Bob Dylan (1941-?) in conversation with Stan Rogal
I was born here, and I'll die here against my will
I know it looks like I'm movin', but I'm standin' still
Every nerve in my body is so naked and numb
I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don't even hear the murmur of a prayer
It's not dark yet, but it's gettin' there
— from: Not Dark Yet
It was a plain and simple text message, bereft of anything that might be considered pomp and ceremony, or that suggested anything (whether of mild importance or more momentous) had occurred; something along the lines of: ‘The king is dead, long live the king,’ or whatever. I might’ve expected more, considering the high regard and reputation of the particular person involved. Still, dead was dead, I suppose, and nothing to be done besides (maybe) tip your hat and move on. What had Joan Baez called him? The “unwashed phenomenon / the original vagabond.” Hm, maybe. The real surprise was my not having heard the news over the usual media broadcasts or social platforms. I’d’ve thought there’d have been a helluva lot more hullaballoo, with folks tripping over themselves to get the message out — complete with condolences, thoughts and feelings — along with the usual personal and professional accounts, embellishments, and exposés that go hand-in-hand, in order to advance careers and sell ads and air time. Then again, maybe those in charge — the agents, lawyers, promoters, and so on — were keeping a tight lid on things until they figured out when to release the information and how best they wanted it presented, meaning, how best for everyone involved to spin the story. I mean, who knows, maybe there was criminal activity or scandal involved. Tupac took a bullet from a gangland-related drive-by shooting, Prince fell due to a fatal combination of opioid and prescription drug use, Anthony Bourdain hung himself due to alcohol and drug abuse, plus depression. The list goes on.
Anyway, it wasn’t my job to question the whys and wherefores. I was told who, where and when: Bob Dylan, Future Bakery, now, as the subject was presently stationed outside, on the patio, waiting. I packed my gear and ventured forth.
When I arrived on the scene, I spotted him sitting alone at a table pressed against the east side railing. It was a hot July day, 30 degrees in the shade. I was dressed sockless, in brown leather sandals, camo shorts, and a mainly greenish, sleeveless, tie-dyed, T-shirt, lugging a small backpack in one hand. Bob was dressed in basic black: boots, pants, shirt, vest, bolo tie, and Stetson hat, along with decorative silver buttons, tie clip and ear studs. He had his hands placed flat on the table on either side of his glass, his neck bent, his eyes fixed downward, in a squint, as if deep in thought. He looked…what? Disconsolate. Utterly. I walked over, sat across from him, and dropped my bag at my feet. He didn’t budge. Mr. Dylan, I said. He raised his eyes and glared at me. Who the fuck are you, man? He spat the words through tensed, quavering lips. Where the fuck am I? How the fuck did I get here? Dylan was well-known for giving difficult and evasive interviews, but this struck me as somewhat over-the-top even for him. I mean, he must have had some idea, yes? They must have said something to him, not simply dropped him here, a deer in the headlights.
I introduced myself, told him he was in Toronto, the Future Bakery and Café, that I was to conduct an interview with him. I tucked my shades in a pants’ pocket, pulled the recorder from my bag, plunked it on the table, asked him if he had so much as an inkling as to any of this. He shook his head, no. I asked if he was provided with any sort of message or information of any kind. Anything at all. I found this, he said, and withdrew a slip of paper from his vest pocket, which he handed to me. The note read: Wait here. Further details to follow. That’s it? I said, and pushed the note across the table. Nothing more? He pocketed the note. That’s it, he said. Finito. Okay, look, I said, why don’t we start the interview. Maybe something will click. Maybe we’re just a tad early and we need to allow the dust to settle a bit. I hit record. I have to admit, this is new to me. Yeah, tell me about it, he said. And whaddya mean, the dust to settle? What dust, man? I gritted my teeth and rocked my head, unsure how much I was allowed to say, or even if I should say. That was generally the territory of others, those who remained in the background. Whoever ‘they’ were, devils or angels. Then again, what choice did I have?
SR: Listen… (I almost called him Bob, but stopped myself short. I’d wait for an invitation, if one was forthcoming, which I felt might be unlikely, given his current mood)… Mr. Dylan. As a rule, that is, when I’m called upon in a certain manner — vaguely, surreptitiously — I’m meant to interview a poet — how shall I put it — who has met their demise, generally several years in the past. And the poet, as a rule, again, is aware of both their passing, as well as the reason why they’ve been returned or recalled to visit the present time period. Does any of this ring a bell?
