I’ve never until now written, or even spoke, a word about Bob Dylan. In fact, I’ve never even listened to him–not in public anyway. I’ve heard him on my headphones and let his messages seep in from my low speakers late, late at night; but when people are around, you won’t hear me either playing or talking about Bob. Why? Certainly, listening to one of America’s greatest musicians is nothing to be ashamed of and, unlike many artists of his time, his music–both old and new–has only gotten better with age. But something about someone my age championing or even acknowledging Bob’s greatness seems wrong to me; seems like throwing in the towel to cultural decay. Because where is our Bob Dylan? I’ve looked around from the congested cities of the Northeast to the open plains of the Midwest and cannot find him.
Bob Dylan can’t be heard on the radio or on television. He can’t be found alleviating the boredom in that moment between a talk show host’s joke and his interviews. He can’t be found playing Saturday Night Live or doing HBO specials. He isn’t sitting in a Starbucks or playing a concert sponsored by Budweiser. He’s not heralding the opening of a new mall or writing special protest songs for rallies. He sure as hell can’t be found in the Village (or anywhere in New York). 
Bob can’t even be found on my parent’s radio anymore, his music giving them that bizarre quality like a Soviet vision of the future. They’ve convinced themselves that it’s the Beatles and Elvis that they liked all along. The middle aged people who once were encyclopedia’s of his music; where this song came from, who it was about, what it was about, the events that inspired it; they’ve since forgotten and seem to think every song is about Warren Beatty.
But Bob can be found at vintage clothing stores and antique shops, he can be heard in Vinyl stores, and be seen being traded around by record collectors. Restaurants name food items after him and journalists, marketers, and businessmen write pieces and tracts whose headlines are allusions to his song titles. Thrift stores sell posters of him and jackets that look like his. Trendy clothing spots on the west-side put his face and quotes on expensive t-shirts. All of it, every last branded pillowcase and DVD, will shoot up in value on the day he dies because we all know, though won’t admit, that he hasn’t and will not be replaced.
And, yes, he can also be heard on my stereo late, late at night from the confines of my fortified room; where no one can see me smile, but where I can see no one frown. These times aren’t changing.
Have you considered Subscribing to all of this madness?
