So Bob Dylan comes around again for his East Coast tour and I know the wait will be long (as it was last time). That we will wait in line for two hours (at least,) and more, that this year we have to meet with two other people in that line (which at this moment, seems a virtual impossibility, but then, this is why cell-phones are not always a bad thing; dare I say, even a good thing.) We will find our cousin, we will find his friends, and we will share an experience that I doubt any of us will ever forget. In this way, Dylan binds and bonds, like any deep, shared experience.

A friend says, “Why bother? You can’t understand a word he says and he’s lost the melody.” I don’t entirely disagree, but I do remember Dylan singing “It’s Not Dark Yet” the last time I saw him and how I understood every word and how the night sky had pulled its blanket over the twilight and it seemed the perfect song of the moment. Our Dylan had hit the high-note, and knocked the ball out of the park, so to speak.

Or was it that I already knew the words to that song? And why shouldn’t I know the words – for heaven’s sake, I know the words to almost every other Dylan song (within reason, I should say), I can even quote directly from the concert at the Philharmonic in the 60s. I can even quote the jokes (“Don’t be afraid; I’m masquerading,” he says, “I have my Bob Dylan mask on.” Thunderous applause.

When all is said and done, Dylan himself once said he was a “song and dance man.” He may be or have been more than that to us, but he never claimed to be more. For all the roles we have ascribed to Dylan or ascribe even now, just when we think we have him pegged, he morphs. He’s clever like that, and I don’t know of any other performer who morphs quite as well as Dylan or as much. Each incarnation seems a different person to me, and so far, I like them all - some more than others, I admit, but so far so good. Push me to pick and I’ll say the Dylan of the mid-sixties, but mostly because he was just looked so fucking hip then, and god, let’s not play around, he was incredibly desirable. As someone said, and I’m sorry I can’t remember the source at this moment, “there wasn’t a single person who didn’t want to fuck Bobby.”

A friend says that Dylan was bored by then. That he told the same jokes at every show. That it was all scripted out, and that’s how you can tell just how bored he was. That the song ‘It’s alright ma, I’m only bleeding” which he turned into, “It’s alright ma, I’m only bleeding, ho ho ho” is proof of this, and I admit, that does seem contrived.

So maybe Dylan was bored – who wouldn’t be after a tour and singing the same songs over and over again, as expected, as desired by the crowd who had him pegged solely as a folk singer and attended expecting only this and nothing more. Were they ever in for a big surprise (remember “JUDAS!!”). What I remember though is Dylan’s response, and here you have to imagine Dylan’s most sarcastic voice, “I don’t beeelieeeveee you….”

It’s no surprise then that Dylan would eventually, as would anyone, grow bored and eventually move into the electric world, backed by The Band and doubtless and predictably, be booed by the audience who had all paid for their tickets expecting another set of the acoustic Dylan they had come to know and love so well. Their boos met with a “Play fuckin’ loud” about which there has been much discussion as to who said it; that is has become Dylanology legend.

Here are the theories that I know of: Some say it was Dylan himself, though to my ear anyway, the voice has undertones of a British accent (one theory, he’d been there long enough that Dylan himself may have picked up a bit of an accent). The other theory, that it was an audience member from the seats in the back; a friend tells me about these seats, which I did not know of before. The seats where there so that they could cram more people into the audience this way, which is true, so an audience member may have shouted it and it was picked up by the mic of Mickey Jones, although Jones’s theory is that it was Dylan himself (why Jones doesn’t know for sure, I’m not clear on, but regardless). The other theory, and this is possible, is that it was one of the Beatles who were there (supposedly), which would explain the almost Liverpolian accent that I detect in the voice (and being from GB and having listened to this repeatedly, that’s what I hear). But again, one imagines the voice had to be one of authority – someone who could tell the band to “Play fuckin’ loud,” which would again, point to Dylan himself. Who knows, but I welcome all theories. The most logical theory though, is that it was Dylan himself and from what I hear, this is what most have concluded. That said, it’s still up for debate, and Dylan, to my knowledge, hasn’t said a word – or perhaps nobody ever asked the question, more to the point.