BD: (He tapped his fingertips on the table top). What is this, man, some kind of bad joke? Are you trying to tell me that I’m dead? I’m not dead. How can I be dead? I’m sitting here right in front of you, man, living and breathing. Are you fucking insane? (He took a quick survey of his surroundings, perhaps expecting to detect a hidden camera recording our conversation). How does that even make sense? It doesn’t.
SR: Let me ask you something, what are you experiencing right now? What’s going on in your head. Apart from the confusion, I mean. What’s first and foremost on your mind?
BD: A cigarette. I’d like to have a cigarette. (He pulled at his chin and scratched his beard with a hand). Which is strange, since I quit a long time ago. (He reached for his glass, took a long swallow, and set the glass back down).
SR: (I motioned with my head). Uh-huh. And what’s that in front of you, on the table, in the glass, that you’re drinking?
BD: G and T.
SR: And, correct me if I’m wrong, but according to some fairly reliable sources, you quit drinking alcohol back in the 90’s, yes?
BD: That’s right, man, cold turkey.
SR: Did you order it? (I expanded my enquiry with a hand flutter).
BD: (He pursed his lips). Tell the truth, man, I don’t remember. I think the waitress just dropped it. I don’t know. (He rubbed his lower lip with a finger).
SR: Y’see? This is a normal occurrence with the poets I interview. They come complete with stereotypical addictions, whether they had them in life or not. It’s like a stigma that they’re forced to carry. Or stigmata, if you prefer. (I pointed across the patio with a nod of my head). Did she recognize you? The waitress? Make a fuss? Has anybody here recognized you? Asked for a selfie, or whatever? (We both looked around, the place was packed). You’re Bob Dylan, after all. Everyone knows you, would recognize you immediately. (Bob squinted and took a deep breath through his nose, pondering). Another thing, notice how everyone is dressed: shorts and T-shirts, loose blouses, and they’re still sweating. I’m sweating. What about you? Buttoned up to the chin. Looking cool as a cucumber. Not a drop of moisture. Do you feel the heat, or what?
BD: I feel fine, man. What I don’t feel is dead. (He pulled at his lips and mumbled behind his fingers).
SR: Okay, let’s go with that for a moment. You’re not dead, and you somehow managed to magically arrive in Toronto, sitting at this table.
BD: Don’t fuck with me, man, I’m not a child. (He finished his G and T. The waitress arrived with another, plus a cold beer for me. She removed his empty glass and walked away). There’s nothing magical about it. There’s a reasonable explanation.
SR: Sure, fine. Don’t mean to upset you. Maybe you can tell me, what’s the last thing you remember?
BD: I was in a hotel room with some other cats, man, and we were layin’ down some cool grooves on a portable 8-track. (I must’ve looked at him funny because he suddenly stared down and began inspecting his chest and lap; pulled and patted his clothes, as if he might have spilled food or maybe drooled on himself). What? What’s the problem? Is there something on me? (He threw out his arms and leaned back in his chair).
SR: No, sorry, it’s your language: ‘man,’ ‘cats,’ ‘cool,’ ‘grooves.’ And the reference to an 8-track. It’s all very 60’s sounding.
BD: I’m a product of the 60’s, man, I can’t help the way I talk.
SR: Uh-huh. (I sipped my beer). I’m thinking maybe there’s another possibility here.
BD: Yeah? What’s that? (He bent closer, elbows on the table, perhaps interested).
SR: You were involved in a motorcycle accident in 1966, after which you basically dropped out of sight for eight years.
BD: I had some vertebrae issues that needed time to heal, man. Plus, I felt I needed some private space. I felt like a monkey in a cage, everyone poking and prodding me.
SR: This is right after you went electric at Newport in 1965. The press said that you “electrified one half of the audience, and electrocuted the other.” Your popularity was on the decline.
BD: What’s your point, man?
SR: My point is that maybe you died in that accident. There’s no record you went to a hospital. There’s no record you saw a doctor. Maybe your handlers got to you first and decided it was an opportunity to re-make you, so as not to kill the goose that laid the golden egg. Maybe they disposed of your body without anyone the wiser.
BD: Get serious, man. That’s strictly out of left field, film noir bullshit. Besides, I was in my twenties. I’d still be in my twenties if I died. Instead, I’m in my eighties. It doesn’t figure.
SR: Hey, I don’t know how things work on the other side. Maybe for some, the soul ages. A Picture of Dorian Gray sort of thing.
BD: What, like my soul is hanging in a closet somewhere, getting older? (He twisted his face at me and I shrugged). That’s like, totally gnarly, man. I mean, if I died in my twenties, who’s been writing all those Bob Dylan songs the past 60 years?
