Bob Dylan, To Me

I’ve had somewhat of a writer’s block recently. A lot of thoughts tumbling around in my head, but a lack of inspiration to get them from brain to fingertips to page. Sometimes I feel like there are only a couple hours per year (yes, year) in which I am cosmically moved to write. Of course, other times, I just sit down and force myself. But there’s nothing like being called upon by that collective wellspring of creativity. Those fleeting windows when it feels as though otherworldly forces are guiding the pen, and you are just their vessel. This phenomenon makes me think of Bob Dylan. Hell, almost everything makes me think of Bob Dylan.

Today is Bob Dylan’s 80th birthday.

There’s a great interview with Dylan on “60 Minutes.” It’s from 2006. He says a lot of crazy, mysterious, and funny things. He even implies that he made some sort of a deal with the Devil (or as Dylan calls him, “the chief commander, of this Earth and the world we can’t see”). But one part of the interview always sticks out to me. Ed Bradley asks him about some of his early lyrics, and Dylan says, “I don’t know how I got to write those songs.” Bradley, taken slightly aback, says, “What do you mean you don’t know how?” Dylan says, “Those early songs were almost magically written.” Dylan then recites some lines from “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)”: Darkness at the break of noon / shadows even the silver spoon / the handmade blade, the child’s balloon. And they proceed to have the following exchange:

DYLAN: Try to sit down and write something like that… There’s a magic to that — and it’s not Siegfried & Roy kinda magic. It’s a different kind of a penetrating magic. And, uh, I did it at one time.

BRADLEY: You don’t think you could do it today?

DYLAN: (shakes head) Nuh uh.

BRADLEY: Does that disappoint you?

DYLAN: (deep sigh) Well, you can’t do something forever, and uh, I did it once… I can do other things now, but I can’t do that.

First let’s talk about the magic. I understand exactly what he’s talking about. As a writer, or any sort of creator, there are moments of inspiration where words or ideas, thoughts or sentences, jokes or rhymes…just come to you fully formed out of thin air. It can’t be explained. It’s different from sitting down and really working something out or building something off of existing ideas or going to RhymeZone.com. It’s more like… something arrives in your brain, almost as if it had always existed, and it was just simply…uncovered. Dylan is saying these songs may have just been floating in the ether, and for whatever reason, he was the one chosen to discover them. And these so-called magical ideas are the ones that, to outsiders, always seem the most “inspired,” because there is almost no logical reason one would arrive at them. You can’t connect the dots about how they came to be. They are ideas that an algorithm can’t predict.

There are days when you are in commune with that magic, and writing (or painting, sculpting, playing basketball, etc.) feels easy, second-nature, fun. And there are days when it can be the opposite — a grind, where you really have to work at it, and it feels like you’re pushing a gear in the opposite direction just to get something approaching decent.

Now let’s talk about the last thing Dylan says:

“I can do other things now, but I can’t do that.”

It’s either the most honest, vulnerable statement an artist has ever made, or it’s another example of Dylan fucking with a journalist. Either way, the sentiment is one that has burrowed itself deep into my psyche. I think of it often, and whether or not he meant it, I think it’s the most succinct definition of aging I’ve ever heard.

“I can do other things now, but I can’t do that.”

I think anyone can relate to that feeling. Certain things get easier with age and experience, and certain things get much more difficult. To me, it isn’t so much about technical skills waning — but more about youthful brashness and confidence eroding over time. I’m sure technically Bob Dylan is a better writer than he’s ever been at 80. Why not? He has that much more life experience to draw from, that much more knowledge, wisdom, insight, vocabulary. He’s read more books, seen more movies, and processed more information than 23-year-old Dylan had. So technically he should be able to do the kind of songwriting he did when he was younger, tenfold. But it doesn’t work that way.

The way I see it, the more entrenched we become in the physical world, the deeper we wade into the reality around us, the harder it is to tap into that “wellspring of creativity,” as Dylan calls it. There’s too much of a block. Whether we censor ourselves for fear of failure, whether self-doubt creeps in and poisons us, skepticism of the system preemptively makes us question if it’s worth the effort, or the very real, practical stresses of everyday life erect walls that prevent us from seeing the more abstract… something changes. Ask a child to write you a story, and you’re going to get something far more inventive and creative than a 40-year-old will give you.

Kind of depressing, right?

But there is a sliver of hope baked into Dylan’s statement. Of course we focus on the fact that he feels he’s unable to write songs the way he could when he was younger. But look at the first part of what he says:

“I can do other things now.”

Dylan more than anyone has shown that it is very possible to keep evolving, keep innovating, and keep people guessing well into your later years. Maybe he can’t write a sweeping anthem filled with crazy imagery and ancient wisdom. But he can still write great songs, even if they look and sound different than his earlier work. And look at what else Dylan can do…

He paints. He boxes. He tours the world (until the pandemic hit, he had been touring for 30 years straight).

He builds gates.