Is Dylan bored now? Probably, or probably was and hence the new and forthcoming album, Modern Times, which will tell us which direction BD has decided to go this time, since he varies from album to album as noted earlier on. More, he now has his own radio program, yet another venture. So Dylan is hardly settling into retirement and one suspects he never will – as long as he can go on, he will. I just pray he ends it all on a good note. Leave us with something to hold onto, Bob, and make it good, because the rest of Dylan, thus far, has been pretty great. Or in this reviewer’s opinion, most of what Dylan has done has been and remains pretty great. He may have had his slips here and there, but so what. Who doesn’t, who hasn’t.

So what will Dylan bring us on August 24 in Pawtucket , Rhode Island ? Yes, the sound is and will be different and I’ll admit, I prefer his voice of the 60s before he blew out his vocal chords (how did that happen anyway? or is that just a necessary consequence of years of sounding out and smoking?). Still, I like the Dylan of the now. I like him as much as I liked the Dylan of 66. Despite the opinions of some, I think he still looks great – or when he smiles he does; if only he weren’t so dour in those interviews. The Scorsese interview gave me hope – Dylan actually laughing and smiling for the camera – this was refreshing. Certainly a better, more “into it” Dylan than the “I’m bored to tears with this shit” that he gave Ed Bradley of 60 Minutes and that was lampooned on The Simpson’s – or if not lampooned of that interview specifically, then certainly of other interviews, for which Dylan has been notoriously difficult and pissy.

Not that I blame him; if people kept wanting to pigeonhole me and title me, I think I’d be just as pissy. To be The Voice of a Generation is some pretty heavy stuff – I’m not sure I’d want that either. I’m not sure I’d want to be the Poet some have set him up as. I think I’d just want to be me, whatever that meant, but I wouldn’t want someone else telling me who I was, this much I know for sure.

I will say this; I miss understanding Dylan; I miss his words that are now more difficult to decipher. I miss his Mod look and his RayBans and how fucking cool he was in the 60s. That’s not to say he’s not cool now, just that he has changed to a different kind of cool and one that I don’t connect with quite as much – that said, I admit, my heart would skip more than one beat if he ever noticed me personally. This seems unlikely but then, it seemed unlikely that Paul Weller would pick me from a crowd and he did, so you never know. Stranger things have happened, at least for me and I would wager for others too. It’s the whole je ne sais quoi factor.

It’s odd to look forward and back at the same time. It seems like yesterday when I saw BD at Campagnelli stadium in Massachusetts when he was touring with Willie Nelson, an interesting combo and I’m sure they got along well (otherwise why tour together, right?) but the fan-base could not have been more at odds. You had the Nelson contingent who clearly did not like the Dylan contingent and vice-versa. I can’t say one was better than the other, for that would be just too pejorative, but what I can say is that it seemed to me that the demographic of each was totally different. The Dylan crowd seemed, on the whole, just so totally more “open” than the Nelson crowd which to me anyway, seemed more close-minded. I say this and note that I love Willie Nelson so to me, the whole thing was a great mystery.

Don’t get me wrong; this is not snobbery, but rather, an observation and an honest one at that. Don’t read me if you’re looking for political correctness because you won’t find it here. It’s not that I try to be controversial at all – but I’ll call it as I see it. In short, no bullshit and no time for it – things are as they are, and no, we can’t “all just get along.”

How it will pan out this year promises to be interesting. This year, we drive the longish drive to Rhode Island where, theoretically at least, we meet with our cousin and his good friend, a task that sounds easy enough but knowing the four of us, will no doubt be convoluted and difficult. One prays not; that we easily find each other in line, but who knows. Somehow anyway, we will find ourselves and in doing to, we will find our Dylan and yes, we claim him as our Dylan, but then, I’m sure we are not alone in this.

