At least that’s what Bob Dylan said
It has to be me, or the results of my brain injury from five years ago: but have you noticed, the times have changed, and Dylan knew it was coming, and it started about the time he was swapping spit and writing prolific pot inspired lyrics with Joan Baez. Sitting in that crappy New York apartment, plucking on that old Martin guitar with a bowed neck and rusted strings. Bob was poor as a hobo with no soup can, and couldn’t afford new guitar strings, so Joan boiled them in water and vinegar, and he got a few more months out of them. That trick actually works; I’ve tried it, and it’s good for your finger calluses as well.
Dylan knew the Beat crowd was old history, at least everyone but Kerouac and Ginsberg. He knew the Commies were already here and planning to ruin our youth with their pious speil, and now their spawn has taken up the red flag of Mao. Pete Seeger told Bob about Woodie Guthrie and his Fascism killing guitar, and he thought, “well, if Woody can do it, so can I,” and he did. Joan was far too clingy and wrapped him in her musical web, so, of course, he had to ditch her after the Newport Folk Festival, at Johnny Cash’s insistence. ” Walk the line boy, get yourself a gal with some meat on her bones and can cook a pot roast with carrots and taters, and your song writing will soar” says ole Johnny C. Bob was as obstinate as a politician, and didn’t heed the advice, but he did spit out some more tunes, had a motorcycle wreck and met a group of musicians from Canada, and one from Arkansas, that fit his style. He made them as famous as himself.
The Beatles had already come over the pond and changed folk-loving young folks into mop-top-dancing fools. Spectors wall of sound still ruled the studio, and Brian Wilson was writing as fast as he could in between nervous breakdowns. Whose hand were we supposed to hold? That hair across my forehead gives me pimples. Chubby Checker had a conniption fit because the Fabs stole his song about the twist and added a shout to the title. Nobody did the twist anymore; that was for parents’ martini parties at the country club and basement parties in New Jersey.
The times started to change. I got an electric guitar, ditched the mandolin my father gave me, ditched the violin, and he loaned my Gibson J45 to a relative who never returned it, so the times changed for me. Kennedy was still in office for a few more months before our deep state took him out, and Nikita was pounding and breaking everything with his size 10 Gucci leather shoe. A breathy speaking Jackie invented Camelot, JFK was humping Marilyn, and the world was on the brink of a nuclear war as Castro was rolling cigars for Nikita. I kept playing my electric guitar; it didn’t faze me in the least. But Bob, he was writing songs about all of this Alice in Wonderland, Fantasia-inspired world his head was in. The times had changed in a matter of months. Was it history, or did Bob inspire it? Maybe a bit of both.
Then, Dylan picked up a Fender Strat, plugged into a Fender Super Reverb amp, and Al Kooper made the Hammond B3 church organ into a legend. The world was aghast. Peter Paul and Mary had a collective breakdown, and Joan was history, still writing those tired songs and whining about a long dead Joe Hill.
Russia was on the move. Their young folks wanted Dylan, and the Beatles, but Nikita wouldn’t let them in, so they became good little Communist and toed the line, much like our own good little socialist commies are doing today. With an Ivy League education, you get two worthless degrees, one that wont do you a damn bit of good, and the other is a masters in socialism. Nikita would be proud of New York City these days. A Commie Islamist smiling Devil for a mayor, my-my, Dylan knew it was coming. He warned us as Pete and Woody had before. We didn’t listen to the music close enough.
