) outside of a famous, old Jewish deli, speaking exactly zero words on the ride over. I followed him, while he continued his call, to a back room where he gestured for me to sit down next to him. The waiters brought us cups of coffee (I don’t drink coffee) and a bagel with cream cheese (I don’t eat cream cheese). Five minutes later, or about an hour after I first arrived to meet this legendary music man, he finished his call, leaned in and vexingly — vaguely threateningly — uttered the first words to me: “Be careful what you wish for.”

That moment — the noir-ish cloak and dagger, the foreboding oracle — reminded me of Mark Knopfler and Dire Straits. Part of it is Knopfler’s voice — wry, observational and without affect. While his singing is often compared to Bob Dylan’s, to me he sounds more like the narrator of a pulpy crime novel, just with an extra slow drawl, somehow by way of Glasgow. So many of his songs, both with Dire Straits and solo, are cinematic — the guitars can sound like nighttime fog and the rhythms like narrative propulsion. A former journalist and lecturer, Mark Knopfler knows how to unfurl a good mystery.

There is a gumshoe quality to his songs and, frankly, to his whole career. You can almost hear him searching for the next line, the next note. Dire Straits was a band that kept chipping away at the mystery, getting closer with each successive album. One clue at a time, Knopfler’s investigation led him to stardom and to innovation. It led him to digital recording, the compact disc format and to MTV. And, with that, he learned the real horror of his investigation: that he loved to make music but that he despised fame. By then, it was too late. It was the mid-80s and Dire Straits were the most successful Rock band on the planet. “Brothers in Arms” was the first and most ubiquitous album in every CD section of every music store in the world. It was a pioneering achievement of technology. It was an excellent album. It featured two, accidentally iconic music videos. And everyone could agree on it. With each of the thirty million copies that it would sell, a piece of Knopfler’s heart died. He solved the mystery and found that he was both detective and victim. Be careful what you wish for.

In the late Seventies, Dire Straits started as a New Wave anomaly. They were Pub Rock in design but more Folk and Country in engineering. They had a singer who couldn’t properly sing but who sounded great nevertheless, and — oh yeah — also happened to be a transcendent guitarist and a gifted songwriter. The rest of the band included his brother and his friends. But within a few years, it became clear that Dire Straits was Mark Knopfler’s band. Over several albums and line-up changes, they made critically and commercially beloved albums. They achieved great success, without the trappings of fame. In spite of the many trends that beckoned, they just did their own thing. Knopfler sang a half beat behind the rhythm. The songs added some boogie. Their audiences grew. But they were decidedly not Rock Stars. You got the sense that Knopfler thought of himself as a writer first and a guitarist second, then “bandmate” third and, somewhere very low on the list was “famous person.” All of this was well and good until 1985, when Dire Straits accidentally bumped into MTV and Sting. 

Quite literally, the rest almost was history. In 1988, at the very peak of their stardom, Mark Knopfler put Dire Straits on the shelf so he score films and make modest, Country-inspired not-rock-star fare with the Notting Hillbillies. In interviews from that period, he looks bored, frustrated and resentful. He is very clear in every story: he loves music but abhors the music business. He loves success but resents fame. The Sophie’s choice, however, was not so easily resolved. A few years after disbanding Dire Straits, they reunited. It’s unclear whether the reformation was born out of affection or loyalty or inertia or obligation or fan service. Whatever it was, Mark Knopfler felt that there was unfinished business. 

Though the mystery likely persists to this day, the business of Dire Straits was officially finished on “On Every Street.” The band was trimmed to four members, of which only Knopfler and bassist John Illsley were in the first incarnation. As if there had ever been any question, this was Mark Knopfler’s band. In fact, this was, in many ways, a “Mark Knopfler and band” album. However, released as a Dire Straits album, the twelve songs on “On Every Street” had their work cut out for them. In some parts, they are in direct conversation with their iconic predecessor, “Brothers in Arms.” In other ways, these songs eschew comparison, settling into a tight, albeit modest, Country boogie, played only the way Mark Knopfler can play it. The singles sound obligatory, like they were created to appease the label. And, in between, there are those cinematic ballads and atmospheric jams that Knopfler had become enamored of. The sum of these parts sounds mostly like the work of Mark Knopfler — the solo artist — leaving his fame behind without leaving a mess. If it were Lou Reed, this would have been an album of him shitting into his guitar. If it were Van Morrison, it would have been him reading Yates for an hour over a single saxophone note. Mark Knopfler was both too professional and too exhausted to muster that sort of bile. And yet, there is a sense that “On Every Street” was designed to underwhelm.

