All I can do is be me—whoever that is—for those people that I do play to, and not come on with them, tell them I’m something I’m not . . . the Great Cause Fighter or the Great Lover or the Great Boy Genius. . . . Because I’m not, man. Why mislead them? That’s all just Madison Avenue selling me, but it’s not really selling ME, ’cause I was hip to it before I got there.
—Bob Dylan, Interview with Paul J. Robbins, L.A. Free Press, 1965
Despite having seen Bob Dylan numerous times in concert and spent immeasurable hours listening to his music and reading about his life and career, my favorite Dylan stories illustrate a deeper tug at his centrality in my worldview. When my wife Kathy and I discussed baby names in the early months of 2005, we hashed out many that seemed to fit within the ideals we hoped our child would develop.
Few family members or friends were surprised, later, when we announced the birth of our daughter—Kassandra Dylan—on a beautiful, sunny March day in Florida. Not only that, but as my wife labored that afternoon, we listened to Time Out of Mind in the birthing center. Kassie came into the world via “Not Dark Yet,” a haunting song about the ravages of time and man’s optimistic plea for just a little bit more. Given Kathy’s difficult pregnancy and birth process, tears of fear and joy flowed simultaneously, which fit with the underlying hopefulness of the song.
As parents, we hoped that via some form of mysticism or osmosis that Kassie would embody Dylan’s love of words and yearning for peace and humanity. In other words, that by living up to her namesake she would do great things in a just manner with an abiding faith in living an ethical life.
As Kassie grew up, I sang her Dylan music (and Johnny Cash songs) and mixed in tracks in an attempt to lure her away from Barney and various Christmas CDs that she wanted to listen to year-round. For several years, we had a nighttime ritual of me singing to her at bedtime, after Kathy read her books and she brushed her teeth. This routine helped foster her interest in reading and tricked her into brushing, so I eagerly participated. Two songs were in constant rotation: “Like a Rolling Stone” and Cash’s “Ring of Fire.”
Kassie may have been one of the few four-year-olds in the world to memorize all four verses of the intricate song. Certainly, years later she can sing it in her sleep and in any number of funny, thoughtful, or disguised voices. This routine, though sometimes tiring after long workdays, drew Kassie and me closer than many fathers and daughters and in many respects served as an early keystone of our relationship. For years, every night she bonded with “Dada” over the glorious songs of Dylan and Cash. In fact, recently I played “Like a Rolling Stone” in the car and Kassie asked me to turn it off. Can you imagine my smile when she said, “Dada, I like your version better”?
* * *
Many music fans have their own Bob Dylan stories about a time they saw him in concert or first heard a specific song or new album. These recollections are often awash in nostalgia or a yearning for a bygone era or place. A certain mysticism exists with Dylan’s music and hearing a song draws one back in time through a magical portal that erases years. We will call this group “tacticians.”
Another group views Dylan differently. They yield tales that demonstrate what Dylan has meant to them as they conduct their day-to-day lives. These fans take the singer in like nourishment, regaling not only in his consequence, but also what his life has meant for the nation. Let’s call these fans “mesmerists.” Whether you self-identify as a tactician or a mesmerist, or somewhere in between, what becomes clear is that Dylan does not merely have fans, he leads disciples. The truckloads of books written that catalog his every movement demonstrate how important the “Church of Bob” is to many people.
However, as the quote opening this essay reveals, Dylan himself wears this mantle with more than a little uneasiness. In many cases, he outright refuses to be the leader (real or imagined) of any group or movement. His truth is the music, words, images, and connections he creates via a personal brand of artistry that has carried him over his long career. Dylan himself might ask: what more is there to say in a career based on millions of words sung to the heavens and far reaches of the globe? The challenge for a star at the center of the universe is that people are compelled to look. They watch, wonder, and attempt to make sense of it in their own lives. Whether Dylan likes it or not, he is no longer just a person, but is a thing, a representation, a symbol that holds meaning and is ripe for interpretation. He is a symbol that many people employ to make sense of their lives. Can we really understand our past without Dylan?
This book is an attempt at delivering Bob Dylan to readers who may not be familiar with him as a cultural figure or American icon. However, this is not a day-by-day account of Dylan’s life or work as an artist and performer. For those readers who find this concise biography illuminating, I would suggest that you move onto the sources listed in the bibliography.
My goal is to not only present Dylan from a biographical perspective, but to also infuse the story with historical and cultural context to provide the reader with an understanding of how the artist is situated within contemporary American history. I am interested in the intersection of a life with the larger construct of history and culture as it has unfolded in the contemporary era. In Dylan’s case, the juncture demonstrates the consequences art can have on life and vice versa. In the glimpses of Dylan’s life, we see the creation of a cultural icon.