The Dylanologists
Authors: David Kinney
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For Monica, Jane, and Owen
FAN
You don't know who I am, but I know who you are.
BOB DYLAN
Let's keep it that way.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
I
t starts with the voice. One day we hear its strange, broken glory, and before long everyone else in our lives would rather jam ice picks into their ears than listen to another Bob Dylan song. We know what you're thinking. That the man cannot sing, that he yelps, grunts, and caterwauls, that he sounds like a suffering animal or a busted lawn mower, that his throat is a rumbling, grating cement mixer. How can we ever explain this so you understand? Dylan's voice, so reviled and ridiculed by you heathens, is a wonder of the world to us. It's human, real, and above all
expressive
. It embodies rapture, heartbreak, rage, bitterness, disdain, boredom. It can be by turns biting, sarcastic, and deeply funny. It's freighted with weirdly spellbinding magic. It's what pulls usâthe faithfulâto the foot of the stage, and keeps us there for a lifetime.
We who listen too hard are compelled to do things that are difficult to talk about. We devour millions of words of scholarship on his life and work. We spend hours arguing about the songs. We celebrate new albums as important events; they help us mark time in our own lives. We manage towering collections of bootlegs and hunt down underground tapes. We find ourselves identifying with him, and quoting his choice lines in conversation. Some of us have been known to wake up in the morning and wonder what he's eating for breakfast and how he takes his coffee. We go off on pilgrimages: stomping through the timeless Greenwich Village streets where he first made it in 1961; trekking to Big Pink in Woodstock, where he set down beloved reels of classic Americana with the Band in 1967; popping into a café linked to Dylan in Santa Monica; driving past his estate in Malibu; peeking down the long driveway to his farm in Minnesota. We go to concerts by the dozens, and wait in lines all day so we can dash to the front of the stage. We bet on which songs he'll perform at the show tonight.
We keep track of everything: every recording session and every tour date, every song on every bootleg, every word ever caught by a recording device. We are preoccupied with facts and dates, as if cataloguing these things will solve the mysteries of his life, and ours. We investigate the unanswered questions of his career. We pile up pages for Dylan books and Dylan fanzines and Dylan blogs, or just for our own private circles of Dylan friends. We go to conventions and tribute shows and meet-ups and lectures. We figure out how to play the songs on our guitars. We track down all the literary, musical, and cultural allusions in his work. We collect the things he left behind: scraps of writing paper, guitars, harmonicas, books, cigarette butts. One day we discover with a flash that more than a few of our closest friends, sometimes even our spouses, are fellow fans.
I first found Dylan in the dusty basement of my childhood home. In the summer before my junior year in high school I was flicking through a pile of vinyl left behind by my older brother. I found a heavy box with five records inside. The man glowering on the front cover looked like he didn't take orders from anybody. I liked that. I pulled off the top of the box, slid one of the records from a sleeve, fitted the vinyl onto the turntable, and dropped the needle into the groove. The music started, and a switch flipped in my head. The album was called
Biograph
, a retrospective of the first two decades of a recording career still very much in progress. Dylan's folk ballads were jumbled together with wailing mid-1960s rock classics; his gospel songs shared space with tomfoolery. A maid is beaten to death. A good man is sent to jail. A husband abandons his wife to hunt for treasure with a shadowy figure, and all he finds is an empty casket. There were songs about girls, and war, and politics. I didn't know who all of the characters were: Johanna, Ma Rainey, Cecil B. DeMille, Gypsy Davy. I couldn't honestly say I knew what Dylan was saying half the time. But the lines were riveting. I wore out those five records. I learned every word and made them mine, and Dylan grew into an outsize figure in my universe.
I preached the gospel to anyone who would listen. I loaned
Highway 61 Revisited
and
Blood on the Tracks
to friends, or played Dylan for them in my car. I expected them to see the light and join the congregation. But it wasn't 1965 anymore. Dylan's Ray-Ban cool had worn off. When I tried to play “Subterranean Homesick Blues” on the boom box during a school bus trip, my classmates yelped in protest. They couldn't get past the voice.
For the longest time, I felt alone in this addiction, and a little crazy. No one in my world took Dylan as seriously as I did. But it also seemed as though I was in on a secret. In time I came to realize that there were many others like meâan entire underground nation of unreformed obsessives. I had a people.
