I was playing Blowing In The Wind on the recorder in primary school. My pimpled teenage self ranted for Rubin “Hurricane” Carter. I slammed out “Things Have Changed” in the jungles of Papua New Guinea after an ill-judged romance. I always knew about A Simple Twist of Fate. I danced with the Jokerman, and now It’s Not Dark Yet (but it’s getting there).
More than any other artist, Bob Dylan has inhabited my soundtrack, haunted my soul, demanded my attention, disappointed and inspired me. This omnipresent, unknowable, wise-cracking minstrel is my muse, the sprite who showed me the words they don’t teach you in English literature class. Dylan is a musical giant, a creature of the American spirit, his Chaplinesque whimsy leavening the excesses of his flag-waving countrymen. He has the turn of phrase, the imagination, the chutzpah for which I’d happily trade several vital organs.
And now, here he is, 80 years old. Visibly frail when last I saw him live, in Sydney a couple of years back, delivering his new and venerable songs in a voice older, and younger, than the man in whom it lives. Rolling thunder, and something more.
The man who put poetry into pop has lived to be 80. Of this, I am happy. Listen to my Bob Dylan birthday tribute.
