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I bought my first Bob Dylan album in San Antonio, Texas, in November of 1993. I had taken a train there from Springfield, Illinois with my dad and my brother—a ride that lasted 26 hours each way. We traveled to watch NAIA soccer, you know, the usual things a family does over Thanksgiving. Needless to say, we weren’t the usual family. And Bob Dylan isn’t the usual artist, I soon found out.
When I played the album in the car, which was Dylan’s Greatest Hits (I know, lame), my Turkish father, Yavuz, called him a hillbilly and turned him off. I laughed, giving my dad, who actually likes Neil Young and dislikes baseball, the benefit of the doubt. You can’t like everything that is classic.
This was during “Rainy Day Women # 12 & 35,” which I’ll admit isn’t the best song to listen to with one of your parents, and I assumed it was because of his voice, not his lyrics. And when someone tells me Dylan can’t sing, I don’t understand. I try to, but I just don’t. I realize that he doesn’t have a great voice, so to speak. I just can’t imagine anyone else singing “Like a Rolling Stone” or “Just Like a Woman” and make it sound right. Sure, Jimi Hendrix covered the hell out of “All Along the Watchtower,” but Jimi could play a little, right?
So, I like Dylan’s voice. Glad we got that out of the way.
And since that day I bought the hillbilly’s Greatest Hits, I’ve had many great moments listening to his music.
I remember playing “Brownsville Girl” in the car on trip back home from St. Louis and my grandma actually liking it.
I remember the first time my mom and my sister heard “To Make You Feel My Love.” We replayed the song at least five times.
I remember my late childhood friend, Matt, and I trying to sing along to “Subterranean Homesick Blues.” Damn, we laughed so hard.
I remember my brother once dancing to “Hurricane.” He recently told me he still plays the song in every bar where there is a jukebox. I’m sure he still dances to it, too.
Most of all, I remember the countless times I have sat alone in a room listening to Desire or Blood on the Tracks, my two favorite Dylan albums. I breathe the air around me, and I simply listen. When the last radio is indeed playing, I hope it is playing Bob Dylan.
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