SR: Not so tough to explain. They hired an actor who looked like you, or was made to look like you, and took those eight years to train him in all your mannerisms, tics, diction, and such, so he could replace you when you went public again. As for the song writing, they could easily lock a group of talented people together in a room, who could copy your voice, your style, your vocabulary. One critic wrote: “Musically, Dylan’s not very gifted; he’s borrowed his voice from old hillbillies. He’s got a lot of borrowed things. He’s not a great guitar player. He’s invented a character to deliver his songs…it’s a mask of sorts.” So, it’s not rocket science. Happens all the time. Was Shakespeare Shakespeare? More recently, there’s AI. Don’t even need people. Just break it all down to algorithms and hit a button, choose whatever works for an album out of an endless supply.
BD: Shit, man, you’re talking a massive conspiracy theory here. Why not just say Martians.
SR: Maybe. Or maybe it’s just good, solid, business practice. Or maybe it’s just the natural course of what it is to be a creative being, open to the wealth of materials that the world provides, and once that’s revealed, anyone is free to tap in and take advantage. I mean, how many Bob Dylan wannabees do you think are out there at any given time? Or cover bands? I’m guessing, a ton. Jim Jarmusch said, “Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is nonexistent. And don't bother concealing your thievery — celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: ‘It's not where you take things from — it's where you take them to.’" Only now, all materials are owned and controlled by conglomerates, which are run by lawyers and accountants.
BD: (Bob nodded and I wondered if he’d respond to my short tirade in any way. He just grinned and went back to rubbing his lower lip with a thumb, almost Bogie-like, though not quite). Yeah, yeah. I remember Jim’s flick, Mystery Train. It was cool. “Danger, Will Robinson, danger!” (He imitated the robot from the TV series, Lost in Space, flapped his arms up and down, and chuckled). I remember the soundtrack; loved it: Elvis Presley, Otis Redding, Roy Orbison, John Lurie. Others.
SR: Uh-huh. (I pushed on). In one of your early interviews you were asked if people could tell a fake Bob Dylan song page from a real one, and you said, yes, easily, on the fake song pages someone has signed your signature at the bottom.
BD: You sayin’ that was a hint?
SR: I don’t know. Maybe. (We both gave the thing some thought as we raised our glasses and drank). Another option of course, is that you’re the actor hired to play Dylan, and you’re the one who’s died.
BD: Now, you’re just messin’ with my head. Wouldn’t I know if I was someone playin’ someone else?
SR: Not necessarily. Maybe it’s like they say, if you tell a lie often enough, for long enough, you start to believe that it’s the truth. Like Donald Trump.
BD: Who’s he when he’s at home?
SR: Doesn’t matter. Besides — riffing off a phrase you identified with from poet Arthur Rimbaud, “I is an other” — you are quoted as saying, “I can change during the course of a day. I wake up, I’m one person, and when I go to sleep, I’m certain I’m somebody else.”
BD: I don’t know, man, I think it’s just as easy — easier, even — to believe that I’m me and that I’m still alive. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck, right? Maybe some lunatic characters drugged me, stuck me on a plane as a prank, and here I am. Simple as that.
SR: I suppose. Hey, I meant to ask, who were those cats you were jamming with before you found yourself abducted.
BD: The regulars. George, Jeff, Roy, Tom.
SR: You mean Harrison, Lyne, Orbison, and Petty? The Traveling Wilburys?
BD: Yeah. You sound surprised.
SR: Well… (I straightened, raised my arm and stuck my thumb in the air). To begin, Roy Orbison died in 1988, heart attack. Secondly…. (I raised my index finger). George Harrison died in 2001, cancer. And thirdly… (I raised my middle finger). Tom Petty died in 2017, heart attack.
BD: (His face went slack). No. (He shook his head slowly). No. You’re freakin’ me out, man. No. It must be the drugs they gave me. I’m still not thinking straight.
SR: (I drank some beer and allowed him to consider this new revelation). Y’know, I’m still curious — whether dead or alive — why you’re here, and why I was summoned to interview you. But, since my specialty is poets, maybe I can assume it has something to do with poetry.
BD: I doubt it.
SR: I’m just spitballing here, seeing if something sticks.
BD: You’re wasting your time, man. I’m not a poet. I never claimed to be a poet.
SR: You’ve never aspired to be a poet?
BD: I’ve never aspired to be anything except who I am at the time. I’m like Popeye. I yam what a yam.
SR: Joan Baez once said that for all the years she knew you, she never understood you. Not one tick.
BD: Not one tick? That sounds like her. Bright girl. Terrific singer.
SR: You took your name from poet Dylan Thomas.
BD: Yeah, hope he’s not still mad. (He laughed).
