They called him the poet laureate of our generation, although he didn't seem to understand why. And he was surely that to me, speaking to me so personally on so many new topics in so many new and moving ways. Over the next few years, I bought and enjoyed some of his newer albums, the electric ones—even in the Marine Corps. Those next few albums were great creatively and artistically—and among Dylan's favorites, I believe—but they did not speak to me, inform me, in the same way. I was surely among those who initially felt he had betrayed his medium and message, even his identity (although his identity was such a fluid, elusive thing), when he picked up the electric guitar. Perhaps, to some extent, I still do. It's still all about the early albums for me.
If he was the poet for our generation, he also informed our conscience—and the poetry and messages of his early songbook certainly spoke to mine. He focused and set the foundations of my early understandings of social issues—particularly concerning segregation, civil rights, and social justice—with songs like Oxford Town, Only a Pawn in Their Game, and When the Ship Comes In. Having grown up in a white,
Of course, you know the enigmatic Dylan was Jewish, formerly Robert Zimmerman, that he converted to Christianity in his middle years, then drifted away from his adopted faith as time passed by. He also kept moving from one artistic phase to the next. But I read that in later years he said his earlier work—the songs and messages they carried—had become his prayer book. But if they have not been elevated to the status of prayer book for me, his poetry and songs continue to occupy a lofty status in my pantheon of artistic, moral expression, insight, and naïve courage. And they continue to inform my sense of conscience and moral courage as much as any other product of human inspiration.
But this assessment, as you might guess, is rather more a retrospective, arguably a revisionist or reincarnated view of Dylan's impact on me in my early years, updated for the way I feel about his influence now. The sometimes enigmatic, sometimes ironic changes in my own life over the intervening years certainly provided some contrasting, seemingly conflicting directions and identities. Like his only in that it was unpredictably changing, my life differed markedly from the directions of Dylan's life and art. And it was at times lived inconsistent with his messages, casting doubt on his influence. But it was never really possible to let go of Dylan's influence, even if it had become compartmentalized, archived, and called out only from time to time. Don't we all have our own travels and sojourns, our own crooked highways?
In September 2005, PBS broadcast Martin Scorcese's documentary on Bob Dylan, No Direction Home. I saw it, and saw it again. Both a reminder of an earlier identity and an affirmation that, in part, it still endures, it also provided a sense of closure for me. It reminded me of the depth and good reasons for my adolescent interest and knowledge of Dylan, my love for his poetry, my empathy and belief in his medium and his messages. They set a keystone in a foundation that endures today, even if I failed to recognize it for a long time, even if I thought I had outgrown it. But the documentary also impressed me with how much I didn't know about Dylan and how much I had forgotten—and that I had unavoidably, and rightly, moved on.
For me, he was first and last an artist: a poet, song writer, and performer. He was uninterested in political organizations or their crusades. He was only interested in artistically expressing himself about issues and topics. I didn't appreciate that about him at the time, but I do understand and relate better to it now. If I confessed a lack of interest in party politics as a teen, you couldn't be surprised. But if I have more interest now—and I do, much more—it is only out of critical necessity, for I have less regard and respect for party politics than ever. More accurately, I have developed more an antipathy toward it. Issues and problems, ideas and solutions, yes; party politics, no. In the intervening years, I had supported political parties for the same reasons that John Adams ultimately had to, I suppose: public association, identity and advocacy concerning public issues. But no more. Now, I just read, talk and write about it all. How about you?
Dylan also appeared uninterested in achieving success and identity and staying there, satisfying his constituency, protecting his franchise. In fact, he couldn't seem to help himself; he had to continually move on artistically, in his song writing and performance. He apparently felt no sense of real control or managed authorship; the poetry, the songs, the performance style and direction, just came out and pushed him on. Or so he suggests. He can't or won't explain that process, what it meant, or where it was going. He says he refuses to try. Perhaps he's been quite honest and humble about it all. Either that or, as some have always suggested, he just continues to turn the random corners of his life, teasing us, implying more order and meaning than there is, even mocking us, continually yanking our collective chain.
The first description rings more true to the ways of life and gifts and artists for me. Certainly I prefer it. And how many of us can be that independent, that courageous about following and giving expression to our abilities and gifts—especially if our accompanying abilities as an instrumentalist are that mediocre, and our voice that singularly unmelodious and rendered that affectedly.
The way he handled his need to move on artistically and personally sometimes appeared to others thoughtless, selfish, even callous in the choices and changes he made and the interpersonal exchanges that attended them. He sometimes left others feeling abandoned or betrayed without explanation, whether family, old friends or new, or his bereaved constituencies and publics. He was disinclined, often apparently unable, to explain these things. He was private and self protective. He would have us think that it was just part of his single-minded devotion to following his muse. But it is hard to understand or see the necessity for this churlish behavior. Perhaps he would have us think it was an unfortunate, involuntary character trait, but in the end he was too often just insensitive and boorish. Or some might conclude in resignation that he couldn't be the poet and performer he was without, well, being the person he was. To one degree or another, that may be true for all of us.
And if it is his earlier work that he now reflects on most, considers his prayer book, it may be in part because over time what remained of his inspiration, his gift, no longer granted him expression in that same brilliant way. Age and aging have observed the withering of the prescience and insight—the power—of his poetry and prose, as it has his rude, once commanding voice. I doubt that he knows why—we never do—but he no longer has the creative, impassioned inspiration he once had, at least not for me. It's now as if his muse has been spirited away, and we're all a little sad she's gone.
But even if Dylan is now more celebrated for the work done than the work he is doing, the genius and insight of his earlier work endures. And it will continue to endure, for me at least, even if his light has grown dimmer in the archives of my own recollections. His voice on civil rights, war, life, love and hate, his songbook, will long outlive his quirky personality and predilections. I feel fortunate to have been both informed and entertained in such a singular way by such a singular talent at that impressionable time of my life. And I was pleased, warmed, to reacquaint myself with the nature and origins of those foundation stones.
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