One day not long ago, I set out to meet them.
1
PILGRIMS
T
he little Minnesota town that Bob Dylan fled in 1959 is a hundred miles shy of the Canadian border. From the Twin Cities, it's three and a half hours by car, due north past fields and silos and a hundred lakes. Maps show crossroad towns, Sax, Independence, Canyon, but look out the car window and there is little proof they even exist. The thick woods are remote enough to hold moose. In the winter, when temperatures can drop below zero overnight, a stranded driver has reason to fear that frostbite will arrive before the tow truck.
Dylan's followers make the pilgrimage en masse to mark his birthday each year, and lucky for them he was born in May. They only have to deal with a heavy splattering of bugs on the windshield. The capital of the Land of Bob is Hibbing, quintessential iron-mining town, population sixteen thousand or so. They know they've made it when the off-road ATV shops, biker bars, and broken-down rural miscellany give way to the regional airport and other markers of modern civilization: Super 8, Walmart, KFC. A commercial district encircles a grid of avenues lined with modest houses and tidy lawns. Howard Street, broad and bedecked in two-story red brick, is the major artery of a drowsy downtown well past its prime. It has a jeweler, a bookseller, a bank, the Moose lodge, a knitting shop. Every other block seems to have a vacant storefront standing out like a missing tooth. The drinking crowd is liable to make a scene outside Bar 412 in the wee hours. Otherwise,
hush
.
Bob Zimmerman skipped out of town a half century ago, adopting a stage name and becoming a singer, an icon, and a millionaire many times over. Storefronts have changed hands and a lot of his family has passed away or moved, but in many ways Hibbing has barely changed since he left, and the quiet tells the pilgrims what they need to know about why he did. Dylan made a name as a teenager by jumping up in front of crowds and making noise, a lot of noise, amplified noise.
Infernal
noise, the respectable crowd said. He hammered on pianos and screamed like Little Richard at volumes his listeners considered uncomfortable. A photograph from 1958 shows him standing on a stage behind an Elvis mic, wearing a striped suit, his hair swept into a pompadour, his mouth open, his right foot poised to crash down on the boards to the beat with a resounding
crack!
At one of these wild-eyed performances, the principal switched off the microphones and yanked the curtains shut. Years later, the man was still shaking his head. “He got so crazy!”
“Hibbing's a good ol' town,” Dylan wrote not long after he departed once and for all. And it was. A perfectly fine, respectable, middle-class, civic-pride sort of place, a burg where you could be content to settle down with a steady job and your girl from high school. Hibbing was conventional, mainstream, solid. Most of all it was quiet. There was no chance in the world that it could have held on to this, its most famous son, a man who would make a career out of upsetting the peace, and changing and changing and changing again. “There really was nothing there,” he said later. “It couldn't give me anything.”
A lifetime on, the boy these pilgrims hoped to find was a ghost. Still they trekked all the way up into the North Country to look for traces of his past life. As it happened, so did he.
2
On September 23, 2004, a Thursday, one of those golden mornings in early autumn, a social worker named Bob Hocking was at his desk in the Hibbing employment office when the telephone rang. It was his wife, Linda. Ordinarily, she would have been over at Zimmy's, her Dylan-themed bar and restaurant on Howard, where the pilgrims can order a “Hard Rain” hamburger while they chew on the delicious idea that as a teen Bob bought LPs just up the street at Chet Crippa's Music Store. But this morning Linda was three blocks south at Blessed Sacrament for a funeral. Myrtle Jurenes, ninety-two, was dead. Hibbing being Hibbingâthat is, Dylan's childhood hometown, and the sort of place where everybody knows everybody elseâMyrtle was the mother of a Hocking family friend, and she was Dylan's brother's mother-in-law.
“Bob's here,” Linda told her husband. She suggested he get over to the restaurant just in case. Maybe Dylan would hang around after the service. Maybe he would want lunch. Maybe he would come by their joint, finally. One of them ought to be there, you know, just in case. Hocking jumped into his pickup truck and was at Zimmy's five minutes later.