SR: You wrote one book, Tarantula, described by some as an experimental prose poetry collection that employs stream of consciousness writing, somewhat in the style of Jack Kerouac, William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg. It goes on to say the style is reminiscent of Arthur Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell. Do you think that placing your name among these famous poets serves to qualify you as a poet, as well?
BD: Hubris, man, and not of my making. That book was simply a collection of words I wrote strung out one after another. I’m just the vessel that processes the material, it’s not my job to explain it, or give it a name.
SR: The New York Times long ago called you “the poet laureate of young America.”
BD: That’s the media, man. It’s their job to put labels on people. Make them more understandable to their audience. Give them something solid to hang their hats on. Turn them into a product to help them sell other products: another bag of potato chips, another tube of toothpaste, or whatever. It’s all smoke and mirrors. I mean, if I happened to be able to fix a leaky bathroom tap, say, and enough people started calling me a plumber, would that necessarily make me a plumber? No. that’s their bag, man, not mine.
SR: In 2016 you were awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature — and I quote — “for having created new poetic expressions within the American song tradition.” (I hit the word ‘poetic’ for emphasis. Not that I needed to, as Bob was fully aware of the specific wording). How did this resonate with you? I mean, as someone who doesn’t consider himself to be a poet?
BD: It’s like I told them, not once had I ever had the time to ask myself, “Are my songs literature?” So, I thanked the Swedish Academy, both for taking the time to consider that very question, and, ultimately, for providing such a wonderful answer.
SR: You left the question as to whether you were or weren’t a poet up to them. You neither agreed nor disagreed.
BD: Hey, they’re the experts, man, not me. Who am I to rain on their parade?
SR: Leonard Cohen said that awarding you the Nobel prize for Literature was like pinning a medal on Mount Everest.
BD: Leonard’s a sweet man and a terrific song writer. (He cocked his head and winced). You’re not going to tell me he’s dead too, are you?
SR: No, I’m not going to tell you that. (I finished my beer). It’s been most enjoyable talking with you, Mr. Dylan. (I paused, still wondering if he’d say, hey, call me Bob. He didn’t). Unfortunately, since, as I’ve explained, my job, as it were, is to interview dead poets, AND, since you claim to be neither dead, nor a poet, I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave things where they are and bid you a fond good-bye and good luck. (I secured my belongings, stood, put on my shades). Perhaps we’ll meet again. At the appropriate moment.
BD: Yeah, I don’t think so, man. I think I’ve got a few good years left. In the meantime, don’t take any wooden nickels.
SR: I’ll try and remember. (I shut off the recorder, slipped it in my bag, and left Bob to await further instructions, if and when).
I made a right on Bloor street, figuring to pay a visit to BMV. I thought they might have a used copy of Tarantula sitting on the shelf, collecting dust. I hadn’t read it in years and it might be time to give it a second look. I recall that when it was published in 1971, it was met with critical scorn, with some reviewers referring to it as a “word salad” that bordered on Schizophasia: a confused, unintelligible, jumble of words and phrases. And even in 2003, Spin magazine did an article called the “top Five Unintelligible Sentences from Books Written by Rock Stars.” Dylan came in first place with this line from Tarantula: “now’s not the time to act silly, so wear your big boots & jump on the garbage clowns.” Personally, I believe Dylan would have been tickled by that achievement. After all, there’ve been a lot of books written by rock stars, and, what do they say? Any press is good press. Pin another medal on the mountain!
I made my way down the stairs to the small poetry section, which was, as usual, out of alphabetical order, and a confusion of Canadian, American, and World poetry — in fact, some of it not even poetry, but biography and fiction by or about poets, didn’t matter — and discovered, almost to my amazement, a clean copy of Tarantula. I flipped the book open to a random page and read: “here lies bob dylan / killed by a discarded Oedipus / who turned / around / to investigate a ghost / & discovered that / the ghost too / was more than one person.” Coincidence? I wondered. Fate? Divine Providence? Whatever. I bought the book and headed for the nearest park bench to peruse the contents at my leisure. Who knows, perhaps I’d have need of it somewhere a little further down the line. In the words of Bob Dylan — that is, of course, if these are, in truth, the actual words of the actual Bob Dylan — “It’s not dark yet, but it’s getting there.”
Memento mori, man! Memento mori. Maybe catch you on the flip side.
Stan Rogal lives and writes in Toronto along with his artist partner Jacquie Jacobs and their pet jackabee. His work has appeared almost magically in numerous magazines and anthologies. The author of several books, plus a handful of chapbooks. Currently seeking a new publisher: anyone??? Co-founder of Bald Ego Theatre and former coordinator of the popular Idler Pub Reading Series.
