I wrote a short story a while back about a woman named Sara, who’s in her late 50′s and feeling a little blue. One night her best friend manages to pry Sara out of her apartment and take her to an old Camelot-era piano bar, where the piano player—who has himself seen better days—chats her up. Life’s funny, he says. Long ago, he played piano on Bob’s Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde.
His revelation—can it really be?—sends Sara on a ruminative trip to the ladies room, during which she thinks back:
One night when she was sixteen, her sister Lisa came back from NYU for winter break and brought Blonde on Blonde with her. Lisa waited for their parents to go to bed and then she and Sara opened the windows of the bedroom they used to share and put towels at the bottom of the door.
A two-record set. That deliberately blurred photo of Dylan on the cover. The smooth foreplay of drawing the paper liner out of the jacket, then slipping the record out of it. Lisa, careful fingers on the edges, placed Blonde on Blonde on the turntable, lowered the needle into the grooves.
And then it was as if they were being let in on a secret. They had been starved for secrets all those years they waited for their parents’ permission to go out and learn for themselves. But there he was. Lisa had snuck a date into their bedroom, that’s how it felt, and he had brought the secrets with him. It was snowing outside and they sat on the bed and looked out. They were warm in the blankets that they wrapped around themselves, though flakes blew in and wetted their faces. It felt like three o’clock in the morning and codes were being spoken.
“It’s like Braille for your eardrums,” Lisa said.
Sara laughed. “Are you high?”
“Shh.”
Now, with her hands trembling—talk about mortifying!—how did she go out there and tell the piano player what it had meant to her, now when it no longer meant what it did then because Sara wasn’t young anymore and it wasn’t new and besides, Bob Dylan had turned out to be just a guy?
Forgive me for quoting my own stuff, but it’s getting near Christmas and, as you’re probably aware, Bob Dylan’s done a Christmas album. I found a person who liked it. Otherwise, just about everyone who has heard Christmas from the Heart has stepped back in horror, like Dracula when he sees a crucifix.
Here’s a sample from a pretty representative review: “From ‘Winter Wonderland’ to ‘Silver Bells’ to ‘First Noel,’ it’s a bizarre and bewildering collection that, in many ways, embodies the rough-hewn traditionalism and forehead-slapping surrealism that’s defined Dylan’s career. The man’s serrated croon isn’t just jarring—it actually gives these chirpy old chestnuts a sense of menace.”
What to make of this? My generation’s guiding American bard—our darker Walt Whitman—is now performing “Here Comes Santa Claus.” And “The Little Drummer Boy.” And a version of “Must Be Santa,” complete with video, that is too horrible to dwell upon.
So why bring up my Sara? Because, as you guessed, I’ve let her speak for me. Bob Dylan, hero of my youth, is in the very warp and woof of my character. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that he’s just a guy—a blitzed genius, of course—but just a guy. One of the lessons that comes in one’s middle years is that, regardless of who they are, all our heroes are just guys.
Or gals, of course.
And for what they’ve meant to us at one time or another, or for what depth of feeling they may still evoke, they all deserve—Bob, this means you, especially—a Merry Christmas.
Ted the Cat (1994-present) is a domestic shorthair blogger and vers libre poet. He also enjoys sleeping, eating, and lurking. Ted the Cat co-habits with Kaze,
also a blogger at 317am.net.
How much Dylan gave us in the 60s and 70s. Idealism laced with charity and hope. And then…over the next fifty years we see him tumble to become just another musician (no voice, no dreams). Methinks dear Bob made too much too fast and didn't comprehend its effect..on him or the music. Wouldn't it have been ideal to have kept him just one song away from success? Hungry and hopeful. But then…we always have his early years. What I want to know is who is the next Dylan? These times need a new Dylan more than ever.
My best wishes this holiday season to both of you. You've kept my interest these past few months with your posts. Can't think of a much higher compliment. Nice job.
El T – The very best holiday wishes to you too, and many thanks for tuning in these past months. I'm too old to take on the cultural messiah role myself or I'd give it a go. But news ones always pop up, just not very often. I think Bruce Springsteen became something like Dylan had Dylan grown up with a less ambiguous connection to the rest of us humans–sympathy for the downtrodden, an unending plea for progressive ideals, love, family, loyalty, all the good stuff. Who would you bring home to Mom?
This morning I heard Dylan’s “Here Comes Santa Claus” on Canadian public radio. Before playing the song, the announcer warned listeners not to run off the road while driving, and then after the song, could only muster, “Well, isn’t THAT something.” While nice Jewish boys Irving Berlin and Mel Tormé have added much to the American Christmas songbook (White Christmas, Winter Wonderland, etc.), I don’t think Bobby Zimmerman’s reinterpretation of any of these chestnuts is going to become a modern classic. In fact, there is a real possibility he will scare many small children and adults alike.
Ooooooooooooy Vey! Christmas songs sung by Bob Dylan?
The review in the Washinton Post says it all, I think (but then, I am one of the very few people who never liked Dylan, she whispered, diving for cover)
Deborah – I saw the CD on the rack on the check-out line at Whole Foods the other day and made a rueful remark abut it to the cashier and she said, "Who's Bob Dylan?" I sang her a few lines from "Blowin' in the Wind" and she said, yes, she recognized that, it was from "Forest Gump."
Daz a good one, Kaze. Have to admit he did write some good songs.
Is one allowed to become addicted to this Blog?
Re your addiction question, Deborah, yes.
In the category of great Christmas songs by iconic, golden-throated male singers, you might try a very youthful Tom Waits singing Silent Night on videosift.com. This one's for you, El Tigre.
Mind if I stick to 'All I want for Chrithmath ith my two front teeth'?
Thank for addiction-permission, Rasoir.