They had not been expecting Dylan to make an appearance. He spent a quarter of every year playing dates in North and South America, Europe, Asia, and Australia. He had homes around the world. But he also owned a farm on the Crow River just north of Minneapolis, and stories circulated every now and then about local sightings. He had been spotted at Minnesota Twins baseball games, and in Duluth. Once, decÂades ago, he drove up to Hibbing in a station wagon with an enormous dog and pulled right up to his boyhood home. The owner invited him inside. Dylan, wearing a leather jacket and boots, asked after some teachers, noticed where he'd carved his initials onto a basement wall, and marveled about how
small
his bedroom really was. Now, on the day they sent Myrtle off to the hereafter, Bob Dylan was back.
Linda was sitting in the back of the church when she spotted that legendary nimbus of hair halfway to the altar.
That can't be Bob
, she thought at first. But she kept watch, and when he turned his head, she had no doubt. He was sitting beside a woman with long, straight blonde hair and a skirt that went down to her ankles.
Afterward, he milled around with other mourners on the patio in front of the church. Linda noticed that his suit was well made, and he looked rested and healthy. He made his way over to speak with his high school English instructor, B.J. Rolfzen. The Hockings had become very close to the old retired teacher, so Linda sidled up as if she belonged.
“Robert,” she heard the teacher say, “so nice to see you. Do you remember me? Room 204?”
“Yes,” Dylan replied. “You taught me a lot.”
He looked at his Italian leather shoes, then over at his old house down the street. His aunt came by and reminded him to stop in on his uncle, who was ill. Linda was just about to introduce herself and invite Dylan to lunch at Zimmy's when she saw him peer over her shoulder. A stunned look crossed his face.
A local TV crew had appeared, and they were racing over with their camera and microphone. She turned back and Dylan was goneârunning across the lawn. He jumped into the driver's seat of his Ford pickup and disappeared. In a flash, Linda's moment with the singer was shot.
Meanwhile, over at the restaurant, Hocking paced the floor, chatted with the waitresses, looked out the window. Zimmy's was on the corner of Howard and 6th Avenue East, right in the middle of downtown. In the 1920s, the building housed trolley cars that ran along Howard Street; original tracks are still there in the basement. Around Dylan's time it was a Shell station. Now it had the exposed brick and always-on televisions of an Applebee's in Anywheresville, except that the cartloads of bric-a-brac were authentic Dylan artifacts. Hocking, who had a ramshackle gait and was more than capable of holding up both ends of a conversation, went to Hibbing High a decade after Dylan left, but he grew up taking the celebrated alumnus for granted. It wasn't until he left that he realized how revered the man was everywhere else. In St. Paul, his first stop out of high school, other students spoke of Dylan like a minor god. Just being from Hibbing made Hocking a person of interest. So he listened harder to the records, and soon he caught the bug.
If he comes
, Hocking thought,
I'm here
. He had never run into Dylan, and now, with the possibility hanging in the air, he was anxious. His mind raced. He worried about what he would say. He ran through the scenarios in his mind. He didn't want to be one of those tongue-tied fans. Hocking was well versed in local history and knew just about everybody in town. He could fill Dylan in on the times gone by. He figured he'd play it cool.
Welcome to Hibbing, let me buy you lunch, if you have any questions about anything, I'll be around.
It was a long shot, of course. He knew that. Given Dylan's half century of public churlishness, you would have to assume he would never go near a place named after him, that had a faux Hollywood Walk of Fame star on the sidewalk and a menu featuring a “Simple Twist of” Sirloin ($15.99). A place that was liable, any day of the week, to have some crazy Dylan fan on the premises, some all-Âknowing Dylanologist ready to pounce and pepper him with questions. Still, crazy things happened, and Hocking couldn't help but imagine it. Bob Dylan
inside
Zimmy's.
Gazing from photographs on a towering billboard sign out front were Bob Zimmerman, age seventeen, holding an electric guitar, and his high school girlfriend, Echo Helstrom, posing for a glamour shot. A cardboard cutout of sixty-ish Dylan greeted diners inside the front door. He had a thin mustache and a white cowboy shirt open three buttons from the collar. On the walls were guitars and posters, a Highway 61 road sign, and images of Dylan from the 1940s and '50s. Bob on a motorcycle, Bob at his mother's feet as a toddler, Bob holding a drum he made in middle school. In one photo, a first-grade class portrait, every child looks at the camera except him. He had turned his head at the moment the shutter clicked open.
