My Dissolution with Dylan and the American Left

    When I was in young, I fancied myself a radical.  

    As we all know, art and politics go hand in hand, and as many have already mentioned, genres like punk rock originated as political phenomena as much as musical ones. It took me little time to latch on to this frenzied energy and from the gateway drug of punk rock I quickly generated an appreciation for other styles written in the same vain - everything from rap to folk to klezmer and everything in between.  And so it was only inevitable that I found my way to the likes of Bob Dylan and the folk writers of the fifties and sixties.

    My parents were never deeply political people, and so my introduction to Dylan came second hand.  Particularly, it came on a car ride with a good friend's father - let's call my friend James.  I was sitting in the back seat, minding my own business and whiling the hours, when my ear piqued to the ragged and swelling violin and guitar of Dylan's "Hurricane."  I was riveted, hanging on every word.  The punch of the chorus, those sudden drops of music for pure vocal energy backed solely by rabid hand drums - I was so damn hooked.  When I got home, I immediately soaked up Dylan's discography like a sponge.

   For those like me who were not as familiar as Rob with Dylan's life history, it really is worth looking into.  One episode in particular is worth noting.  Dylan's career really started when, in 1960, he dropped out of college and traveled to New York City to perform and meet his longtime idol, Woody Guthrie, who was ill with Huntington's disease.  Dylan's earliest work was highly influenced by Guthrie, among others, whose music was the true heart of the American folk-protest tradition.  Dylan gained rapid fame on these protest hits and was quickly touring the world.  All of this continued for several years, steadily chugging along.  And then came the '65 Newport Folk Festival, the electrified "Maggie's Farm" rendition, "Highway 61" and the beginnings of the Dylan's break with folk.  Dylan felt bored and stifled with the folk community and instead threw himself into the more bluesy rock tradition he enjoyed.  Many of Dylan's former folk friends detested this turn, but singer-songwriter Phil Ochs understood both sides - he didn't see art and politics as mutually exclusive.  And what is Beat culture if not the confluence of those two worlds?  Even still, Ochs considered himself, first and foremost, a topical singer, and his heart was intricately tied to the politics of protest.  In an argument between the two artists, the brooding Dylan ejected Ochs from his limousine.  "You're not a folksinger," he declared, "You're a journalist." 

    And so you are likely asking me - "so what of it, then?"

    All of this is a roundabout way of returning to my story.  That first experience I had with Dylan in the backseat of James's family car turned out to be more than just an introduction to a folk-rock icon.  The dad who had put on that Dylan song was no casual listener, he was a true Dylan evangelist.  He sold us that day on the virtues of Dylan's verses and the values of the singer and the man.  What I haven't told you was that my friend's dad also happened to be the police chief of the great (and greatly divided) city of Long Beach, CA.

    And so it came to pass that one night, several years later, hopped up on the hope and energy of Dylan-esque protest fervor, that I found myself in the streets of Long Beach.  It was 2008, the peak of the political season, and a gathering of friends had decided to make our way to a march to support the rejection of the now-infamous ballot Proposition 8, or the aptly named "Eliminates Rights of Same-Sex Couples to Marry Initiative Constitutional Amendment."  We joined the throngs of colorful, happy people in the streets, standing together as a sign of unity in a state mired in division.  We stayed through the march, past blocks and blocks of downtown businesses, until the constantly visible police presence became decidedly more visible.  In a confusing and unprecedented move, they shut off the parade route with a phalanx of militarized riot police, armed with menacing 'non-lethal' weaponry and flanked at all sides by armored personnel vehicles.  Flustered but unperturbed, we remained.  This was our constitutional right to free speech and protest - no one was rioting.  The marchers amassed in the intersection and began chanting.  At some point we all sat as a sign of non-violent defiance.  We held signs.  We sang.  There was a sour smell in the air and something smoky wafted just above head level.  There were orders to disperse.  The less inclined took their leave, but many stayed.  An officer with a bullhorn commanded us to move to the sidewalks.  Hundreds of protesters calmly complied, weary of the enormous rifles toting rubber bullets and bean bags.  A police helicopter hovered low overhead, casting enormous shadows of palm trees across the pavement.  

    Finally, with little left to gain and with tensions high, my group decided to depart.  We locked arms, my closest friend and I taking the rear, and began to move back up the street.  As we rounded the corner from where we had came, there was a terrifying sensation.  It was like standing in the surf and facing land when you suddenly sense a wave from behind - and then it crashes.  I looked back just in time to catch a glimpse of my friend as she was eclipsed by the dark black shadows of three or four riot police.  

    Panicked, I turned to run, but I only managed to make it a few feet.  I felt the straps on by bag yank backwards, ripping me with them and off of my feet.  Already prone, I was quickly rendered immobile by the oncoming battery of no less than four linebacker sized street soldiers.  Their knees dug hard into my back, batons at my sides, their angry hands pinioning my arms at awkward angles.  I was told to stop resisting.  I was not resisting.  My hands were zip-tied together.  I was pressed into pavement for longer than I can remember.  I could hear my friends, those who had not been taken, pleading through terrified voices to "stop hitting them."  I was confused, mostly.  Scraped and bruised, for sure, but more confused than anything.

    What does this have to do with anything?  Maybe nothing.

    I was later booked and eventually released to my parents after hours of quietly sitting in a concrete holding cell at the local station.  I found out in the aftermath that my friends had immediately called James to see what his father could do to help.  Surely this man, who had introduced us to the virtues of America's most famous protest singer, would be able to lend a hand.  After all, we'd done nothing wrong, and if anyone could cut through red tape, it was the chief of the LBPD.  Instead, my friends were left at a loss as James's father rejected their pleas.  He had a plane in the morning, a Hawaiian vacation to get started.  He had no time for the plights of protesters - even if they were family friends.

    Clearly my friend's father is not Bob Dylan, and I am sure Dylan would never choose to be a police chief, but I have had this memory kicking around in my head for the majority of this quarter, and really, since that fateful night in 2008.  Why didn't he come?  Surely he could have, so why not?  Without making sweeping statements, I wonder if the big turn in Dylan's career doesn't reflect a bigger trend in American politics.  2008 was also the year of Barack Obama's first election to the presidency, an administration which ran on the iconic ideals of "hope" and "change" and which has now seen its fair share of disillusioned supporters sulking back from the celebratory mood of that sweeping campaign.  The American left, when viewed on a continuum beside other world political ideologies, is fairly center-right in reality.  Dylan's turn from the farther left tendencies of his earlier career may be what really allowed him to continue as a successful mainstream artist in the US.  Why else could a police chief, whose actions largely represent the selfishly individualistic ideals of a right-wing nation, laud one of the country's supposedly most liberal musicians?  I would argue it is for the same reason that musician can do Chrysler commercials during the Superbowl, that most nationalistic of pastimes - because he really isn't all that radical to begin with.

   Of course, this is a really convoluted and confusing argument, so that is probably all b/s.

   Dylan's still alright, though.