Bob Dylan: Grumpy Old Man In The News

Beating Up The New Kids On The Block

None of the news stories I’ve located about Bob Dylan’s recent written remarks seem very detailed to me. Dylan, who has made himself famous half for his music and half (in my mind) for being a lousy interview and for giving insubstantial answers to all manner of questions, does not surprise me that much. Nothing I’ve found about those program notes so far has revealed more than the following:

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BOB DYLAN has launched a withering attack on contemporary rock bands in the program notes for his latest American tour.

"I know there are groups at the top of the charts that are hailed as the saviors of rock'n'roll and all that, but they are amateurs. They don't know where the music comes from," he wrote, adding, "I wouldn't even think about playing music if I was born in these times... I'd probably turn to something like mathematics. That would interest me. Architecture would interest me. Something like that."
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There you go—Dylan once again being a horse’s ass where no ass of any kind is called for. Just a grumpy old man, I guess. I like Bob, but not every minute of every day. It's his music, not his personality, that holds all the charm. I haven’t cared much for his opinions since I learned decades ago that he doesn’t care much what he says when he isn’t singing. Just listening to them, one would seldom confuse the sensibility of the songwriter and recording artist with the shit-headedness of this other one, Bob “Don’t bother me with making sense” Dylan.

I guess I’d be interested if anyone anywhere ever explains what this famous old grump meant, but I won’t cry if I don’t ever hear about it. I think he’s a sort of psychotic who doesn’t like being famous and won’t play along at all with those who want to worship him or put him on a pedestal or squeeze a single lucid remark out of him. I heard Dylan being interviewed on TV some weeks or months ago and he was the same unpleasant persona he’s always been with interviewers, almost impossible to know what he meant despite the fact that he was speaking English. Get hip, everybody; it is not his forte, it is not his desire to communicate. If you don’t wanna talk, Bob, then for Christ’s sake, shut up! Sing or depart—how can I miss you if you won’t go away!

Bust Paranoia At The Dylan Concert In Houston.

All this reminds me of a road trip I took about 30 years ago—1974 approximately—driving from Austin to Houston’s Astrodome. The couple that went with me had seen Dylan in concert before, but I’d never seen him, so it was important to me. I was a big fan of his at the time, so it seemed like a thing well worth doing. All the way there, Josie and Alan kept talking about how good it would be and I felt like nothing could go wrong.

Things Went Wrong

Just as we got into Houston’s tangled inner vortex of freeways, my rear wheel bearing burnt out on the Houston freeway before we got to the Astrodome and the brake fluid poured out.

"Hey, we're smoking back here!" Josie hollered, pointing out the back window.

I could smell it and see the smoke; I wondered if the car could catch on fire this way and how long it would take. I had to stop soon, even without any brakes. We were about to move from one busy freeway onto another even larger and busier one with a hell of a lot of traffic around us! I removed my foot from the gas pedal, then ran the car up a steep grassy incline, turned the ignition off as I was going up, then pulled the emergency brake as it rolled back down onto the concrete shoulder. We were stopped and we weren’t on the road, thank you Jesus! The three of us breathed a big sigh of relief. It was not anything I’d ever done before, stopping like that! I then got heaps of praise from my friends for not killing any of us. Frankly, I felt like congratulating me, too!

Paranoia Increases

It was hardly paranoia, though. I called my father a few towns away and described where the car was. I would later find out the battery was stolen before he could get there and tow the car. Fanatical fans that we were, we paid for a taxi and got to the concert on time. My friend Alan shoved his bottle of wine into my small backpack while I wasn’t watching, thus causing one of the rent-a-cops at the Astrodome to pay particular attention to a search of yours truly. The "security man" at one of the entrance checkpoints confiscated the wine bottle. I thought I was busted when he also searched all the pockets of the bag and found half a cigarette pack of some joints that I’d pre-rolled—the best weed I’d ever had back then. The security prick waved us on into the Astrodome, thereby stealing my pot. I walked away, going up the pedestrian ramp with jets on my feet; I didn’t want to have a formal discussion about legal technicalities.

Dylan was pretty good that evening. There were other performers, but I’ll be damned if I remember who they were. I stayed a little tense about the pot I’d lost, despite the fact that people were passing joints to me so fast I couldn’t tell where they were coming from. Most of it was inferior to the pot I’d brought with me, but after a while, of course, no further distinction could be made.

This was a long time before Dylan became a grumpy old man talking about the new bands being amateurs. Thing is, I remember when Dylan was a new act himself and various Adults used to say the same against him! I get grumpy like that nowadays, too, of course; I’m just glad there’s no one there writing it all down or taping it. Oh, wait, I forgot—I’m writing it all down! Well, some of it. Telling the dirt on myself. Che sera sera. Don’t talk like a dirtbag with the microphones on, Bob!

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