I’ll confess, I have never been a huge fan of Bob Dylan’s music; I don’t own a single record. But I am a huge fan of Bob Dylan. As historical music figures go, he’s someone who has always fascinated me and scared the crap out of me at the same time.
One theory I have about my fear of Zimmy is that as he aged, he seemed to take on the facial features of Margaret Hamilton, who played Almira Gulch in The Wizard of Oz. Tell me I’m wrong. Years ago I became obsessed with Don’t Look Back, the D.A. Pennebaker documentary on Dylan. I was riveted at his casual cruelty toward the hopelessly uncool reporters and was charmed by the gentility he exuded when coming face-to-face with a few of his adoring fans. His presence and talent were undeniable; there was an almost crazy religious vibe from the people who wanted to be near him, sitting at his feet all freaky-deaky disciple-like. Throw in the fact that he had the best hair ever captured on film, and you see the man and the legacy start to unfold.
The Dylan of today has just as much mystique. Even reinvented, he is still scary to me. Who else could rock that Vincent Price/House of Wax/cowboy look? It works. Surprisingly, I really wasn’t bothered by his somewhat creepy appearance in last year’s Victoria’s Secret commercials, in which he skulked around in the shadows of the giraffes in their matching bras and panties. I kind of took that as a sign that he has a sense of humor about himself and his image.
Now he’s written his memoir, Chronicles Volume I, and I can’t wait to read it. Fan of his music or not, I know how important a man he is and I want to know more. Then again, for all we know he’s probably slated to be on next season’s The Surreal Life, living in a house with Gary Coleman and Leif Garrett. I’ll get you, my pretty—and your little dog, too!
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