This was written by a neighbor of mine. She sent it into the Brooklyn Paper and I just found it a couple of days ago.
Just got around to checking out your Dylan story. Since I was raised on Dylan and spent many years on the road, mostly through Western Europe—my parents being the ex-pats and all…my mom had like 3 cassettes she played in the car-Blonde On Blonde, Blood On The Tracks and a homemade compilation (of scratchy, static ,off the radio from b4 we left America) songs by Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, Joan Baez, The Kinks, Janis Joplin, Boz Scaggs and of course MORE Dylan!
They were warped and scratched and she knew every syllable and intonation and like a mantra holding on for dear life murmured his phrases to a T for several of my formative years–I hardly knew where Dylan ended and my Mom began.
Years later when I was in HS, someone popped these tunes on the box and I began singing along with it and people were amazed at my Dylan impersonation and the fact I knew by heart Sad Eyed Lady, in its entirety–there have been times I am torn up about Dylan, not knowing if it’s a brainwash of state of mind impacted by my mom’s obsession like a genetic predisposition for wailing out his electric poetry or my own exploration and discovery of his profound effect on my life’s struggle and euphoria (which I find to be the case–for me it runs the gamut on how intensely Dylan has grounded me, instilled insight, intelligence, help to form my values, my art, my psyche is etched indelibly with Dylan’s meth-amphetamine Ginsbergian, messianic cult-loving germs)…
I have already begun to cultivate this process with my own children but not to the extent that my mother’s obsession did — my children are obviously not trapped in a car going across desolate roads through Morocco without any other choices of listening tunes.
I have a deeply singular, private experience of Bob Dylan wrapped in childhood memories and later on as I gained ground throughout my adolescence to register the effect on how I saw the world at large, it made me strong and guided me through the whirlwind back roads of my mind– when I see him in a public venue it fractions out the prism of his profound effect on my life and since i already am deeply satisfied not to have to share him with a throng/mass of other folks that may baulk or wonder at him, as if he is hard to nail down and they can’t relate–I enjoy Dylan as illusive as he is and his public appearances shatter the myth and the legend into fragments that dilute my inner soul’s pang.
Maybe I just feel lost in the crowd and uncomfortable coming to terms with what might be the destruction of my ideal–as if i might be misunderstood by the celebrity of Dylan’s persona–this whole time, practically my whole life has to answer to the man up on stage as a patriarchal figure, as if being my mother’s lover-in a strange Oedipal effect, I must evaluate that dynamic..It does become a complex and woeful tale for me to ‘go there’. I can hardly enjoy one of his concerts , albeit i am unhinged and forever at his mercy when I hear his voice and lulled by his songs as if from an ancestral calling –fills me up , makes me whole again. I realize who I am and where I come from when I hear Dylan sing.