It was the summer of 1965. Out of high school for just 6 months, with one semester of college under my belt, I went to a pool party in Southern California. Typical fare, hot dogs, hamburgers, and lots of dips and chips. About 25 of us, once so close, now found ourselves beginning down multiple paths. Some in college, some into the work force, still others into the military or soon to be engulfed by the draft. The party was to celebrate the union of two of our number who were hurriedly wed and soon to be parents. She, the party thrower, he soon to be shipped off to Vietnam.
Some swam, most others stood around talking and listening to music. The Beatles still dominated, but there were others on the horizon. I was 19, 3 months away from dealing with my mother's terminal illness, and about to start a summer job that would pay me minimum wage: $1.25 hour.
Most of the couples that were hanging on from high school would not last the next year. The newly married couple would last slightly longer. A few of my male friends would drop out of college and the nationwide campus reaction to the war in Vietnam would heat up. But this early summer day was for hanging out, listening to music and trying on the trappings of adulthood.
Not surprising was a subtle battle for what we would listen to. The radio was playing Mrs. Brown You've Got a Lovely Daughter, by Herman's Hermits and Mr. Tambourine Man, by the Byrds. Occasionally, a soul singer like Otis Redding would grab our attention with hits like I've Been Loving You Too Long. The folk music revival was just hitting stride and a new young British singer named Donovan was attracting attention. But nothing that hit the airwaves that summer could compare to the excitement and innovation that was coming from one performer who was beginning to get some air play after having the number one song in England for many weeks. If I tuned my transistor radio to KFWB about 10 minutes to 7 pm I could catch the top 10 in England that week. The countdown would end at 7pm sharp so by 6:50 I could hear #2 followed by the #1 song for that week. It was my only chance to hear Bob Dylan sing The Times Are Changin'.
The week of the pool party, another Dylan song was beginning to capture the imagination of a generation. We'd heard it a few times and it traced its attraction to the incident at the Newport Folk Festival where Dylan was booed for going electric. Suddenly that didn't matter. It was about the lyrics. With Dylan, it was always about the words.
When the party conversation turned to politics and popular music, the tempo heated up. Not everybody in attendance was eager to invade a country and fight a war for questionable objectives. Not everybody was enamored of cutesy British groups with novelty songs. The pulse quickened and my friend Kenny and I found ourselves being dragged up notch by notch defending who and what we called, "the greatest poet of the 20th century." Yeah, we said it. So what. We meant it.
We couldn't have dreamed that he would one day win a Nobel Prize, but we were ready to suggest it. Then, a copy of his latest record appeared, and we played it, repeatedly, defending our stance.
Take this:
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