Bob Dylan Possibly Fixed Me

i feel i captured his multitudes

So, I may have been sick this past week, consequently delaying this post several days and possibly dooming The Stump to bitter obscurity!… but, as I always say, the show must go on. Just kidding. I’m a colossal weenie who will halt the show at the first sign of minor inconvenience. Bob Dylan and I diverge in that important way.

Now, devout Stumpies will know about our little running joke here on the blog where I make fun of Bob Dylan positively relentlessly for no reason. That man is always catching strays here, and I really have no idea why. I like Bob Dylan! We may never know why I continue to dunk on that man, but we can all take comfort in the fact that it is very funny.

But, in the spirit of a new year and a new me [jk, again… i’m full of jokes today], I should fess up - I think Bob Dylan may have fixed me. And to pay back my debt of gratitude to ‘ol Bobby boy, please allow me to regale you this tale of boredom, politeness, and salvation…

Perhaps unsurprisingly, I’m not one to care to much about any of the Technology Bad Social Media Evil Internet And TV Scary bullshit. Behave normally, and you will be fine. And maybe don’t be so damn influenceable, did you ever consider that?? Get confident, stupid! You’re going to let a box dye-blonde beanstalk from online make you feel like shit for not having the latest carbodydietclotheshairmuscleseyebrowswaterbottlesbecauseapparentlywecarealotaboutwaterbottlesnow??? I digress. Anyway, I don’t much care about what anything is doing to my brain at any point in time. I’m completely certain the snorefest crapola I have to read for work has done more to alter my attention span than Twitter ever will. The times they are a-changin’, and it’s literally fine if you’re cool about it.

this was relevant on tumblr in 2014, and it’s at least 98% more relevant now.

That being said, we do all yearn for the simpler life sometimes. A life free from distractions and unapologetically unhurried. And unfortunately, I have to report that Bob Dylan is delivering on that experience. I attended my first Bob Dylan concert in Fall of 2023 [thank you, editor, for picking up the tickets!], and it was fundamentally bizarre. Just strange as hell. However, taken as a whole, it might just be crazy enough to work.

Save yourself $200 by reading my exacting description of this affair

The Bob Dylan concert experience started with entering a big concert hall. Not an arena; not concert venue that you would expect for any sort of contemporary music; a concert hall. This is a venue suited for orchestras and the local adult theater kids putting on their tortured rendition of Wicked, which reeks of broken dreams and unfulfilling careers as “administrators.” The venue reminded me of church.

Immediately upon entry, our phones were placed into locked bags. Hundreds of people were now carrying around not-conveniently-sized magnetized pouches with their phones trapped inside, and that was only the beginning of the bizarre. Next, you have the crowd. Again, think of a concert hall where you might watch an orchestra play on stage. There are rows of seats all around the room, and absolutely nothing that could be considered “the floor.” Accordingly, this crowd sat and politely listened the entire time. No singing along, no dancing, minimal cheering. Maybe an underwhelming attempt at a “woo!” after Bob smashed more than 80% of the correct keys in a row on the piano. It was just a bunch of us packed in like poised and prim sardines, perhaps tapping our toes to the beat if we were feeling frisky.

artist’s rendition of the concert, since no photography was allowed. this piece has been described as “extreme realism.”

The woman immediately to my right sat statuesque for the whole duration, only betraying that she was alive [a worry one might have in this crowd] by occasionally shooting me disapproving glances when I would reach for the chapstick in my pocket. It’s like she knew I was on all of the drugs at once and planning to rob her senseless the moment she let her guard down for even a fraction of a hair of a second!!! As evidenced by my rambunctious gentle claps at the conclusion of songs.

One dreamer of a lady did repeatedly attempt to stand up and sway her arms to the music. Multiple times this woman - dressed like your hippie grandmother who only buys clothes at art fairs - tried to breathe a little life, a little whimsy into the darkened concert hall, but the security team was content to sit her ass right down every time. After the sixth attempt, I think they finally broke her spirit.

The stage was its own character that evening as well. One might possibly expect, if one has ever attended a concert, that the concert putter-onner mayhaps would have a singular idea for how to decorate their stage. Not everyone desires the peculiar antics of whatever Taylor Swift thinks she’s achieving by faking a dive underneath the stage, but you’d think everyone at least might want the pipes in the theater covered up by a sheet. Maybe a favorite color of lights to match the vibe of the album. Or, like Bob, maybe you desire nothing. I have never seen a less impressive sight. They wheeled that band out on a bare ass naked stage at 8pm [exactly. exactly.], and they did not move from their positions one time. Neither did the stage. No spotlights shone on a soloist. No flashes or strobes. The lighting was what you might call “default,” and the stage was what you might call “as lifeless as the c.”

And theere was Bob himself! Bob did not acknowledge the crowd. Bob walked on stage, started playing at 8pm on the damn dot, played for 1 hour and 45 minutes on the damn dot, swiftly introduced the band, and then walked off stage without so much as a “thank you and goodnight.” I’m not sure he made eye contact with anything besides the top of the upright piano the entire time. Actually, I’m sure he did not. It was honestly quite baller. I think Bob Dylan might hate his fans, which is pretty funny, and I have to tip my cap. Bob executed what I would call “negative fan service.” Bob only deigned to play us the harmonica once, and the crowd went (tamely) wild, as if he were personally feeding the 5,000. The whole experience was mind-blowing, and yet completely tempered.

