Here's To Dylan
Here’s to Dylan
I came to Bob Dylan late. A chance meeting in my late twenties. By then, I was already steeped in the music of the 60s, my path guided by four lads from Liverpool. With Bob, it wasn’t love at first sight. No, it was slower — like stepping into a river, the current stronger than you think. And once you’re in, there’s no getting out.
What is it about Bob? Maybe it’s the silhouette — dark curls, sunglasses, the iconic way he moved through the 60s as a man, a poet, a bard, a shapeshifter both of and beyond his time. Maybe it’s the words — fragments like “to dance beneath a diamond sky with one hand waving free,” dreams you can never quite catch. Or maybe it’s his boldness — plugging in at Newport, letting the boos roll off his back like rain. The motorcycle crash. The reclusiveness. The refusal to explain himself.
Dylan is a cocktail of Kerouac and Baudelaire, folk and electric, chaos and poetry. He writes like the world is a puzzle he can almost solve. And when I hear him sing “Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues” or “Visions of Johanna,” it feels like he’s letting me in on the secret — one I almost don’t want to share.
There’s a strange comfort in being a fan of someone like Bob. He’s both an icon and a compass, his art a constant reminder to stay true to yourself, no matter how loud the noise gets. Sometimes, when faced with a choice, I find myself asking, what would Bob do? And the answer is usually something bold, unexpected, and unmistakably authentic.
At home, I’ve got his lyrics in hardcover, a painting on the wall, photographs of that mid-60s mystique, even a sweater with his face on it. It’s not about collecting. It’s about keeping a piece of his magic close by — a reminder to keep moving, keep creating, keep playing the game your own way.
I know I’m one of millions (billions?) who find something in him. But that doesn’t dilute the inspiration. If anything, it magnifies it. Bob Dylan walks ahead, and we follow, one verse at a time.
Here’s to Dylan.
