Bob Dylan. What do you think when you hear the name? 60s greatness? Nobel madness?
Indecipherable warbling?

My introduction to Dylan was in the 80s, when I was working as a dishwasher-turned-baker at a fancy restaurant in Ohio. (They served shark. There aren’t a lot of sharks in Lake Erie.) The head chef bade me listen to Tangled Up In Blue. This I did, growing entranced. It started a listening love affair with the lyricist which has lasted ever after.
It’s impossible to name a favourite, but it wouldn’t be something from his early heyday, heart-thumping as some of those old standards are. I came in a bit after Empire Burlesque, not one of his best reviewed albums: Tight Connection to My Heart went straight to the top of my personal charts, and is intertwined with memories of that time. (I’d link to the video, but it’s terrible.*) Possibly Tight Connection. No, Brownsville Girl. No, Nettie Moore. No, Jokerman. No, Mississippi, definitely Mississippi. Maybe...
That he could still
mine gold during his much-derided born again period speaks to his talents.
His catalogue is incomprehensibly huge, bigger with every new iteration of a song, as some of them turn into almost completely different songs. There’s one for every mood, provided his vocal instrument isn’t a deal-breaker and give you the blues in the first place. “I was born with the gift of a golden voice,” sang contemporary Leonard Cohen. Little Bobby Zimmerman wasn’t. I don’t care. It aged to perfection, at least in the studio; not sure I could sit through a live show now in that neverending tour of his.
I bumped into Bob, almost literally, when I was at Scribner’s bookstore in Manhattan shortly before it vanished. Scribner’s was a grand institution, though its glory had faded before I arrived. It attracted all sorts of celebrities over the years.
Patti Smith even used to work there, before she became that Patti Smith.
One day the floor manager informed a few of us that that we were in the presence of Dylan, and so we were. I grabbed an armfull of bestsellers and headed out. Spotted him. Bustled by, which necessitated his having to move out of my way, bending over a table of I’m going to say Trump’s latest ghostwritten memoir, to add colour, but who knows. That’s not a story I’ve been dining out on. He bought a whole stack of books, including one on lesbian nuns. (Probably
this one.)
Here’s today’s offering, from the album Time Out of Mind, exquisitely produced by Daniel Lanois. It's not a turn it up kind of song: it needs the volume just so, to insinuate itself into the soul.
* As are most of his official videos.
Must Be Santa is amusing though.