Across one wall was a sign spelling out, in vintage yellow lightbulbs, the name
LYBBA
. It's an obscure name that only locals should recognize, but the pilgrims who go to Hibbing with Dylan on the mind, the ones who wander around Zimmy's like they're at the Metropolitan Museum of Artâstaring, pointing, their mouths agapeâthese people know the name straight away. Lybba Edelstein was Bob Dylan's great-grandmother, and her husband, B.H., named one of the family's movie theaters after her. Zimmy's has bits of Dylan's childhood house. The most recent owners replaced nineteen windows and passed along the original ones to various Dylanophiles. “It's like the four thousand fragments of the true cross,” one fan said. Here and there around town you find the windows, as if they could reveal what went on behind them when they were in Bob's house. One sash went to a guy up the highway who named his sons Bob and Dylan. A Minnesota folksinger got one, the library got one. Zimmy's had to have two, and the Hockings wanted theirs to be the windows that hung in the boy's bedroom. They also owned bits of bathroom tile from the house, and the bathroom sink, and the door to his high school English classroom. These old things were a concrete link to the real Bob Dylan, and the Hockings still felt a tiny charge when they thought about him walking the streets of the town they called home.
Bob Hocking and Linda Stroback met as art students in Missoula, Montana, in the early 1980s. Not long after they arrived in Hibbing, he landed work with the state and painted, mostly abstracts. She got a job as a manager at Zimmy's. Only it wasn't Zimmy's yet. Back then it had an instantly forgettable name, the Atrium. A few years after Linda arrived, the owners decided they needed to rebrand or else they would struggle like any other downtown restaurant. At a brainstorming session, Linda brought up Dylan. Surely, he would be a better draw than other celebrity Hibbingites, like attorney-author Vincent Bugliosi, or Jeno Paulucci, the man behind Chun King canned Chinese food. “I don't think you realize how big Bob Dylan is everywhere
but
Hibbing,” Linda argued. The owners were sold, and the new name went up on the signs.
Linda got an informal green light from Dylan's office, but she worried that people would say the business was cashing in on a superstar's celebrity. Sure enough, a couple of local women appeared to scold them.
Beatty would not approve.
Beatty Zimmerman was Dylan's mother. She had moved out of town after her husband's death decades earlier, but she returned regularly. A few months after the name change, she was in town visiting friends. They stopped into Zimmy's for lunch. Linda watched Beatty go from table to table greeting people. She seemed to still know everyone in town. After Beatty sat down to eat, Linda walked over. The Zimmy's manager is round-faced and perpetually smiling. She grew up in a big cityâPhiladelphiaâbut she has the warmth of a small-town girl, a workaholic's industry, and the mind of a natural-born marketer. She introduced herself and asked Beatty what she thought.
“Honey,” the woman told her, “it's about time somebody did something nice for my son in Hibbing.”
Dylan was an eccentric and sensitive kid. Perhaps he wouldn't have fit anywhere, but growing up, he surely didn't fit in Hibbing. Later on, after he became famous, writers and critics used to wonder: How did a cultural giant as smart and original as Dylan come from a nowhere sort of place like
this
?
Hibbing sits in the center of an eighty-mile constellation of settlements that were founded atop a narrow band of low hills called the Mesabi Range. Prospectors began mining iron there in 1890, and soon it become clear they had tapped into one of the richest veins in the world. Within two decades the once-isolated region of forest and bog had sixty-five thousand inhabitants and an array of nationalities: Scandinavian, Finnish, Bohemian, Italian, Polish, Russian, Greek. With miners came hucksters and gamblers and prostitutes and saloons by the dozens. But tax revenues boomed, and the new settlements did not remain bawdy frontier camps for long. Hibbing in particular aspired to greatness, and in short order it touted a fine school, a Carnegie library, a courthouse, a three-story town hall, a hotel, a racetrack, and a zoo with lions and buffalo. What the mines gave, they soon took away. Turned out, ore lay beneath Hibbing's foundations, and the townspeople had barely settled in when the decision was made to move almost two miles south. Starting in 1918, some two hundred buildings were hoisted onto wheels and inched off the mother lode. A new town hall went up with a clock tower. Howard Street came alive with national chain department stores, a theater, and a plush hotel. North of Hibbing, the strip-mined canyon grew until it sprawled as far as the eye could see. From the ground, it's a four-mile moonscape. On satellite maps it looks like a spill, something pouring out of the town's borders. Mining spoils now encircle the city in towering red-earth ridges.