On July 25th, 1965 the earth shook and those folk music purists who thought Bob Dylan was one of them, found out otherwise.
And Dylan himself learned a lesson.
[Pete] Seeger announced that the Sunday night final program was a message from today's folk musicians to a newborn baby about the world we live in. Unfortunately, this theme did not correspond to Dylan's conception of his performance.
Secretly, Dylan, Al Kooper (who played organ on the studio version of Like a Rolling Stone) members of the Paul Butterfield Blues Band (guitarist Mike Bloomefield, drummer Sam Lay and bassist Jerome Arnold) and pianist Barry Goldberg had been practicing in a Newport Mansion a set of songs that would rock the socks of the granola crowd. Since Dylan had already released an "electric" album and electric bands had played before at the Newport Folk Festival, Zimmy figured it would be a pleasent surprise for his audience.
they walked onstage, Dylan, in a matador-outlaw orange shirt and black leather, carrying an electric guitar. From the moment the group swung into a rocking electric version of "Maggie's Farm," the Newport audience registered hostility. As the group finished "Farm," there was some reserved applause and a flurry of boos. Someone shouted: "Bring back Cousin Emmy!" The microphones and speakers were all out of balance, and the sound was poor and lopsided. For even the most ardent fan of the new music, the performance was unpersuasive. As Dylan led his band into "Rolling Stone," the audience grew shriller: "Play folk music! ... Sell out! ... This is a folk festival! ... Get rid of that band!" Dylan began "It Takes a Train to Cry," and the applause diminished as the heckling increased. Dylan and the group disappeared offstage, and there was a long, clumsy silence. Peter Yarrow urged Bob to return and gave him his acoustic guitar. As Bob returned on the stage alone, he discovered he didn't have the right harmonica. "What are you doing to me?" Dylan demanded of Yarrow. To shouts for "Tambourine Man," Dylan said: "OK, I'll do that one for you." The older song had a palliative effect and won strong applause. Then Dylan did "It's All Over Now, Baby Blue," singing adieu to Newport, good-bye to the folk-purist audience.
It's always been the case, though, that Dylan defied audience expectations. When people thought he was the voice of the anti-War movement, he wrote love songs. When they thought he was a rock'n'roll icon, he made a country album. When they called him a legend, he produced albums that were less than legendary.
And of course he horrified everyone when he became a Christian.
He shocked aging hippies when his recent "autobiography" Chronicles: Volume One hit the bookstores and they read things like
"When I was in Woodstock, it became very clear to me that the whole counterculture was one big scarecrow wearing dead leaves," he says. "It had no purpose in my life. It's been true ever since, actually."
And then there's the bit about Dylan and guns
People think that fame and riches translate into power, that it brings glory and honor and happiness. Maybe it does, but sometimes it doesn't. I found myself stuck in Woodstock, vulnerable and with a family to protect. If you looked in the press, though, you saw me being portrayed as anything but that. It was surprising how thick the smoke had become. It seems like the world has always needed a scapegoat—someone to lead the charge against the Roman Empire. But America wasn't the Roman Empire and someone else would have to step up and volunteer. I really was never any more than what I was—a folk musician who gazed into the gray mist with tear-blinded eyes and made up songs that floated in a luminous haze. Now it had blown up in my face and was hanging over me. I wasn't a preacher performing miracles. It would have driven anybody mad.
Early on, Woodstock had been very hospitable to us. I had actually discovered the place long before moving there. Once, at night, driving down from Syracuse after playing a show, I told my manager about the town. We were going to be driving right by it. He said he was looking for a place to buy a country house. We drove through the town, he spied a house he liked and bought it there and then. I had bought one later on, and it was in this same house that intruders started to break in day and night. Tensions mounted almost immediately and peace was hard to come by. At one time the place had been a quiet refuge, but now, no more. Roadmaps to our homestead must have been posted in all fifty states for gangs of dropouts and druggies. Moochers showed up from as far away as California on pilgrimages. Goons were breaking into our place all hours of the night. At first, it was merely the nomadic homeless making illegal entry—seemed harmless enough, but then rogue radicals looking for the Prince of Protest began to arrive—unaccountable-looking characters, gargoyle-looking gals, scarecrows, stragglers looking to party, raid the pantry. Peter LaFarge, a folksinger friend of mine, had given me a couple of Colt single-shot repeater pistols, and I also had a clip-fed Winchester blasting rifle around, but it was awful to think about what could be done with those things. The authorities, the chief of police (Woodstock had about three cops) had told me that if anyone was shot accidentally or even shot at as a warning, it would be me that would be going to the lockup. Not only that, but creeps thumping their boots across our roof could even take me to court if any of them fell off. This was so unsettling. I wanted to set fire to these people. These gate-crashers, spooks, trespassers, demagogues were all disrupting my home life and the fact that I was not to piss them off or they could press charges really didn't appeal to me. Each day and night was fraught with difficulties. Everything was wrong, the world was absurd. It was backing me into a corner. Even persons near and dear offered no relief.
He's still horrifing and defying those who think they "get" him. Recently he made an exclusive deal with Starbucks; a company hated by every true-blue burkenstock-wearin', granola crunchin', tatooed, dreadlocked, pierced anti-establishment type from the left coast of New England to the Left Coast of America.
Starbucks, the ubiquitous coffee chain, has signed an exclusive deal with Bob Dylan, the revered music legend. Under the deal, Starbucks will hold first rights to sell Bob Dylan: Live at the Gaslight 1962. The album will be available at the 44,000 Starbucks locations in North America August 30th, and at other stores after 18 months. Having an album sold at a coffee shop is pretty much full circle for Dylan, who often played coffee shops in the early years of his career. Bob Dylan: Live at the Gaslight 1962 consists of ten live tracks recorded at New York's Gaslight Cafe. Bootlegs of the recordings have long circulated, but have recently been restored.
There is little doubt that Dylan's music has contributed in a big way to the soundtrack of my life. And I reveled every time he did a turn and alienated the audience that most recently claimed to be his true-blue fans.
So here we are, on the 40th Anniversary of the first time he did turned his audience against him and all I can think is
Took an untrodden path once, where the swift don't win the race,
It goes to the worthy, who can divide the word of truth.
Took a stranger to teach me, to look into justice's beautiful face
And to see an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.
I and I
In creation where one's nature neither honors nor forgives.
I and I
One says to the other, no man sees my face and lives.