Behind the magic of Dire Straits and rock n roll trailblazing
By Clay “Tiger” Hulin, Photo of Mark Knopfler by Thomas Kohler
It started in the dark gym of Belmont Central School (may it rest in peace). A video dance, mid-1980s, somewhere between a school function and a cultural event. The air was thick with hairspray, the big hair that went with it, and hormones. Sneakers squeaked on waxed floors. Up front, a big, backlit TV screen glowed on stage like a portal from the future. No disco balls, just pure video.
A DJ crouched behind the screen, swapping out VHS tapes—fast-forwarding, rewinding, cueing up the next one like a mad scientist with magnets and tape. Each clip was a chance to catch lightning in a bottle.
Def Leppard blared. Van Halen shredded. Then came Dire Straits.
“Money for Nothing” hit like a signal flare. Those jagged, chunky computer animations crawled across the screen while Mark Knopfler’s guitar sliced through the speakers. That opening riff? Every kid froze. Even the ones pretending not to care.
It wasn’t just a song. It was the sound of MTV coming to rural Western New York. Loud, ironic, a little smug, and completely addictive.
Dire Straits led the way. But it was Mark Knopfler behind the wheel.
Quiet. Sharp. Left-handed, but playing right-handed. A guy who didn’t look like a rock star, didn’t act like one, and never chased the spotlight, but rewrote the rules of what a guitar hero could sound like. He didn’t shred. He spoke. His guitar work was pure storytelling, clean, fluid, full of soul and swing, with zero flash.
Before any of that, Knopfler was a newspaper reporter in Leeds. A guy in a cheap suit writing headlines and covering local news. Later, an English teacher at a small college. He didn’t break into music young. He worked his way into it like a grown-up, observing, listening, watching the world.
When Dire Straits hit in ’78 with Sultans of Swing, it wasn’t glam or punk or disco. It was tight, narrative-driven, guitar music. Almost anti-style, which is why the U.S. loved it first. Americans heard Dylan in the lyrics, Clapton in the tone, and something new in the delivery.
Over the next few years, Knopfler doubled down, not on image, but on substance.
In 1979, they dropped Communiqué, recorded in the Bahamas with legendary producer Jerry Wexler. It refined their sound, more laid-back, more spacious, but still razor-sharp. Songs like “Once Upon a Time in the West” and “Portobello Belle” proved Knopfler wasn’t a one-hit wonder. He was building a voice that fused travelogue storytelling with bluesy restraint.
Then came Making Movies in 1980, arguably Dire Straits’ most cinematic album.
“Romeo and Juliet” wasn’t just a hit, it was a heartbreak in slow motion. Knopfler opens it with that ghostly, chiming National steel guitar, then steps into a character who’s bruised but still trying to make sense of love lost.
“You promised me everything, you promised me thick and thin…”
It’s pure poetry, but not the kind that floats. It lands. Grounded. Honest. He’s not romanticizing heartbreak; he’s dissecting it with brutal beauty.
Then there’s “Tunnel of Love”, a whole different trip. Long, lush, and full of shifting moods, it opens with “The Carousel Waltz,” then builds into a rolling, romantic epic. It’s not about teenage love. It’s about how time messes with memory. How you remember something that’s already changed while you’re still holding onto it.
In 1982, Love Over Gold pushed even further. The lead track, “Telegraph Road,” was a 14-minute epic about industrial decay and economic decline. Not exactly radio bait, but brilliant. Deeply ambitious, musically fearless. This wasn’t arena rock. It was literature with a rhythm section.
The Dylan connection wasn’t just a comparison. It became a collaboration.
In 1983, Bob Dylan invited Mark Knopfler to produce his album Infidels. Not just play on it, produce it. That says a lot. Dylan was known for being cagey, unpredictable, and famously hard to pin down in the studio. But he trusted Knopfler’s ear, his restraint, and his ability to serve the song, not his own ego.
Knopfler brought in other top-tier players, including Dire Straits drummer Pick Withers and Rolling Stones guitarist Mick Taylor. The sessions were electric, and Knopfler’s fingerprints are all over the final album. He pulled Dylan’s sound into cleaner, more melodic territory. Still raw, but more focused than his earlier ’80s work.
The irony? Some of the best songs from those sessions, like “Blind Willie McTell,” didn’t even make the album. Dylan shelved them, for reasons no one fully understands. Knopfler later said he was “disappointed” with the track list, but of course he never made a scene about it. Classic Knopfler. Do the work, then move on.
Years later, they’d share the stage again. Dire Straits even backed Dylan live in a few performances, and the respect was always mutual. Dylan once said Knopfler was one of the few guitarists who knew how to listen.
And then there’s the Sting story.
During the recording of Money for Nothing, Sting just happened to be in the same studio complex in Montserrat… Air Studios in the Caribbean, owned by George Martin. He dropped by the session to say hi. Knopfler played him the track, and Sting, half-jokingly, started singing, “I want my MTV,” to the melody of The Police’s “Don’t Stand So Close to Me.”
It worked. Too well. Knopfler had him lay it down right there.
That off-the-cuff line became the hook of the song and MTV’s unofficial anthem. Because of the melodic similarity, Sting ended up with a co-writing credit. Some say it was label pressure, others say it was Sting’s lawyers. Knopfler didn’t fight it. He didn’t care. The song was bigger than ego, and it helped make Brothers in Arms a global smash.
That’s how Knopfler operated. No drama. No posing. Just great songs, played right.
Mark Knopfler has aged like a master craftsman, not a rock star.
While others burned out, faded out, or leaned into nostalgia tours, he kept moving forward. Quieter. Deeper. Sharper. No reinventions. No genre-hopping. Just a steady evolution into something more distilled, more human.
His solo work doesn’t scream for attention. It just finds you when you need it. Albums like Sailing to Philadelphia, Shangri-La, and Privateering feel like chapters in a long, reflective novel. Stories of travelers, drifters, working men, old cities, lost love, and passing time. Always grounded. Always true.
The guitar tone is unmistakable… but it’s the restraint that grabs you.
He still plays like no one else. No pick. All fingers. Fluid phrasing. That warm, almost vocal vibrato. But it’s never about the solo. It’s about the feel. The space. The soul in it.
Knopfler doesn’t chase hits. He chases stories. And he tells them like someone who’s lived a life, listened closely, and learned when to shut up and let the music speak.
But back in those days gone by, I still remember that opening guitar riff that brought me along for the ride.
