Tangled Up in Bob

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We spoke for a few minutes. I remember almost nothing Dylan said, perhaps because he didn’t actually say anything. He simply listened to me babble (“I saw your show at Earl’s Court,” “I love your records,” etcetera, etcetera). When our cigarettes had burned down, he politely put an end to the one-sided conversation, mumbling something like, “It was good talking to you,” and backed away slowly, hands in front of his chest, palms out.

It was a gesture of conciliation, of fear, and suddenly I realized that Dylan was scared of being shot, just as John Lennon had been shot a mere 14 blocks north of where we were standing. He continued backing off from me like that for a yard or two, and then he abruptly turned and walked away, heading west into the darkness of 58th Street.

I was reminded of our encounter a few years ago, while reading a USA Today interview in which Dylan spoke on the subject of celebrity. “It mortifies me to even think that I am a celebrity,” Dylan told the interviewer. Then he explained why:

“By being a celebrity you lose your anonymity. It short-circuits your creative powers when people come up and interrupt your train of thought. They consider you completely approachable. And you can’t be rude to people, so basically you shut yourself down. I know I do. I shut myself down when people come up and want to shake my hand or want to talk. That’s just dead time.”

Sorry, Bob.

Reprinted from L.A. Weekly (May 18, 2001). Subscriptions: $70/yr. (52 issues) from Box 4315, Los Angeles, CA 90078.

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