In sum, we have 1) no phones, 2) nothing to look at, 3) no way to move, and 4) nowhere to go. Bob managed to make a concert completely devoid of stimulus. Let me emphasize that again - Bob made a concert feel understimulating. That smartass son of a bitch. Bob gave us absolutely no choice but to listen to his music.

Bob Dylan forced me to listen to his music and now my brain works good

I have to admit, I did not hate the concert. Don’t get me wrong - it was one of the most fucked up experiences of my life. Simply insane. Bizarre. Absurd. I don’t know if I would [could?] do it again. I don’t know if I had a good time, but I certainly had a new kind of time.

The thing is, Bob Dylan makes pretty good music. Hey, at the concert, some of the lyrics were even comprehensible! Big step up for our Bobby. I fundamentally enjoyed listening to a bunch of Bob Dylan music I have never heard and will probably never listen to again. I think Bob is possibly the only person who could execute the maneuver of locking my phone away from me and not having it result in me breaking his bones one by one. Because I get it. Bob’s music at this concert was unabashedly NOT his greatest hits. They were nice songs that are approximately zero percent memorable. Perfect background music to sip a cocktail at a bar and talk over. So, had I been allowed my phone in this particular circumstance, it would have made a delightful atmosphere for scrolling the internet, playing a game of solitaire, checking emails, etc., all while listening to pleasant background noise.

Well, Bob said no. Bob said I need to look at him on a bare stage, silently and in the dark, as he mumbles his little diddies. If anyone else pulled this bullshit, it would be, among other things: pretentious, self-righteous, self-involved, moralizing, preachy, annoying, and whiny. But Bob Dylan has a goddamn Nobel Prize. He’s one of history’s Weirdest Guys. In my personal opinion, I’m relatively confident he’s an alien sent to experiment on humans. He’s allowed to do weird and curmudgeonly shit. Nobody who looks like that is going to be told what to do, so you might as well bend to the current of their will.

you think you’re getting any concessions out of a motherfucker like this? nuh uh. you’re on his turf until he croaks. he just looks like that.

Once I embraced the Bob of it all, I felt transformed. I embraced the metaphorical stockades that Bob bound me in, and my brain let everything else go. It was akin to meditation. The music was loud and nothing else was happening, or could happen, so I simply waded in the tepid waters of mild folk-rock. And lo and behold… it fixed me.

You see, readers, I am not so good at doing the things I am supposed to do [exhibit A: i’m 3 days late on this blog]. But being present in the moment of Bob soothed my weary brain. It was dunked in a bath of medium enjoyment, and it arose stronger. In a phenomenon I cannot totally explain [at least, not without resorting to my “bob is an alien theory”], my productivity skyrocketed after the Bob Dylan concert. Suddenly, I was performing at my job like I’ve never performed at any job. I have a direct quote from my boss from this period that I became an “exceptionally efficient employee.” That’s not a lie that happened in real life!! I made deadlines, I crushed all four of my jobs, I organized a Turkey Trot, and I didn’t forget anyone’s birthday [probably].

One hour and forty-five minutes of Dylan is a small price to pay for the endless possibilities of a brain that was dialed up to 100%. I wish the answer was as simple as removing my phone, but I’ve tried that one before, and it’s just a nuisance. I wish the answer was as simple as listening to good music, but my music taste is impeccable, and it’s not fixed a damn thing so far. I wish the answer was as simple as taking a small vacation, but I have three jobs so that’s implausible nonsense get a grip.

The solution, folks, appears to be Bob Dylan concerts. The nexus of eccentricity created in his concert setting is, apparently, the wellspring of inner peace. Perhaps experiencing true strangeness was what my brain was craving all along. We might consider this a pilgrimage to the mecca of normalcy. Or, quite possibly likely, Bob is an alien, and I was subject to his human-improver gun that he’s been researching since the 60s! We may never know.

i was improved by a man who looks like the galactic leader of planet gleep glorp it’s so over for me.

What we do know is that I unfortunately owe a debt of gratitude to Bob Dylan. As the effects of his concert have worn off and I’m back to being a lazy dumbass, it has me genuinely considering whether I would drop another $200 to see Bob Dylan if he was in town, just for the mental tune-up. I think the answer is: “maybe… if I’m bored… and not broke.” Inner peace ain’t free.

So, Bob, who is certainly reading this, I do apologize for frequently making you the butt of my little jokes. You temporarily gave me nirvana, and I repay it in snark. Those who know me best know this is my highest form of love. I will continue to make fun of you, and most of all, your fans. But know that I do so with a quiet reverence, thankfulness, and respect, the likes of which can only be found in the antiseptic sterility of a Bob Dylan concert.

“Don’t criticize what you can’t understand.”

- Bob Dylan, giving me the least actionable advice that I have ever personally received.

enjoying The Stump? toss me a buck. finance the madness. you know you want to.