The big question for me, and likely for any Dylan fan is this: will he perform any of the songs from Modern Times or will he keep us waiting. Part of me would rather not hear any of the new songs until the album is officially out (although we all know that they have been “outed” so to speak already by some unscrupulous employee.) I admit, I’d still, for now anyway, rather hear the songs that I do know. Maybe that’s just my own comfort level. I’d even like to hear some of the really old stuff – like “It’s alright ma (I’m only bleedin)” (ho ho ho) or even Don’t Think Twice (this I fear I won’t hear) or One More Weekend, but it seems unlikely my want will be met.

And what of the Chimes of Freedom – a song that recently, a friend tells me, is my song; I’m not sure how to interpret that, as good or bad, but I suppose if you interpret the song at face value – a couple taking refuge from a storm in a doorway – then I rather like the idea. Or rather, I like the idea of taking refuge - perhaps more than I should. In all honesty, I always had me pegged for Nick Drake’s Hazey Jane or Dylan’s Visions of Johanna – lost and wandering women, almost ethereal. To be made real, to be real enough to be taken into a doorway in a storm, to hear the chimes of freedom – this makes me more real, more tangible, more touchable. Drake’s Hazey Jane seemed perfect, but no. It is Chimes of Freedom and I’m told by a good source that I’m not a reliable narrator, so I’ll have to take my cousin and his word and assume he is right. I am the girl in the doorway in The Chimes of Freedom. I take refuge from the storm there and wait it out…. wait it out… It’s not at all bad. Certainly better than the ethereal lost girl I thought I was.

Lately I’ve been listening the Philharmonic concert, which is a favorite of mine (though many argue this is clearly not his best) and also, taking great pleasure in listening to Dylan’s conversations with A.J. Weberman which if you have not heard, I highly recommend finding because they are too amusing to pass up. You recall, Weberman was the guy who invented “Garbology” and was the first, we presume, to actually take home Dylan’s trash and paw through it (this after being turned away from the front door, he simply went around back.)

I suppose you can tell a lot about someone by their trash, and certainly Weberman did and certainly got Dylan’s attention to the point where he had Dylan calling him. How I wish I could do such a thing! I don’t hear my phone ringing off the hook, or at least, not from Dylan, which would be most welcome – more than welcome. No matter that he harrassed Dylan, Weberman made a name for himself and although I’m not his number one fan (Weberman’s that is,) I cannot say that I don’t admire his resourcefulness. Anyone who can get Dylan on the phone and draw him into long conversations is clearly doing something right, or wrong, depending on how you look at it.

The funny part, or best part, is the play between the two; how Dylan starts off peevish, gets drawn into the conversation, then peevish again, and then drawn in again. The conversation is a kind of ping pong, but it works and you see a side of Dylan, a more intimate side that I have ever seen before. More accurately, you hear a side of Dylan that you haven’t heard and likely won’t hear again. Weberman caught on tape what Pennebaker captured on film – a real intimate portrait of a real reclusive and private person (I can relate).

I suppose now all I have to do is wait, just as I waited last year and as I began my review: “We wait.” So we will wait, the four of us Dylanites and our official Dylanogist cousin who knows all things Dylan (frighteningly so, that we name him Dylanogist-in-Chief). We will wait and wait patiently like we would not wait for anyone else but BD. We will stand on a baseball field at dusk, be eaten alive by a thousand mosquitoes and put up with a crowd that we otherwise would probably not see or speak to and all because we want to see and hear Bob Dylan.

We’ll do this not because we are fans – though on a basic level, I suppose we are, at our basest forms, fans like the rest of anyone at the concert. More than this, however, we are, all four (or all three, for I don’t know the forth so well), because Dylan represents something that we all want, or wish we were, or a time in our lives that we just don’t want to let go of. Maybe all ‘fans’ feel this way, but then, why the need to define. The best and most I can say is this: all of us are too old for simple idol worship. Hard to define, but there is more here than that.

This is the best I can come up by way of explanation. We may write books about Dylan – or one of us has, and that will be out shortly – and we may write articles like this one and more, or we may know all things Dylan, all of which somehow seems to transcend simple idol worship. Dylan is not my idol. He’s too real for me than that. He is someone who I would comfort in a heartbeat. He seems to me, someone who is both strong and fragile at once. He is someone to whom I would always offer a soft place to fall.

Thanks for listening,

s.r.p.