Richard Hogan: Happy 80th birthday, Bob Dylan - keep raging into the night

Columnist Richard Hogan casts his mind's eye back to his own childhood, when a freewheelin' album cover captured his imagination

Richard Hogan: "Art should never be what you expect, the artist should always keep his audience guessing and stretching their imagination. When an artist becomes the thing the audience craves they transmute into a parody of themselves. Bob was never going to allow that to happen."

My eldest brother had great taste in music. I was the youngest of three boys and shared a room with the middle brother. An aspiring lawyer, even at 8. It was incredible to be around him because we were such worlds apart in so many ways. And yet, so close. 

He brought a lot of sense to my sensibility. But lawyers aren’t generally known for their musical integrity, the ‘INXS’ sleeve blue tacked above his bed informed the entire house his career as a lawyer was assured. I’m being unfair to him, because we had incredible moments of staying up all night listening to Otis Redding, the Violent Femmes, The Cure, to mention a few. He first introduced me to Shakespeare. 

"Listen to this," he’d say, and then we’d sit mesmerised as the harrowing female voice from the cassette would plead for her hands to be clean. I didn’t really know what it was, but I knew it was something special. 

That was the great thing about being the youngest, you got to feed on all of your brothers' interests, well, that and by the time your parents got to parenting you, they were slightly broken in by the others. Hence, my fourteen-hole Docs at 15.

Music has always been such an important part of my life. Music was everywhere in the family. My mother would constantly sing early Beatles songs: I Want to Hold Your Hand, You’re Going to Lose That Girl, were generally accompanied with a narrative about Fountainstown in the ’60s, which seemed as exotic to me as Myrtle beach or someplace. 

My eldest brother’s room was such a fertile place for a young developing mind to explore. I must have been around 6 or 7 when I first started visiting his room when he wasn’t there.

I’d lie in bed, ears following every sound, until the front door clicked closed and then I’d get up and drag a comb across my head and venture into his room. 

A treasure trove of eclectic albums would unfold; A blond boy/girl with smoke swirling around, Changes by David Bowie, a kaleidoscope funeral type procession, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles, a picture of a man with his legs crossed with a guitar lying on his bed with French-sounding cigarettes, The John Lennon Collection, a sultry bearded guy surrounded by other hippie types, LA Woman by The Doors. 

The list could go on and on. It was the lyrics more than the melody that interested me, what were they trying to say to me? That’s what I wanted to know. 

I clearly remember the moment I sat back and listened to the voice from the cover of a guy walking through, what looked like, a snow-filled street with a girl clutching his brown suede jacket. 

It was almost inscrutable to me. Which, I guess, was a sign of things to come. The sound of the vinyl turning, that irreplaceable ancient crackle, the rudimentary opening strumming pattern and then the voice. I had never heard anything like it before. Sand and glue. Maybe. It sounded more like earth under old boots to me. like someone from inside myself reached out from god knows where and hit me in the rag and bone shop of the heart. And things, quite simply, were never the same. 

I’ve been clinging to Bob Dylan, much like the girl on the album cover, since that morning back in the mid-1980s. The old cliché about music being the soundtrack to your life is a cliché for a reason. It’s true. Bob has been the troubadour belting away in the background as I muddle through life.

I first stood in front of him in 2001 when he played Nolan Park, Kilkenny. Walking into the stadium I felt like Dorothy and the gang as they cautiously make their way to meet the wizard. I was like the lion, scared. Scared of being disappointed.

I had been a fan for nearly twenty years and I had read so many scathing reviews of his concerts, I didn’t want to shatter my illusions. But Dylan, like the wizard, knew why we had all come and was intent on freeing us all from the prison of our expectations. I was not disappointed. I was devastated. 

I felt I could have done a better Bob Dylan impression than what my eyes and ears had been forced to experience. My fists were clenched in rage. I couldn’t distinguish one song from the other. Did he not know I was a source of derision for my techno-loving friends in the 90s? 

I was ridiculed for my love of ‘depressing’ music but I stayed loyal through it all, through dance music, grunge, pop songs featuring rap artists, I never wavered. And all I expected in return was to see Bob Dylan. The real Bob Dylan, the one on the records. But over time I came to realise what he was trying to teach me. Art should never be what you expect, the artist should always keep his audience guessing and stretching their imagination. 

When an artist becomes the thing the audience craves, they transmute into a parody of themselves. Bob was never going to allow that to happen. Bob turns 80 today. Happy birthday, Mr Zimmerman. Keep raging into the night.