Yes, he builds gates. Did you know this? It’s true. He builds gates by welding scrap metal and found objects into iron archways. I’ll never forget finding out about this. It was reported in 2016 that Dylan made a gate for a Maryland casino, and he released a statement about it that read:

“Gates appeal to me because of the negative space they allow. They can be closed, but at the same time they allow the seasons and breezes to enter and flow. They can shut you out or shut you in. And in some ways, there is no difference.”

Who puts out an official press release with a cryptic quote about gates? Bob Dylan. Anyone else, when asked for a statement on their new gate, would say something like, “I am honored that this gate will stand at the entrance of the MGM National Harbor Casino.” But not Bob Dylan. Bob Dylan’s gonna hit you with “Gates can shut you out or shut you in. And in some ways, there is no difference.”

That’s one of the things I love about him. The choices he makes — not just musically, but in all aspects of life. They’re enigmatic, erratic, inspiring, baffling, ballsy, and perfectly insane.

He will turn down every interview request, and then when he does one, it’s for AARP Magazine. He will turn down every TV appearance, yet make cameos on “Dharma & Greg” and “Pawn Stars.” He will stay out of the public eye for years, and then emerge in a Victoria’s Secret commercial during the Super Bowl.

In 2015, Dylan’s first studio album in several years was something you’d never expect — an album of Frank Sinatra covers. He then followed up that album with something you’d definitely never expect — ANOTHER album of Frank Sinatra covers.

In 2016, Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature — the highest honor bestowed upon a writer — and declined to accept it in person. The reason he gave was “prior commitments.”

In 2019, Dylan made a Netflix documentary about his Rolling Thunder Revue tour that was entirely fake. The footage was real, but the talking heads were actors, all the anecdotes made-up.

And last year, in the midst of the pandemic, Dylan released a song without warning, his first original recording in 8 years. And for comparison’s sake, just to show you that Dylan is zigging while everyone else is zagging, playing chess while everyone else is playing tiddlywinks… Mick Jagger also released a song during the pandemic. Jagger’s song was overtly about the lockdown, and its lyrics contained references to TikTok dances and Zoom meetings. Dylan’s was a 17-minute song about the assassination of JFK.

On the surface, Jagger’s song would seem more relevant; but it’s Dylan’s song, with its eerie tone and its message about the healing power of music in the wake of a national tragedy, that more aptly captured the moment.

This all, to me, proves that you can evolve without conforming, that you can stay relevant without clinging desperately to youth. Without trying to be something you’re not. Staying true to yourself in the face of a changing world… Even though Dylan by his very nature is constantly reinventing himself, I’ve never gotten the sense that anything he did was to “fit in” or “stay with the times.” That inspires me. It can be hard to get older. But I think it can be okay as long as you don’t lose your sense of self.

One of my favorite Dylan interactions with the press took place in 1986 at some sort of red carpet event. The exchange went like this:

REPORTER: What about being a role model for so many of the people who are doing music today?

DYLAN: No, no, no — not a role model.

REPORTER: What are you?

DYLAN: (smiles) I’m just me.

“I’m just me.” It’s so simple and beautiful. (Sidebar: imagine being asked the question “What are you?” How insane.) Journalists and critics have spent decades trying to nail down Dylan. As a voice of a generation, a poet, a prophet, a spokesman, a rebel, a role model, a legend, a myth, and everything in between. But Dylan rejected every one of those labels. “I’m just me.”

I’ll be honest, I didn’t know where this all was going when I started writing it. It just as easily could’ve been a celebration of Dylan’s weird answers during interviews (like when someone asked him what he watches on his tour bus, and he replied, “I Love Lucy, all the time, non-stop”).

I could’ve delved into some of my favorite Dylan stories (like Larry Charles’s, about meeting Dylan in the back of Dylan’s boxing gym on a sweltering 90-degree day. An assistant asks if they’d like something to drink, so Larry orders an ice coffee, and Dylan says “Hot, hot, hot, I need something hot!” They proceed to bring an ice coffee and a hot coffee, at which point Dylan grabs the ice coffee, drinks half of it in one long sip, then asks Larry, “Aren’t you gonna drink your drink?”).

I could’ve talked about how Bob Dylan is a true original (even the way he got arrested was interesting. It wasn’t for a DUI or drugs or anything like that. In 2009, someone called the cops because they saw an “eccentric-looking old man” peering into the window of a New Jersey house in the pouring rain. That man was Bob Dylan, and he was wearing two raincoats and visiting what he thought was Bruce Springsteen’s old home. When a cop arrived on the scene and asked what he was doing, he replied, “Looking at a house for sale.” They asked his name and he said Bob Dylan. They didn’t believe him, so they arrested him).

But I suppose it makes sense that, on Dylan’s 80th birthday, it turned out to mostly be about aging. And how aging doesn’t have to be a death sentence, if you’re willing to keep evolving, keep learning, keep innovating, and keep reminding yourself that when the world around you feels like it’s spinning out of control, look inward instead of outward, and repeat the phrase, “I’m just me.”

Happy birthday, Bob.