Bob Dylan: A Well Deserved Nobel Prize Winner

By Source, Fair use, Link

I have vivid memories of sitting on the ugly green carpet on the floor of my bedroom in front of my small, cheap portable record player, listening to song after song by Bob Dylan on the turntable.  It started in my early teens, when I first heard his music on the radio and saved up my meager allowance and baby-sitting money to go to the record store and buy his “Free Wheelin’ Bob Dylan” album.  For younger readers, back in the day, we got our music on vinyl albums; they were precious treasures that had to be carefully cared for, stored inside their album cover in a thin paper sleeve when not in use, so that the vinyl wouldn’t get scratched or warped.

“Free Wheelin'” was filled with iconic songs like “Blowin’ In the Wind,” “Masters of War” and  “Hard Rain’s A-Gonna’ Fall;” songs that shaped the minds of young people with themes of a nation torn apart over civil rights and the fear of nuclear war.  It was astounding to me that someone could craft those simple words into songs that were so powerful, strong and true.  I think I still have the album in my basement, in a big plastic container with all my other old vinyl albums, stashed away carefully under the stairwell in a tiny closet in the basement.  We never listen to vinyl anymore, but I can’t let myself throw them away; they were such an important part of my life.

I would sit on that scratchy, ugly green carpet in my very small bedroom for hours every afternoon after school memorizing the words and reading the liner notes, trying to understand who this odd, skinny, curly haired guy was and how he came to be so wise at such a young age.  How did he know how to write like that?  A kid from Minnesota, a place I’d never been, a part of the country that seemed so remote to me, an East Coast girl who knew nothing about the world outside of New Jersey.  How was this lone wolf from the Mid-West able to write songs that spoke to a place deep in my heart, a place that no one else seemed to even recognize existed?

Dylan actually had a pretty terrible voice, kind of monotone and a bit scratchy, certainly not a polished performer or vocalist, but that was part of what made him so appealing to me.  He was honest, he was speaking his truth and wanted other people to hear it, using his voice as the vehicle to get the words out into the world for us to hear.

My mom was the chairman of the English department and English teacher at a local Catholic Girls High School, and she loved literature, poetry and words in general so I expected her to hear the songs of Dylan and share my love for his poetic lyrics, but she hated him.  She said his voice was awful and that he sounded like a cat whining and wouldn’t let me listen to him on the brown rectangular radio that sat on the little counter above the kitchen sink which I’d listen to each night, as I washed the dishes.  She made me turn Dylan off when she was in the room and spoke cuttingly of his music, saying he wasn’t as good as the music of her youth, Frank Sinatra, Ezio Pinza, Dean Martin; Dylan’s voice was caterwauling and scratchy noise to her.

Her words hurt and confused me, invalidating my experience.  I was so sure she would get the beauty of the lyrics and the poetry and strength of his voice and his message but she wouldn’t allow herself to.  I knew that if she had listened and heard the words, she’d have to acknowledge the power and poetry of his lyrics but she wouldn’t even listen.

It was one of the first times when I recognized that people can cut something off simply because it’s new and not of their era, that they can be afraid of something just because it’s different and doesn’t fit their past experience.  I was confused as I realized that my mother, a college educated and highly well read woman, was just being contrary because she wasn’t willing to try to understand what he was singing about.  Truth be told, I was also terribly hurt that she wouldn’t share his music with me.

Over the many years following, I continued to listen to Bob Dylan and over time reconciled many of my differences with my mother.  As I grew older and faced my own life challenges, I eventually came to see her as a human being with lots of tough life experiences of her own.  When I had my own kids, I would often call her in a panic, asking for advice, wondering how she did it with four kids and a job back in the 60’s and 70’s when it was even harder for women to balance work and family.

This week when I saw that Dylan had been awarded the Nobel Prize, I thought of my mother and wondered what her reaction would be.  I’d like to think she’d be pleased, or at least acknowledge his contribution to our world.  And it seems fitting to me, that Bob Dylan, the songwriter who first opened my eyes to rebellion in my teens, is the first musician to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature by the Nobel Prize committee.

This summer my daughter and her friends went to see Bob Dylan in concert.  One of them posted a picture of the four of them sitting in their seats on Facebook with a comment about how seeing Bob Dylan in concert was a bucket list experience for them.  Maybe my mom didn’t share my love of Bob Dylan, but clearly my daughter does and that just makes me so happy and fills my heart.  I’m still astounded at how wise he was to write these words in his early 20’s, these words that still ring true today.