Looking to fill a free January afternoon with music, you may have seen the acclaimed Bob Dylan biopic, A Complete Unknown. But who exactly was Bob Dylan, the vagabond phenomenon who breathed fresh life into the folk movement? To understand this enigmatic musician who evaded even the limits of his own craft, we must look beyond the realms of cinema which often aggrandizes heroism and glosses over the shortcomings of cultural icons. We turn instead to the transformations that punctuated his career and the complex life that went with them.
Busking on the bustling New York streets – 1960
Picture a young Bob Dylan in the familiar cold of a New York winter, bundled under layers of wool knits that barely fit him anymore. This was the reality that greeted Dylan — known at the time as Robert Zimmerman — after dropping out of college in Minnesota the year prior to pursue a career in music, emboldened by the works of legendary folk singer Woody Guthrie.
So began the tale of Bob Dylan, the Wanderer.
A small, dimly lit bar, packed with a keen audience – 1961
Months passed in the hustle of Greenwich Village, and one evening Dylan found himself smitten with the angelic vocals of a 19-year-old Joan Baez. Although only six months older than him, she had already met mainstream success upon releasing her debut solo album the year prior.
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Dylan, taken by his young folk contemporary, described her as a “heart-stopping soprano.” Baez writes of their encounter in Gerde’s Folk City with intrigue and whimsy — “His mouth was a killer: soft, sensuous, childish, nervous, and reticent. [His songs] were original and refreshing, if blunt and jagged.” On the pain and wonder Dylan carried with him, she concluded, “There was no question that this boy was exceptional and that he touched people, but he had only just begun to touch me.”
This seemingly meager musician’s fame would skyrocket upon the release of his second studio album, The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan in 1963.
Bob Dylan was no longer a Scrappy Stranger.
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A tense Columbia Records Studio A, NYC – 1963
The cigarette-filled studio cleared as Dylan drew to his mouth his Neumann microphone.
Dylan’s tracks ached with conviction. In “Masters of War,” his wavering voice, sour and disillusioned, scorned those inactive as the country grappled with violence both within and beyond its borders. He cried, “You might say that I’m young / You might say I’m unlearned / But there’s a one thing I know / Though I’m younger than you / That even Jesus would never forgive what you do,” the measures of his buzzing guitar like a rising anger, punctuating spare lyrics.
However, this man was no activist off-stage. Reportedly, Baez had to inform kids at protests who asked where Dylan was that he “never” attended. Dylan himself squandered illusions of his righteousness in a 1966 Playboy interview, remarking that he “just didn’t have any interest in protest to begin with — any more than [he] did in war heroes.”
Dylan’s fatalism climaxed in his powerful 1965 track, “It’s Alright, Ma.” His percussive guitar, restless even for his own tempo, guided his vengeful voice. Remaining undeceived by the hope of protest, he wailed, “Temptation’s page flies out the door / You follow, find yourself at war / Watch waterfalls of pity roar / You feel to moan but unlike before / You discover that you’d just be one more / Person crying.”
Although merely a messenger, Bob Dylan emerged as the Image of Folk, his divergence from his activist counterparts preserving an authenticity to his craft.
The cocoon of a backstage wing – 1964
Enter again the mellifluous vocals of Baez, soaring through Dylan’s genius lyricism with sincerity, her tours with him popularizing his works like “Blowin’ in the Wind” and “It Ain’t Me, Babe.”
Dylan and Baez’s personal relationship, however, was complicated. He cheated on her throughout their relationship, ultimately (and secretly) marrying actress and model Sara Lownds mere months after ending things with Baez. He divulged to his manager that he married Lownds because “[She] will be home when I want her to be home … there when I want her to be there … do it when I want her to do it,” coolly continuing that Baez wouldn’t. How could Baez cope with a lover who was threatened by the same success that accelerated his career? And how could a man whose bleeding heart put him in record stores turn cold towards hers?
Bob Dylan became the Jaded Lover, running anonymously as if still a traveler with a guitar on his back.
Going electric at the Newport Folk Festival – 1965
In the July heat, Dylan stepped on stage in front of a hungry crowd, equipping his amplifier instead of his acoustic.
He dared to accompany his songs with electric guitar and backup, playing only three songs before exiting the stage. The rowdy audience expressed their discontent, feeling thrown aside along with the folk genre, as Dylan, having “electrified half of his audience, and electrocuted the other,” forged ahead into the folk-rock territory he would eventually hallmark.
Bob Dylan embodied the Rolling Stone he sang about, pushing boundaries in folk music, unafraid to muddle his hard-won image.
Forever Young
A wanderer, the man who was always Zimmerman, yet only known as Dylan. A musician whose vessel seemed inadequate for such grand, tidal lyrics. A benevolent lover with an ego that blindsided one love and drove away the other. A father who yearned for a brighter future for his children, yet viewed the world through nihilism. A rebel even among rebels. As a new generation of listeners, we seek to understand this paradoxical sensation. I believe it was his ability to evade the bounds of title or relationship that came to embolden young people. In his plainness and imperfection, he was utterly untamed, unglamorized by any vibrato or arpeggio. Over 50 years after their creation, his lyrics still speak for themselves, hitting our ears like undying shock waves.
Alessandra Giragos is a sophomore in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at [email protected].