On May 24th, Bob Dylan will turn 70.
I’ve never met the man, but I can’t deny his influence on my songwriting. I was five when I heard Blowin’ in the Wind for the first time. I was eight when I picked up my first guitar, and 13 when I first walked out on stage. From there, it’s been a long dark bar, ceiling painted black, stale smell of beer, and the elation of performing. The thrill when the train is running on track, in sync, and the pull on the audience is as strong as the moon’s pull on the ocean.
The only ax I have to grind is that his thugs beat up emotionally on my friend, Jeff, for whom meeting Dylan mattered very much. For Dylan, meeting my friend meant nothing. That shouldn’t have happened.
This is a cut/paste from Bobdylan.com:
Everybody knows by now that there’s a gazillion books on me either out or coming out in the near future. So I’m encouraging anybody who’s ever met me, heard me or even seen me, to get in on the action and scribble their own book. You never know, somebody might have a great book in them.
No, thanks, Bob. I will always miss Jeff; I will never miss you.