Walking Through the Valley of Bob Dylan

(and the Shepherd who led me there)

When giving Bob Dylan’s rock and roll hall of fame induction speech, Bruce Springsteen said “the pop of the snare drum at the opening of Like A Rolling Stone was like the sound of someone kicking open a door in my mind.” He went on to talk about how the first time he heard a Bob Dylan song he was riding in the car with his mother and she opined, as a lot of mothers in the sixties did, “He can’t sing”.

For a long time I held that same opinion.  It was hard for me to listen to a Dylan song in its entirety for that very reason.  His voice is as irritating to my ears as a whiny child in Wal-Mart on New Year’s Day when I’ve gone in to purchase Tylenol and an ice pack for my post-celebratory hangover.  I can enjoy his songs when placed in the hands and voices of other artists, such as Billy Joel’s inspired version of To Make You Feel My Love or Hendrix’ blistering send up of All Along The Watchtower but to sit and listen to Dylan himself? I think waterboarding might be a more enjoyable experience.

And then, about a year ago, I met a guy who is undeniably the biggest Bob Dylan fan I have ever known.  One night, while sharing a bottle of good champagne and discussing all manner of deep and meaningful things – as was our penchant to do – we hit, once again, upon the topic of Bob Dylan’s music.  He pointed out to me that, being adept at turning a phrase, I should be more open to listening to Dylan’s beautiful words in Dylan’s own voice.  I explained to him – again – that it is most difficult to appreciate a beautifully written lyric when all one can think about is stabbing their ear drum with an ice pick.  He asked if I would be willing to watch a biographical documentary film with him on the topic of Dylan’s music.  After a little debate on the matter, and being tickled and kissed into submission, I graciously relented. 

  The things a woman will do for the man she loves!

We snuggled up on the sofa with the wine between us, and settled in to watch.  He held me close as one would hold a terrified child in a thunder storm.  I’m not entirely certain if he was attempting to make the experience more comfortable for me or if he was trying to prevent my escape, but between his strong, comforting embrace and the champagne, I soon relaxed into it.

 The film was, in its own right, entertaining and informative and I would have enjoyed watching it for that reason alone.  But what enthralled me was the passion displayed on Shepherd’s face as he discussed one pivotal point or the other.  The joy and rapture that danced in his beautiful brown eyes as the music washed over us.  He was totally animated and alive. I imagine I look much the same way when listening to Jackson Browne.  I began to wonder what it was about this music that could so entrance him and I determined that I was going to find out.

The next day, I dutifully scrolled the musical offerings on iTunes and made a few choice selections.  Start slow and pace yourself, I thought. Like the novice I am, I began with the Bob Dylan primary.  I downloaded Like a Rolling Stone, Blowing in the Wind, To Make You Feel My Love, and A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall, the last being Shepherd’s favorite.  I then googled and downloaded the lyric sheets to all the songs, a necessity when attempting to understand a singer who sounds like he’s either speaking in tongues or cannot read the words on the lyric sheet before him because he forgot his glasses.  I made up my mind I was going to make a full study of the songs and the lyrics even if it induced a migraine of epic proportions.  I had to unlock the source of that look of rapture on Shepherd’s face.

Over the next few weeks, whenever a Dylan song came across my iPhone playlist, I listened intently to the melody, the lyrics and the raw nasal inflections that give the music its texture.  I realized that, while I still preferred other voices to Dylan’s own, that strained grasping voice was indeed the perfect complement to the songs and their meanings.  The sixties were not always groovy – make love not war. It was a time of strife and the struggle of a young generation to make its collective voice heard.  That voice was brash and demanding and Dylan’s hardcore style reflected it perfectly.  I began to have a new appreciation for the artist inside the man and could even admit that I finally got why he was such a big deal.  He was truly the prophet of his time, the voice crying in the wilderness.  But I could not capture that aspect of near – holiness that lit up Shepherd’s eyes.

I didn’t know it then, but that night was apparently the last I would spend with him.  I’ve neither seen nor heard from him in months and he no longer returns my messages.  It gives me great sadness to think that I may never again stare intently into those big brown eyes, little flecks of gold dotted through them, and watch them flash and sparkle when I say something particularly witty – or stupid; that I may never again spend an evening arguing points of religion, philosophy, and metaphysics with him over a bottle of good champagne.  Or that I may never again be cuddled peacefully into those strong arms, watching a movie together and sharing wine-flavored kisses as he absently runs his fingers through my hair.

 I miss him.

Today was a stunningly gorgeous spring day.  Having nothing better to do, I laced up my hiking boots, grabbed a couple bottles of cold water, popped my ear phones in and set out on the wooded trails behind my house.  I was walking along, soaking up the sunshine, completely happy and at peace with the world.  I was deep in the woods, making my way carefully on the downward slope of a valley when suddenly, twisting into my brain from the ear phones, came Dylan’s A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall. There is no pop of a snare drum on that song but, as Springsteen went before me, somewhere in my mind a door kicked open.  I got it.  I understood, finally, the beauty of that tight, strained, off-key voice.  I didn’t just hear the lyrics, I saw the pictures that were painted within.  I felt the anguish, the anger, the fear, the dismay at what was happening to this man’s world.  By the time Dylan was singing about “walking to the depths of the deepest dark forest” I was on my knees there in the valley of the forest trail, weeping unabashedly, completely surrendered to and enraptured by the majesty of that heartbreaking song. I had found that place of near – holiness.

 I wept for my generation and all that we have endured and struggled through to get to where we are now.  From the injustices of the civil rights movement and the horror that was the Vietnam War to the anguish of watching so many of our peers fall under the spell of drug and alcohol addictions.  We have seen so much.  It is to us that Dylan queries “What did you see my darling young one.”

I wept because I finally understood the look of rapture on Shepherd’s face, the way those eyes of his danced with joy, full of love and tenderness, as he talked about singing this song as a lullaby to his blue-eyed son.  I wept because I had never inspired that look on his face.

I suppose mostly, I wept for myself.  Those haunting words kicked open a door in my mind and shattered my heart. And the one person in the world I most wanted to share my new-found liberation with was turning a deaf ear to me; why I do not know.  Maybe my weeping was simply a response to the pain of missing him and the song  merely the catalyst that sparked it.  After all, it is his favorite song, of course it reminds me of him. 

But, when the song was over and my tears subsided, my joy and peacefulness returned to overflowing and I found myself dancing and skipping my way back home.  It was like a new drug, and I wanted more! I came in and downloaded two complete Bob Dylan albums.   Tonight, after I've tended to a few household chores, I will relax in the bathtub with my headphones on, full wine glass in hand, and listen intently to each and every song.  I will think of Shepherd, of course, and I will smile.  And if anyone would happen to be watching, they would see a look of radiant joy, love and tenderness in my deep blue eyes.

Everyone who comes into our lives comes for a reason.  And each person we meet has a gift for us; something to teach us if we are willing to learn and accept it.  Bob Dylan came into the lives of a generation on the cusp of adulthood and, with his gift of music, kicked open the door and set captive minds free.

  

Shepherd came into my life and gave me the gift of Bob Dylan – and of himself.  A more beautiful man, inside and out, I have never known.  In the year I spent with him, he taught me grace, patience, an appreciation for fine champagne, how to love someone without needing to possess them, and the beauty of a fragile heart.  I’m so thankful for the wild and free winds of change that blew him into my life and I pray that one day soon, it will blow him back my way.