OPINION | ESSAY

American insanity: Why I wanted to be(at) Bob Dylan

(Digital painting by Philip Martin)
(Digital painting by Philip Martin)

I've been mocked for it a million times, and I deserve it. When people have mocked me for it, they haven't understood my motivations. But it's not people's job to understand. Why would they? I didn't understand it myself.

The truth is, I never wanted to be Bob Dylan. I wanted to beat Bob Dylan. Which is crazier than wanting to be him, though I'm anything but unique in that style of madness. Beat is be with at added to it. To be(at) Bob Dylan might be the most accurate way to put it.

Growing up in a severe Southern Baptist household in Hot Springs, art was for sinners. Art was for homosexuals. Homosexuals were going to Hell. The only books on my mother and stepfather's shelves were the New International Version Bible, "I'm OK — You're OK," and a copy of Webster's Dictionary that I bought for Mom one year for Christmas. Even though definitions aren't the reasons for the season, the dictionary was allowed to remain.

I'm here neither to complain nor to mince words: My stepfather was a jerk. And that's the nicest way to put it. If you think it benefits a boy to live with a father who loves him, you're close to understanding my Bob Dylan situation. If you think a creative boy benefits from home encouragement to explore his creativity, I might not need to keep writing.

I was around 30 when my great-aunt Lois died. The last intelligible words she said on Earth were to me. Aunt Lois said, "You don't think your daddy loves you, but he does." I was still playing music at the time, still signed to Sony-ATV Music Publishing. I'd developed my own little style, full of drum machines and synthesizers and female backing singers. But my model for commercial and artistic success was still Bob Dylan. Why model yourself after anyone but the best?

I only thought Dylan was the best because my dad had told me so during one of our weekend visitations. He said it with awe in his voice. I must have been 10. In those brief, romantic trips with the one heart whose love I desired most, I inhaled his opinions like they were oxygen and I was suffocating. Because I was.

Then Dad would drop me off at home, where I lived my day-to-day life with the people who really raised me. Where I wrote poems on every writable surface. Where I listened to lyric-heavy indie music in headphones late at night. Where I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom, lip-syncing to "Boys Don't Cry" until my stepfather swung open the door in disgust to say, "Cut that out."

DIDN'T THINK TWICE

Then, when the time was right, I heard Dylan's "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright" on a Little Rock radio station. It was a solo acoustic song. I could see a way to play music. I had a cheap acoustic guitar. I knew one chord. I'd been told I was good with words. There were only a few musical changes in "Don't Think Twice," and the song didn't suffer for it.

I knew I could quickly pick this kind of thing up, and I could do it by myself. That latter part was key, because I needed something I could do whenever I felt like it. Something to dispel sadness. Something that didn't require the fleeting presence of lovers, friends, or my father.

But why middle-aged Dylan and not someone younger, like Morrissey or Robert Smith? Because not only did my father say Dylan was the best; Dylan was also around Dad's age. It doesn't take a mental health professional to see Dylan was a replacement for my dad.

I was 16. I didn't know who else to imitate. I wore a harmonica around my neck, bark-moaned my vocals, structured my songs like Dylan's early tracks. I performed at the Oyster Bar during Little Rock Folk Club nights, calling myself Cutt Jason. I thought the name sounded show-bizzy, but now its darkness is clear.

The Oyster Bar is how a lot of my contemporary musician friends came to know me. Some of them still think of me that way. A few years ago, a woman from Little Rock was looking for a way to insult me. She texted, "OK, Mr. Wannabe Bob Dylan." I was in my mid-40s with two children and a doctorate in English Renaissance literature. Beethoven's late quartets lay on my record player. My guitars lay in my office closet, gathering dust. The power of first impressions? Maybe. Is that woman crazy? Certainly. But I think there's something more.

DYLAN FREAK

I've come across a lot of white guys around my age who call themselves "Dylan freaks." I remember reading that Courtney Love referred to Kurt Cobain that way. Maybe there's an insight into artistic boys and dysfunction to be gained by looking into this phenomenon. Or maybe it's stupid and worthy of endless mockery, regardless of what happens to those boys' lives.

Either way, wanting to be(at) Bob Dylan is insane. But there's something particularly American about this kind of insanity. Something revelatory about our space and time. Phil Ochs called Dylan dangerous because of the way he was getting into people's heads. At this angle of remove, I tend to think he's helpful. I needed a father who was available, yet also safely distant. I didn't have to trust Dylan. He couldn't let me down.

The day I released my first album, Bob's son Jakob Dylan released his first one. I remember preparing to perform at my record release party in Brooklyn, staring at Jakob's photograph on the cover of Rolling Stone. I wouldn't call my emotion envy — it was more akin to total evaporation. Existential disappearance.

MEETING JAKOB

Years later, after I'd quit playing music, I met Jakob backstage at a Jayhawks show.

"This is Jason," our mutual friend said. "He's a poet."

I tried to keep a straight face and shake Jakob's hand. But it was so funny, meeting Dylan's actual son. Who was my age. Who also imitated his father.

I laughed and laughed. I doubled over.

As he walked away, Jakob looked over his shoulder at me.

I could see he thought I was insane.

Hot Springs native (and former "New Dylan") Jason Morphew has published personal essays in The Daily Beast and the LA Review of Books, along with other newspapers and journals. His second full-length collection of poems, "Eject City," is forthcoming in January 2024. He lives in Los Angeles with his family.

[ITEMS OF INTEREST: Check out Jason Morphew's first poetry collection, "Dead Boy," or listen to his album, "Sunday Afternoon."]

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