I put one on the turntable and when the needle dropped, I was stunned.
~Bob Dylan referring to the first Woody Guthrie record he ever heard
When it comes to music, I guess everybody has a first time–even Bob Dylan.
Personally, my first exposure to the sounds of the 60’s occurred when I was six. Ironically enough, it was to Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited.
By way of mise en scene, I was at the next-door neighbor’s house playing. Nothing else–just playing. I guess it’s what you do when you’re six.
Bolting through the living room, I veered hard left on the heels of my best friend. Together we raced down a long hallway which was flanked by bedrooms on both sides.
And that’s when it happened.
I suddenly passed through a force-field of the most magnificent and magical sounds I’d ever heard–a strange amalgamation of notes, instruments, melodies, and harmonies– and all of it was emanating from an 8′X9′ pink-painted cubby hole of a room just off my starboard bow.
Reminiscent of the Apostle Paul’s southern hemisphere being removed from his mule, this experience literally stopped me in my tracks.
Funny thing is, I’d walked by that room a thousand times before without even an inkling of curiosity.� But today was different.� Awash in the harmonica-driven melody of Dylan’s ‘Like A Rolling Stone,’ this glorious manifestation immediately became my Camelot; my Shangri La, my promised land.
At that moment in time, it was the place I wanted to be more than anywhere else in the world.
Forget about Major Matt Mason and his quest to conquer space. Forget about the Rifleman’s dire need for a posse at Blackrock Ranch. And Joe–that rugged (yet strangely woolly) GI–would just have to keep on keepin’ on because I was officially MIA.
In the blink of an eye, and quite unexpectedly, I had an been issued new marching orders–converted would probably be the most appropriate term.
And the whole experience would change me for the rest of my life.
Standing silently in the doorway, I stood in wide-eyed wonder as to what was unfolding right in front of me.
Like a vision, sitting cross-legged amidst the most beautiful pile of cardboard and vinyl was Holly–my best friend’s older sister. In front of her was a 1965 Fisher 50–a portable stereo that looked strangely like a suitcase with speakers. I distinctly remember the model of her stereo because, after this majestic encounter, I saw the ads for the Fisher 50 everywhere–and I prayed mightily to the gods of high-fidelity that our family would be blessed with one. From a purely theological perspective, I’m guessing there must have been sin in my life because my prayers were never answered.
But I digress.
With the seriousness of a terminal illness, I remember being taken in by the whole scene. I was mesmerized by the beautiful images on the album covers. I loved the relaxed, centered vibe–again the likes of which I had never experienced before. I loved the fact that older girls dug it. But most of all, I loved the music. I know it sounds cliche, but for me it really was all about the music.
In fact, to this very day, I can still remember the feel of that worn hardwood floor–and how the vibrations entered through the soles of my feet; screamed northward through my nether regions and made a B-line straight for my heart.
With a gentle and somehow understanding smile, Holly patted the floor next to her and motioned for me to come and sit. For the next hour or more, she introduced me to Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkle and the rest, they say, is history.
I’ve have no idea where Holly is today but all I can say–42 years later–is thank you, thank you, thank you.
Thank you for inviting me in. Thank you for showing me the liner notes to Highway 61 Revisited. Thank you for opening a door that has taken me to so many places that I might have otherwise missed.
But most of all Holly, thank you for taking me seriously.
Bob Dylan, liner notes, headphones and black coffee, 2:17am
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