There wasn’t much my parents were sure about, back in the day. I was a child of the 1970s and experimentation was key. ‘Right’ and ‘wrong’ were social constructs, money-making was passé, and polyamory was the new frontier. Anything could happen and probably did.
There was only one thing my parents believed in – one firm truth – and that was the mystery and power of music. My parents worshipped music like Baptists worship God. Their tastes were far-reaching, and sometimes in great opposition, but they were united in their fanaticism and the continuity of their praise. Whole pockets of my childhood were marked by obsessive listening. The summer of Tim Buckley. The winter of the Velvet Underground. Limitless years of Bob Dylan. Bruce Springsteen for hope. Neil Young for despair. And when things got tough, small snippets of Judy Garland, and constant late night reruns of a desperate sounding John Lennon. My parents used music to soothe their pains and express their troubles, and there were times when I was a child when it hurt just to step inside the chapel.
Having grown up in such a faith it is hard to view these musicians as anything but religious icons. And not only that, as known entities. I attended my first Bob Dylan concert at three months old, and have seen the man perform almost every time he’s been here since. Even though he was up on stage and I was in the audience, he’s one of the most stable adult presences in my life. Sticking with me from childhood into adulthood. Enigmatic, eccentric, bamboozling, but ever-present. An endless reservoir of wisdom and strangeness. His now craggy face is more familiar to me than many of the adults I grew up with, his startling nasally voice a constant in an increasingly disjointed world. Is there a term for this kind of relationship? Because ‘fan’ really doesn’t seem to cut it.
As many of us know, there isn’t much Bob Dylan hasn’t sung about. Most pressing questions have been addressed somewhere along the way, and if they haven’t – there’s plenty of time left … right?
The forlorn realisation that a seventy-something year old man cannot go on producing music indefinitely brings me to the issue of mortality. Of finiteness. Of watching these icons slowly lose some of their capabilities. I recently saw BB King perform to a large audience and was distressed by his immobility and confusion. Helped into a chair in the middle of the stage, in some songs he stopped in the middle, lost in a sort of reverie, and in others he just played a riff here and there, like a sad faded version of his younger effervescent self. My brother, a musician by trade, remarked with gentle melancholy – “They will all eventually die. And who will we look up to? Who will sustain us?” And it got me to thinking about religion and worship. About how it begins, and what it means. I don’t pray to Bob Dylan or Bruce Springsteen to save my soul, but maybe I could? If faith is about belief and love, nourishment and sustenance, about living with joy and despair – then perhaps there are no better idols than musicians to see us through.
Legend has it that as a young man Bob Dylan hitchhiked across America to visit his hero Woody Guthrie who was dying in hospital, to sing him a song. Later he recorded a poem entitled Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie which ended with the lines:
You’ll find God in the church of your choice
You’ll find Woody Guthrie in the Brooklyn State Hospital
And though it’s only my opinion
I may be right or wrong
You’ll find them both
In the Grand Canyon
Now, it’s only my opinion, I may be right or wrong, but I think when BB finally passes over, he’ll be there too. His smile wide, infused with peace and joy, he’ll be strumming his beloved guitar Lucille – with all the others – in the Grand Canyon at sundown.
First published in March 2012 in the Big Issue #402.