In spite of his resistance, the album went on to sell over ten million copies around the world and spawned two top five singles on the Rock charts. Most of that gargantuan success was a consequence of “Money for Nothing” and “Walk of Life” — songs released six years earlier. But in spite of Knopfler’s almost masochistic desire to hide, “On Every Street” managed to reveal a great deal. From its opening notes — the pert, Sun Records’ groove of “Calling Elvis” — we hear that Knopfler has been dreaming of Tennessee and wrestling with fanaticism. Its mystery lies somewhere between cynical fandom and earnest adoration. And through some magical combination of Johnny Cash chugga chugga, celestial slide guitar and atmospheric hum, you eventually begin to wonder if Dire Straits have actually contacted Elvis.

In almost every way, “Calling Elvis” was an unlikely first single. It’s modest — divergent from previous Dire Straits’ singles and more a groove than a tune. Knopfler mutters and whispers more than he sings the song. And yet, they were Dire Straits. Their label required singles for radio and MTV. And this was the second closest thing that Mark Knopfler had to offer. Well, actually, the closest was “Heavy Fuel,” which reconstituted the riff and the rock star from “Money for Nothing,” but with Knopfler rapping the verses. Rapping. Not talking. Rapping.

Had “On Every Street” been released as a Mark Knopfler solo album, it could have been favorably compared to those Mitchell Froom produced Richard Thompson records or Daniel Lanois producing Randy Newman. Presented as a Dire Straits album, though, it was unfavorably and unfairly contrasted with “Brothers in Arms.” “On Every Street” is worlds away from “Brothers in Arms.” It is a record driven by characters and story. It is a rather small and empathetic album. And its most empathetic five minutes are the title track. Beginning as an understated, wistful piano ballad and ending as a lyrical guitar outro, “On Every Street” (the song) is like an inverse “Layla.” Knopfler’s character is a detective — a man broken by love. He’s looking for a woman who’s gone missing. He’s looking for clues — yesterday, today and all the days. He’s looking every day and on every street. It may not be among the best or most famous Dire Straits’ songs, it could be their most beautiful.

On the other hand, the album falters when it tries to be cute or when it departs fromfilm noir and veers into romantic comedy. Knopfler’s guitars can be so beautiful that they verge on sentimentality when he is not careful. And the occasional addition of Sanborn-esque saxophone does not help matters. But more than schmaltzy, when he uses the characters or ideas as a punchline — “Heavy Fuel” (Rock Stars), “Ticket to Heaven” (televangelists) and “My Parties” (suburban nouveau riche — Knopfler can sound misanthropic.  When he is right, though, as he frequently is, Knopfler sounds like almost nobody else. He elicits Jimmy Page but soaped up and dialed down. He elicits Bob Dylan but with more humor and less absurdity. In middle age, he discovered this new musical compound. In fact, he quite literally names it on “Fade to Black,” a slow, Country Blues number that could closer great Noir film. It’s not the album’s finale, but it would have made a fitting one.

In 2018, Dire Straits were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Mark Knopfler famously demurred the invitation, leaving his fans and bandmates sufficiently confused. Left without a star presenter or a great explanation, bassist John Illsley, the lone original Strait, simply announced: “I’ll assure you it’s a personal thing. Let’s just leave it at that.” In many ways, Dire Straits was always a bit puzzling. The guitars were slippery. The lyrics were muttered. They were not Arena Rock. They were not Folk Rock. And they were not New Wave. Dire Straits was a case that Mark Knopfler set out to solve as a young man. But, with each new discovery, he seemed to have also lost something deeper and more personal. Eventually, he had no band. He ignored his fame. And he made lyrical scores for films and mature, expertly played, but decidedly less rocking, solo albums. By most accounts, he does exactly what he pleases. He has been married for several decades. He collects and races classic cars. He roots for Newcastle United. And he never has to make music videos or hit singles. Maybe he cracked the case, after all.

by Matty Wishnow